THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


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

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


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


{141}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, FEBRUARY, 1836.  NO. III.

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




SELECTION IN READING.


Go to the Library of one of our Colleges; survey its five, or ten 
thousand volumes. You are astonished, that human thought or human 
industry could have produced such an accumulation of quarto upon 
folio, of duodecimo upon octavo--of Science, Literature--of History, 
Fiction--of Prose, and Poetry. But look into other collections 
northward of us, and in each, of several, you find more than forty 
thousand volumes! When you have wondered sufficiently at these, turn 
your 'mind's eye' to Europe; and behold, libraries containing each one 
hundred, or even one hundred and fifty thousand books! Look around 
you, then, and see how many hundreds every week is adding to the mass 
of tomes already in existence. Glance at the book-sellers' 
catalogues--at their notices in the gazette--at the _monthly and 
quarterly_ "Lists of New Publications," in Magazines and Reviews--at 
the countless host of Reviews and Magazines themselves, and of 
newspapers, tracts, pamphlets, speeches, addresses--effusions of ten 
thousand various forms and merits--craving your attention and 
bewildering your choice! Go forth into society: in one circle, 
politics--in another, canalling, or railroad lore--in a third, some 
point touching the Campaigns of Bonaparte, the Wars of the League, the 
American Revolution, or the Conquests of Tamerlane--in a fourth, the 
beauties of Greek and Roman literature--in a fifth, some topic in 
Chemistry or Geology--in a sixth, Byron, Campbell, Moore and 
Wordsworth--in a seventh, the fifty last novels--are discussed by 
their respective coteries, each, as if _that_ subject alone threw all 
others into the shade. And if you are not so torpid as to be incapable 
of excitement by sympathy with others, and by themes inherently 
interesting, or so self-possessed as to curb and regulate discreetly, 
the curiosity and proneness to imitation which will on such occasions 
be kindled in any but a blockhead--you cannot, for your life, help 
wishing to be familiar with each theme. You go home; and plunge 
headlong into a dozen different studies. Your acquisitions are huddled 
chaotically into your knowledge-box, so that you have a full, distinct 
idea, of no one subject: you can never get hold of what you want, at 
the moment when you need it; but must rummage over an immense pile of 
trumpery, with a bare _hope_, after all, of finding the useful article 
you want. _You are a shallow smatterer._

If you would be otherwise, DARE _to be ignorant_ of all books, and all 
things, which you are not sure will repay your trouble in reading 
them, or which are not parts of a pre-arranged course, laid down for 
you by yourself, or by some judicious friend. DARE to disavow an 
acquaintance with a fashionable novel, or even with a fashionable 
science, if it fall not within your plan. Always reflect, when the 
claims of a new book are pressed upon your notice,--that, _if you have 
forty years to employ in reading, and can read fifty pages a day, you 
will be able, in those forty years, to accomplish only about_ SIXTEEN 
HUNDRED VOLUMES, _of 500 pages each_. Yes--out of the millions of 
tomes that litter the world, you can read, in twice the time that 
most, even of the studious, employ in reading--only sixteen hundred 
volumes! Surely, the motto of every one who reads for improvement, 
ought to be "SELECT WELL!"

"It is a great, nay the _greatest_ part of wisdom," says an old 
philosopher, "to rest content with not knowing some things."[1]

[Footnote 1: ----"magna, immo, maxima, pars sapientiæ est, quædam
æquo animo nescire velle."]

Dugald Stewart justly observes, that by confining our ambition to 
pursue the truth with modesty and candor, and learning to value our 
acquisitions only so far as they contribute to make us wiser and 
happier, we may perhaps be obliged to sacrifice the temporary 
admiration of the common dispensers of literary fame; but, we may rest 
assured, it is thus only we can hope to make real progress in 
knowledge, or to enrich the world with useful inventions.

"'It requires courage indeed' (as Helvetius has remarked,) 'to remain 
ignorant of those useless subjects which are generally valued:' but it 
is a courage necessary to men who either love the truth, or aspire to 
establish a permanent reputation."[2]

[Footnote 2: Philosophy of the Human Mind, Vol. I.]




SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY AND PRESENT CONDITION OF TRIPOLI, WITH SOME 
ACCOUNTS OF THE OTHER BARBARY STATES. NO. X.--(Continued.)


To return to Algiers. The Dey having as he conceived, effectually 
closed every avenue to reconciliation with France, actively prepared 
to resist the attack which he had every reason to believe would soon 
be made on him. The fortifications of his capital had been much 
enlarged and strengthened since the bombardment by Lord Exmouth in 
1816; the arsenal was well provided with naval stores and munitions of 
every description; the treasury was filled with specie, men were not 
wanting, and provisions could be procured in abundance from the 
interior. In this condition, he had no reason to dread an attack from 
a naval force, nor the consequences of a blockade however rigorously 
maintained. Against internal commotions he also felt himself secure. 
From the commencement of his reign, he had steadily though cautiously 
pursued the plan in which so many of his predecessors had failed, of 
preventing the enrolment of foreigners, and supplying their places by 
native troops; in this he had so far succeeded, that the number of the 
former in 1827 was less than seven thousand, while he had more than 
sixteen thousand Moorish soldiers, regularly disciplined and attached 
to his system, by the strongest ties of interest. When the whole 
military force of the country, consisted of a few foreigners, any one 
of whom might be raised to the highest offices of the State at the 
will of the remainder, {142} it is not surprising that dissatisfaction 
and turbulence should have constantly prevailed; for under such 
circumstances the election of a new chief only caused a change in the 
ranks of the malcontents, without diminishing their numbers or their 
violence. That the alteration made by Hussein would contribute vastly 
to ensure the stability of his power, it is unnecessary to 
demonstrate; it had been often attempted by his predecessors and it is 
only extraordinary that it had not been effected long before.

Having secured this important object, Hussein no longer took pains to 
conceal his views with regard to rendering the Sovereignty hereditary 
in his family; he had no son, but his eldest daughter was married to 
Ibrahim, whom he raised to the office of Aga or Commander of the 
troops and Minister of War, and who appears to have been his intended 
successor; that officer having no children, his nephew was married to 
the Dey's youngest daughter, who was for that purpose divorced from 
her husband. It was also probably in furtherance of the same ends, 
that Hussein maintained a degree of state unusual in Algiers, 
manifesting in his intercourse with the ministers and officers, that 
he was a Prince, and not the mere chief of the Janizaries. In order to 
insure his personal safety he seldom appeared in public, but remained 
within the walls of the Casauba, surrounded by a chosen guard of 
Moors, sufficiently strong to defend that fortress against any attack 
which could be expected.

The French appeared by no means disposed to drive Hussein to 
extremities; their squadron generally consisted of two frigates, and 
four or five smaller vessels, which hovered before the entrance to the 
bay, but offered little or no impediment to the passage of vessels 
either outwards or inwards. Within a few days after the declaration of 
war, several Algerine cruisers quitted the harbor, and committed great 
ravages upon the unprotected commerce of France, sending their prizes 
into various ports of Barbary, and even of Spain. The prisoners were 
generally spared and brought to Algiers, in consequence of the Dey's 
humane or politic proclamation, that he would give for each living 
Frenchman twice as much as for his head alone. The inactivity and want 
of skill thus displayed by the blockading squadron, at length 
encouraged Hussein to bolder attempts. By great exertions, he had been 
enabled at the end of September 1827, to have ready a frigate, two 
corvettes, two brigs and six schooners in addition to the vessels at 
sea; this force however not being sufficient either in size or in 
weight of metal, to authorize a regular engagement with the heavy 
ships of the French, his plan was to surprise some one of them at a 
distance from the others, and endeavor to carry her by boarding. With 
this intention, which was kept secret until the moment for carrying it 
into execution, a number of soldiers accustomed to the sea having on 
the morning of the 4th of October, been suddenly embarked in the 
vessels, they set sail immediately and bore down upon the nearest 
French ship. The movement was immediately perceived by the rest of the 
squadron, and a general action, or at least a general discharge of 
guns on both sides ensued; this having continued for some hours, 
without any notable damage to either party, the Algerine Commander 
found that it was impossible to board any of the French vessels as 
they had the weather gauge of him, and in consequence he returned with 
his whole force into port. This action is duly noticed in the French 
papers; the commander of the squadron in his despatch, compliments his 
officers highly for the success of their efforts in preventing the 
Algerine flotilla from getting out of the harbor, and assures the 
Minister of Marine, that nothing but the heaviness of the sea 
prevented his destroying the greater part of them.

In the following spring, (1828) an offer was made by Admiral Collet to 
renew the negotiations for peace; and after some difficulties, Captain 
Bézart who commanded one of the French brigs, was allowed to enter 
Algiers and communicate with the Sardinian Consul on the subject. He 
subsequently had a conference with the Algerine Minister of Foreign 
Affairs, the results of which induced the Admiral to despatch him to 
Paris, in order to receive the instructions of their Government.

The French government probably received with satisfaction, the account 
that the Algerines were disposed to treat for peace. The Martignac 
Ministry which had just come into power, were employing every means to 
secure the tottering throne of Charles the Tenth against the efforts 
of the Liberal party, and they were anxious for the adjustment of a 
dispute, which occasioned an enormous addition to the budget of 
expenses without any return whatever. Dignity, or rather the fear of 
wounding the vanity of the nation, however forbade their seeming to 
make any advances after the Dey's insulting rejection of the demands 
first proposed to him. Great care was therefore taken to avoid any 
appearance of direct communication with the Algerine government; but 
the Admiral was instructed unofficially to hint, that if the Dey would 
send an ambassador to Paris, the differences between the two countries 
might be accommodated.

With these instructions Bézart returned to the African coast. During 
his absence Admiral Collet worn down with disease had retired to 
Toulon where he shortly after died; Admiral Botherel de la Bretonniere 
who succeeded to the command, on learning the views of the Ministers, 
instantly wrote a letter to the Dey in the sense enjoined by them, and 
despatched the Captain with it to Algiers. He arrived there on the 
11th of September 1828, but when it was known that he only bore a 
communication from the Admiral, he was not suffered to proceed farther 
than the landing place on the mole, where he was required to await the 
answer. A Barbary Prince of a more pliable character than Hussein, 
might probably have gratified the French Ministers by sending an 
Ambassador to Paris, who would have figured in the pages of the 
Moniteur as a supplicant for peace; but the Dey was made of stubborn 
stuff. He had expected a direct communication from the French 
government, and was indignant at being addressed instead, by one of 
its officers not even an authorized agent; moreover the letter 
contained a proposition that he should take a humiliating step, 
without any assurance that it would be attended with favorable 
results. Seeing at once through the whole manœuvre of the French 
government, his reply was a peremptory order to Bézart instantly to 
quit Algiers.

A few days after, the same proposition was conveyed more distinctly to 
the Dey through the Sardinian Consul, with an assurance on the part of 
the Admiral, that his Government no longer expected apology or {143} 
reparation, but wished merely to place affairs between the two nations 
on their former footing. Hussein however remained firm in his refusal 
to make any advances, only telling the Consul, that after Peace had 
been signed at Algiers, he might perhaps to please the Ministers, send 
them an Ambassador. The French Government finding its recommendations 
thus treated, authorized the Sardinian Consul to inform the Dey, that 
no farther overtures would be made by it towards reconciliation, and 
that measures would be soon taken to obtain complete satisfaction for 
the injury committed against France. Hussein coolly answered, that he 
had men and ammunition in abundance, and that he preferred the fortune 
of war to making or seeming to make any apology.

The destruction of three Algerine feluccas of six guns each, was the 
next event worthy of note in the history of the war. These vessels 
were returning from a successful cruise and endeavoring to enter the 
harbor of Algiers on the 1st of October 1828, when they were 
discovered and chased into the adjacent Bay of Sidi Ferruch. The prize 
was soon recaptured; the other vessels took refuge close to the shore, 
under a small and ruinous battery mounting twelve guns, where they 
were attacked by the whole of the blockading squadron. After the first 
fire, the feluccas and the battery were abandoned; boats were then 
sent by the Admiral to destroy the vessels, which having been effected 
the fire was continued on the battery until it was nearly demolished. 
The loss on the side of the Algerines is believed to have been very 
small; the French had six men killed and seventeen wounded, by the 
bursting of a gun on board the Admiral's ship the Provence. This 
trifling affair was made the subject of a special report by the 
Minister of the Marine to the King of France, which may be found at 
length in the Moniteur of the 17th of October; it was so far 
important, as it enabled His Majesty to say in his Address to the 
Legislative Chambers in January following, that--"most striking 
examples had already taught the Algerines, that it was neither easy 
nor safe to brave the vigilance of his ships."

Another attempt on the part of the French to teach the Algerines 
prudence, was not attended with equal success; for on the 19th of June 
1829, twenty-four of their men, who had landed in pursuit of the crew 
of a stranded Algerine vessel, were surrounded by Arabs and put to 
death. The heads of these unfortunate men were carried to Algiers, 
where the Dey paid for them according to the tariff established; they 
were however on the application of the Sardinian Consul immediately 
delivered to him for burial.

The Government of France was by this time convinced of the futility of 
the measures which had been for two years pursued with regard to 
Algiers. The blockade had produced none of the results which were 
anticipated; it had been maintained at an annual expense of more than 
seven millions of francs, and although the number of persons killed in 
action was small, yet many had fallen victims to the diseases 
occasioned by the climate; in return the Dey appeared less inclined 
than ever to agree to satisfactory terms of peace, and the commerce of 
France in the Mediterranean had been severely injured by his cruisers. 
The opposition had also taken advantage of the circumstances, and the 
Ministry were frequently denounced in the Legislature and in the 
public journals of Paris, for their vacillating and dishonoring 
conduct in the affair.

Unable to resist these demonstrations of their own inefficiency, the 
French Ministry prepared for more decisive operations, by assembling 
troops in the Southern Departments of the Kingdom and collecting 
vessels for their transportation. Before employing these extreme 
measures however, they were induced to make one more attempt at 
negotiation; the circumstances which led them thus to recede from the 
determination expressed in the previous year, are reported to have 
been the following.

The Dey had several times expressed to the Sardinian Consul, his 
admiration of the form and sailings of a brig called the Alerte 
belonging to the blockading squadron; something in his manner at 
length induced the Consul to inform M. de la Bretonniere, that 
possibly His Highness might be inclined to negotiate for peace, in the 
manner desired by the French Government, if it were understood that 
the brig would be presented to him after the signature of the treaty. 
The Admiral eagerly accepted this overture as he considered it, and 
authorized the Consul to say in general terms, that he had no doubt 
the Government of France would willingly accede to the Dey's wishes in 
this particular, if an arrangement of the difficulties between the two 
countries could be effected. Hussein's reply was encouraging, and the 
Admiral in consequence sailed for France to receive in person the 
instructions of his Government. He found the Ministers anxious to have 
the affair peaceably adjusted; they were ready to treat with the Dey 
provided it could be made to appear that he had himself proposed the 
negotiation, and were willing to promise the brig in return for the 
mission of an Algerine Ambassador to Paris. The Admiral was 
accordingly instructed to assure the Dey, that if he would comply with 
this formality, peace would be immediately signed and the brig would 
be presented to him; but in order that no proofs might exist of the 
advances made by the French Ministry, the whole negotiation at Algiers 
was to be conducted verbally, through an interpreter chosen for the 
purpose from the School of Oriental Languages at Paris.

With these instructions, and accompanied by M. Bianchi the 
interpreter, M. de la Bretonniere returned to the Bay of Algiers. The 
Sardinian Consul, who undertook to arrange the preliminaries of the 
negotiation proposed to the Dey that it should be conducted in 
conferences between His Highness and the French interpreter, who had 
arrived at Algiers for the purpose on the 23d of July. This, Hussein 
immediately refused to allow, and the Admiral was thrown into the very 
dilemma which he wished to avoid; that is to say he was obliged to 
write a letter, or to abandon the attempt at negotiation. In order to 
avoid this difficulty a letter was written in the Turkish language, 
proposing in very general terms the renewal of former relations 
between the two Governments, but saying nothing either about the 
Ambassador or the brig. Hussein in reply expressed his satisfaction at 
the offer which had been made by the French Admiral, whom he invited 
to come on shore and confer personally with himself on the subject. M. 
de la Bretonniere accepted this invitation, and accordingly entered 
the harbor on the 30th of September 1829, in his flag ship the 
Provence of eighty guns, {144} accompanied by the brig which had been 
the proximate cause of the negotiation. He landed on the following 
morning, and had a long conference with the Dey, of which the 
particulars have not transpired. On the 3d of August they had another 
conference, which lasted but a short time; on this occasion it is said 
the Admiral insisted on the mission of an ambassador as an act of 
reparation to France, at which the Dey became so enraged, that he 
ordered him immediately to leave Algiers; certain it is that the 
conference was suddenly broken up, and the parties separated, each in 
a state of high excitement. M. de la Bretonniere immediately embarked, 
and sailed with his ships out of the harbor; on passing by the Mole 
the Provence received a shot from the fort, and although the flag of 
truce was displayed at her mast head, the firing was continued until 
she was beyond their reach. The ship is said to have received eighty 
balls; her port holes were however kept closed, for had she returned 
the fire, it is probable that she would have been sunk. That this 
flagrant violation of good faith was the result of the Dey's orders, 
no one in Algiers at the time for a moment doubted; Hussein however 
pretended that it arose from a mistake, and that he had only ordered a 
gun to be fired in case the ship should approach too near to the 
batteries, as a signal for her to keep off. He moreover dismissed from 
office the Minister of Marine, on whom the responsibility of the act 
rested; in so doing however, he only advanced one of his own ends, for 
the vacancy was immediately filled by the appointment of his 
son-in-law Ibrahim Kara-Dengirzli, the nephew of the Aga Ibrahim.

The feeble and distracted Ministry which authorized this negotiation, 
had been dissolved ere the news of its result arrived in France; and 
those who succeeded to power in that country, though possessing energy 
and union of purpose, were for some time wholly occupied in preparing 
to confront the liberal party at the ensuing session of the 
Legislature. No decisive measures were therefore taken with regard to 
Algiers during the remainder of 1829; the blockade was indeed 
maintained, but with so little rigor as to be scarcely more than 
nominal; the Algerine cruisers were spread over the western part of 
the Mediterranean, and occasionally appeared before Marseilles, while 
the French Admiral with the greater part of his ships remained 
generally at Port Mahon.

Attempts were made at this period, to effect an adjustment of the 
differences, by the Governments of Great Britain and Turkey, which 
were the most interested in preventing any change in the political 
condition of the Barbary States. When the British Government received 
the news of Hussein's flagrant violation of good faith, in firing upon 
the French Admiral, the Pelorus sloop of war was despatched to 
Algiers, where her commander Captain Quin united with the British 
Consul Mr. St. John, in endeavoring to prevail upon the Dey to propose 
terms of peace. This effort proving vain, the Pelorus sailed to 
Constantinople, where it was agreed between the Ambassadors of France 
and England, that the Sultan should be requested to interpose; to this 
the Turkish Government readily assented, and Halil Effendi a venerable 
and respectable Turk, who had long known Hussein and been much 
esteemed by him, was ordered to proceed to Algiers, and to entreat or 
command the Dey no longer to provoke the vengeance of his powerful 
enemies. Halil arrived in the Pelorus on the 28th of November at 
Algiers, where he was received with great kindness and affection by 
the Dey and by all classes of the inhabitants. His arguments and 
entreaties soon produced effects, from which the mediators augured the 
most favorable consequences; for Hussein after some days of reflection 
and consultation with his Ministers, agreed to propose to M. de la 
Bretonniere the renewal of the negotiations, offering him every 
assurance of honorable treatment in case he should come to Algiers, 
and as an earnest of the sincerity of his intentions, promising the 
surrender of all the French prisoners. The Pelorus sailed with these 
proposals on the 10th of December for Mahon, where she was detained 
nearly three months in expectation of the Admiral's reply; at length 
M. de la Bretonniere declared, that as he was still bound by the first 
instructions from his Government, he could admit of negotiation on no 
other terms, than the mission of an Ambassador to Paris to bear the 
explanations of the Dey. With this answer Captain Quin returned to 
Algiers on the 1st of April 1830; but no arguments could induce 
Hussein to adopt the measure proposed: "God is Great!" said he, "Let 
the French come."

In the mean time the French Ministry had taken a most serious 
determination. The insult offered by the Dey in firing upon M. de la 
Bretonniere, was concealed from the public as completely as possible; 
no mention of it was made in the Moniteur, yet it finally became 
known, and the opposition press of Paris eagerly seized the 
opportunity, to vilify the hated Ministry of Polignac for delaying to 
avenge the insulted honor of France. In this condition of things it 
became absolutely necessary for the Government to take some decisive 
step towards a conclusion of the war, in order to relieve itself from 
a heavy and increasing burthen of popular odium on this account. To 
effect this purpose, two plans were proposed in the Ministerial 
Council. Count de Bourmont the bold and active chief of the War 
Department, was in favor of an expedition sent directly from France, 
against the capital city of the offending Sovereign. Prince Polignac 
the head of the Ministry, was doubtful of the propriety of risking 
such an attempt upon a place defended by nature, by art, and above all 
by the savage fanaticism of the surrounding population; he moreover 
conceived that even if Algiers were to fall into the hands of the 
French, it would be impossible for them to retain it, without a 
constant expenditure of force and treasure, for which no return could 
be reasonably expected. His plan was therefore to arm against the 
Algerines, an enemy professing the same faith with themselves, who in 
the event of success might be bound by his interests, to pursue a 
policy accordant with the wishes of France and of Europe in general.

The ideas of Polignac were adopted by the King, and the French 
Ambassador at Constantinople was instructed to propose to the 
ambitious Pasha of Egypt, that he should undertake the conquest of 
Algiers, or even of all Barbary, in which France would under certain 
conditions aid him by the co-operation of its naval force. The 
Ambassador accordingly despatched M. Huder one of the officers of his 
Embassy to Cairo in order to submit this proposition to the Pasha; 
Mehemet Ali readily acceded to it, the projet of a Convention on the 
subject was drawn up, and the French agent arrived {145} in Paris with 
it about the end of January 1830. The British Government had however 
by this time penetrated the secret of the negotiation, and ever 
jealous with regard to the occupation of the Barbary coast by any 
strong Power, its Ambassador at Paris was immediately instructed to 
protest against the plan. As the correspondence on this subject was 
never published, we have no means of knowing precisely the grounds of 
opposition taken by the British Ministry; they probably had reference 
only to the interests of the Sultan, which might be seriously affected 
by so great an addition to the force of his refractory Viceroy. 
Whatever may have been the influence of this opposition, the project 
of a co-operation with Mehemet Ali was abandoned, and it was 
determined that an expedition should with the least possible delay, be 
sent from France against Algiers.

Preparations for carrying this resolution into effect were immediately 
commenced in all the ports and arsenals in France, and they were 
prosecuted with a degree of vigor which excited the admiration of 
Europe. The various branches of the service were placed under the 
superintendence of the most experienced persons, apparently without 
reference to their known political inclinations; and all the resources 
of mechanical and medical, as well as military and naval science, were 
employed to add to the health and comforts of the soldiers and to give 
efficiency to their operations. Works relating to Northern Africa were 
examined with attention, and the records of preceding expeditions 
against Algiers were studied, in order to discover and provide against 
the circumstances which occasioned their failure. Toulon having been 
chosen as the place from which the armament was to sail, troops were 
collected in its vicinity, and prepared by peculiar exercises for the 
duties which they would be required to perform. Ships of war lying at 
the different naval establishments, were ordered to be fully equipped, 
and as soon as ready to be sent to the rendezvous, where a number of 
merchant vessels for the transportation of men and materials were 
bound by contract to assemble at the appointed time.

The object of these preparations after having been communicated in 
general terms to the Governments of the other great European nations, 
were publicly announced by the King in his address at the opening of 
the Legislative session on the 2d of March 1830. The reply made by the 
Chamber of Deputies, shewed clearly that the Ministry would find no 
favor with that body; this had been anticipated and the session was 
accordingly prorogued, with a view to the ulterior dissolution of the 
intractable Chamber. The Liberal Party having by this time taken the 
alarm, their journals which had been previously filled with invectives 
against the Ministers for their apathy under the insults of a 
Barbarian, now loudly condemned the objects of the expedition and 
prophesied that it would be fruitless. The violence of these 
denunciations induced the Ministry to insert an article in the 
Moniteur of April 20th, which although unofficial, was afterwards 
formally acknowledged to be the expression of the sentiments of the 
Government. This article was composed with much care, and although no 
one of its statements taken separately can be contradicted, yet their 
arrangement, the omissions of important circumstances and the studied 
obscurity of the language on certain points, renders the result of the 
whole the opposite of that which would arise from a candid exposition. 
General Alexandre de Laborde made an able reply in the Constitutionnel 
of the 26th of the same month; he fully demonstrated the unimportance 
of the African Concessions, the seizure of which was made the 
principal grounds of the difference, in the Ministerial declaration; 
he shewed that the bad faith of the Government and of its agents had 
given the Dey just cause of discontent, that the weakness and 
indecision of the late Ministry had provoked and encouraged his 
insults, and that the real end of the expedition then in preparation, 
was to subdue, not the barbarians of Africa, but the friends of true 
liberty in France. Motives of patriotism, and feeling for the honor of 
the country may indeed have influenced the Ministry in adopting this 
resolution; but there can be no doubt that its principal object was to 
sustain the despotic party in France, by reproducing in the people 
that admiration for military glory, which experience has shewn to be 
incompatible with respect for institutions founded on equality of 
rights.

To the announcement of its intentions with regard to Algiers, the 
French Ministry received the most satisfactory answers from many of 
the Powers of the European Continent. The British Government however, 
which had manifested its disapprobation of the plan for establishing 
the Egyptian authority in Barbary, was still more unwilling that 
France should possess a country, "which in the hands of a more 
civilized and enlightened Government, could not fail to exercise an 
important influence over the commerce and maritime interests of the 
Mediterranean Powers." The French Ambassador at London, when requested 
to explain more fully, replied by "the most positive assurances of the 
entirely disinterested views of the Cabinet of the Tuilleries;" and 
the British Ambassador at Paris on addressing the same demand to 
Prince Polignac, was informed "that a satisfactory answer would soon 
be given respecting the objects of the expedition, and the future 
destiny of the Regency of Algiers in case of success."

Accordingly on the 20th of March the French Ambassador at London 
communicated to Lord Aberdeen then Secretary for Foreign Affairs, a 
letter from Prince Polignac, in which after enumerating the various 
grievances suffered by France from Algiers, and stating the conviction 
of his Government that treaties would be of no avail in preventing 
their recurrence, he declared that his Sovereign had resolved to seek 
redress by force, and at the same time to advance the interests of 
humanity, by abolishing piracy, Christian slavery and the payment of 
tribute to the Barbary Regencies; "and if," concludes the Prince, "in 
the approaching struggle, the Government now existing at Algiers 
should be dissolved, the King whose views in this question are 
entirely disinterested, will concert with his Allies respecting the 
new order of things, which should for the greatest advantage of the 
Christian world replace the system overthrown, and be most proper to 
secure the ends thus proposed by His Majesty." This letter was 
considered by the British Cabinet, as "scarcely affording that entire 
satisfaction which might be reasonably expected;" and its Ambassador 
at Paris was in consequence instructed to insist upon an official 
assurance from the {146} French Government, that it "renounced all 
views of territorial possession or aggrandizement." The despatch 
containing this instruction was read to Prince Polignac, who repeated 
in general terms that "the expedition was not undertaken with a view 
to obtain territorial acquisitions," adding however that "he had no 
objection to give any assurance, which might be calculated to remove 
the uneasiness of the British Government."

For this assurance Lord Aberdeen waited for some time in vain; on the 
21st of April the French Ambassador read to him a letter from the 
Prince containing a declaration sufficiently explicit and 
satisfactory; but he was not authorized to give a copy of it, and 
applications were again made to the French Government. Polignac whose 
only object was to gain time, evaded these applications by the liberal 
employment of petty artifices; at length on the 17th of May, when the 
expedition was about to sail, the French Ambassador delivered to Lord 
Aberdeen an official copy of a despatch addressed to him by his 
Government in the form of a circular to the different courts of 
Europe. In this circular the King of France declared to his Allies 
that his objects were to obtain redress for the injuries committed by 
Algiers, to secure the French possessions in Africa from future 
aggressions, and to receive indemnification for the expenses of the 
war, as well as to effect the abolition of piracy Christian slavery 
and the exaction of tribute; and that until these ends should be 
attained and sufficiently secured he would not lay down his arms nor 
recall his troops from Africa. In case the existing Government of 
Algiers should be overthrown, he would immediately concert with the 
other Powers as to the new order of things to be there established, 
for the greatest advantage of the Christian world; and as it was 
probable that they might soon be required to give their opinions on 
this subject, he invited each Government without delay to furnish its 
Representative in France with the proper instructions. "His majesty," 
says the French Minister in the despatch, "will appear at these 
deliberations, ready to furnish every additional explanation which may 
be desired, disposed to take into consideration the rights and 
interests of all, not bound by anterior engagements, at liberty to 
accept any proposition which may tend to assure the attainment of the 
result indicated, and free from all feelings of personal interest."

Not satisfied with such vague promises, the British Minister replied 
through the Ambassador at Paris, that although "no further suspicion 
could be entertained of any design on the part of the French 
Government to establish a military occupation of the Regency, or to 
accomplish such a change in the state of territorial possession on the 
shores of the Mediterranean, as should affect the interest of European 
Powers," yet "he could not avoid calling the attention of Prince 
Polignac to the peculiar situation of Algiers in its relation to the 
Ottoman Porte;" that although "many Governments of Europe had 
contracted engagements with that Regency as an independent State," and 
others "continued to regard the Barbary States as essentially 
dependant on the Turkish Empire," yet "the supremacy of the Sultan was 
allowed by all;" he therefore "submitted to the serious consideration 
of the Prince, what must be the effect of a precedent, which thus 
disposes of the rights of a third party, against whom no complaint 
whatever has been alleged." To this no reply was made, and the 
negotiation or rather the discussion ended.

The preceding statement of the correspondence between the French and 
British Governments, relative to the disposition to be made of Algiers 
in the event of its conquest, is drawn from the official letters which 
passed on the occasion; they were published in compliance with a call 
made by Lord Aberdeen in the House of Peers of Great Britain on the 3d 
of May 1833. From an examination of those documents, it appears that 
no engagement was entered into by the French Government to recall its 
troops from Algiers at any period; equally unfounded is the assertion 
made by the French historical writers, respecting the reply of Prince 
Polignac to the British Ambassador, that "France when insulted asked 
the aid of no power in avenging its honor, and would be accountable to 
none for the disposal of its conquests." It would be impossible to 
give a summary of the results of the negotiation more satisfactory, or 
drawn from a source entitled to greater consideration, than that 
presented by Lord Aberdeen when he called for the production of the 
Correspondence in the House of Lords; "no Convention was signed on the 
subject, nor was any express stipulation entered into for the 
evacuation of Algiers by the French force; but important engagements 
were contracted, which in reference to all the Powers interested in 
the commerce of the Mediterranean, and in the territorial arrangements 
of that part of the world, were calculated to allay apprehensions 
which might reasonably have existed respecting the occupation of 
Algiers by the French."

There were difficulties also within the Ministerial Council. The 
preparations for the expedition were nearly completed, before it was 
known who was to command it. Three Marshals and six Lieutenant 
Generals are said to have been successively proposed and rejected; at 
length the Moniteur of the 20th of April, the same which contained the 
defence of the objects of the expedition, announced that the King had 
appointed Count de Bourmont the Minister of War, to the command of the 
_Army of Africa_, as it was termed. The appointment to a station so 
responsible of a man who had betrayed every cause in which he engaged 
is said to have received the unwilling assent of the King; it was 
considered a fortunate circumstance by the Liberal Party, as it 
contributed to excite the indignation of the whole country, and to 
deprive the Government of the popularity, which it might otherwise 
have gained by the expedition.

On the day when his nomination was published, Bourmont left Paris for 
Toulon, the affairs of his Department having been committed during his 
absence to Prince Polignac. He was followed by the Minister of the 
Marine, and soon after by the Duke d'Angouleme, who as grand Admiral 
of France came to review the armament before its departure.

Certainly never did the harbor of Toulon, nor any other harbor exhibit 
a more gallant spectacle.

The Army of Africa was composed of thirty-seven thousand six hundred 
and fifty men; the number of horses employed in the different branches 
of its service was three thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, and 
the artillery consisted of one hundred and eighty pieces of cannon. 
This force was arranged in three divisions, which were placed 
severally under the commands of {147} Lieutenant Generals the Baron de 
Barthezène, Count de Loverdo, and the Duke d'Escars; the Chief 
Engineer was General Valazé and the artillery was directed by Count de 
la Hitte. The number of ships of war was one hundred and three, 
including eleven of the line, twenty-three frigates and seven steam 
ships; they were manned by twenty-seven thousand seamen, and carried 
more than three thousand guns. They were arranged in three squadrons; 
the _Squadron of Battle_ commanded by Admiral Duperré, who conducted 
the naval operations of the expedition; the _Squadron of 
Disembarkation_ by Admiral Rosamel, and the _Squadron of Reserve_ by 
Captain Lemoine. Between four and five hundred merchant vessels were 
engaged for the transportation of horses, provisions and materials, 
and many others were allowed to accompany the fleet, laden with 
various articles which might be needed. Of the equipments and 
accompaniments of this force, it would be difficult to convey an 
adequate idea, without entering into details which might not prove 
generally interesting; suffice it to say that no expense was spared to 
render them complete, and that nothing was neglected, which could 
contribute to the attainment of the end proposed. Upon the whole, the 
armament was superior to any other which in modern times has crossed a 
sea; those led by Charles the Fifth against Tunis and Algiers, the 
famed _Spanish Armada_ sent by Philip the Second for the invasion of 
England, and even the mighty expedition conducted by Napoleon to Egypt 
being each inferior to it in appointments, in naval force, and in the 
numerical amount of the persons engaged.

All things being in readiness the embarkation of the troops was 
commenced on the 11th of May, and having been conducted with the 
utmost order and precision, it was terminated in a week. On the 25th 
the wind being favorable the first squadron sailed out of the harbor; 
the second followed on the 26th, and the third on the 27th. They 
directed their course for Algiers; it was however arranged that in 
case of separation by storm or other unexpected occurrence, the place 
of rendezvous would be Palma the capital of the Island of Majorca.

Scarcely had the first squadron quitted Toulon, ere it was met by a 
Turkish frigate escorted by one of the ships of the squadron which was 
blockading Algiers. The Turkish frigate bore no less a personage than 
Tahir Pasha the Capudan Pasha or High Admiral of Turkey, who had been 
sent by the Sultan with full powers to arrange the differences between 
France and the Dey. He had sailed first to Algiers, where he intended 
to command Hussein to accept the terms required by the French, and in 
case of refusal to depose him and take possession of the place in the 
name of the Sultan; but the commander of the blockading squadron off 
that place had received orders to suffer no ship to enter the harbor, 
and Tahir finding it impossible to land, hastened to Toulon in hopes 
that his representations might prevent the sailing of the expedition. 
Well was it for the Pasha, that he was not permitted to enter Algiers, 
for Hussein who knew of his approach and of the objects of his visit, 
had prepared to have him strangled as soon as he landed.

The Turkish Ambassador on meeting the French fleet, boarded the 
Admiral's ship, and had a conference with Bourmont which of course 
proved ineffectual; he then continued his voyage to Toulon, where he 
was placed in quarantine immediately on his arrival. Thence he 
attempted to transmit his communications to the Government, but great 
care had been taken to prevent them from reaching their destination. 
The British Ambassador asked explanations from the French Minister as 
to the objects of his visit, and endeavored to procure a hearing for 
him; but Prince Polignac adroitly evaded the questions, by confessing 
with the greatest apparent frankness, that he was entirely ignorant 
for what purpose the Turkish Ambassador was sent. Tahir at length 
seeing that it was useless to remain longer, and have "his beard thus 
laughed at," went back to Constantinople.

Before the scene of the history is changed to Africa, it may be 
stated, that on the 15th of May, while all France was intent upon the 
preparations for the departure of the expedition, an ordinance 
appeared in the Moniteur dissolving the Chamber of Deputies. A few 
days after a partial change was made in the Ministerial Body by the 
introduction of persons still more opposed to liberal institutions 
than those whom they replaced, and still more odious to the nation at 
large. The French Ministry subsisted as thus organized until the 28th 
of July, when Charles the Tenth ceased to reign.




A LAY OF RUIN.

BY MISS DRAPER.


    'Twas nightfall--and the stars their pale light threw
  Upon the Cortées, and her joyous crew,
  Propitious heaven a friendly cool wind gave,
  That fanned them gently o'er the silvery wave:
  Upon the deck, mingled the gay and young,
  In giddy motion--while the pleasant sound,
  The lively note of merry music rung
  In lightsome echoes, on the water round.
  Oh! it is glorious, when on ocean far,
  A prosperous crew their jovial revels keep,
  Gazing on Beauty 'neath the midnight star,
  And dancing on the bosom of the deep.

    Amid his mates, thick gather'd round the mast,
  The laughing sailor whistles loud, and sings
  Of storm, and shipwreck, and strange dangers past,
  Of sharks, and crocodile, and all such things
  As eat men up at sea--and then anon,
  Of Heathen temples, and of Christian domes,
  Of Greenland Beauties, in a freezing zone,
  And dark-ey'd Donnas, in their sunny homes.

    Far from the rest--pensive, and silently,
  Mute as a statue, Sobieski stood,
  A banish'd Pole--a gallant soldier he,
  Of noble aspect, and of noble blood.
  It wanted not the aid of tongue to speak,
  All Sobieski had been--or was now:
  The silent tear, upon his manly cheek,
  The thick, deep furrows of his lofty brow,--
  His faded lip, his melancholy gaze,
  Told the sad history of gone-by days.
  And closely by his side a frail girl clung,
  The proud Pole's daughter: with a tearless eye,
  And pensive smile--upon his arm she hung,
  Like some pale being from the distant sky.    {148}

    A breeze arose--it was a joyous breeze--
  And as they hurry through the parting seas,
  From highest mast the anxious tars look out:
  "Land, land ahead!" the hopeful sailors shout.
  It blew a gale--it blew a heavy gale--
  With dexterous hand they furl the rattling sail.
  A tempest came--against a frightful rock
  The Cortées struck--hearts quiver'd with the shock.
  "Down with the life-boat,"--'twas a fearful cry;
  And oaths, and prayers, went mingling through the sky.
  By raging winds and furious breakers lash'd,
  'Gainst the tall cliffs again the Cortées dash'd--
  On the white waves a scatter'd wreck she lay,
  And the wild billows roll'd her mast away.

    Slowly, but safe, the crowded life-boat bore
  Its precious burden, to the nearing shore--
  And as with breathless haste the thankful crew
  Leapt on the land, all hands were safe but two;
  But two were wanting, two, and two alone,
  The Polish Maiden! and the exiled one!

    They two had linger'd on the Cortées, till
  The hardy Captain, seeing all must fly,
  Tore down a light boat; with a dismal cry,
  And frantic rush, the slender bark they fill.
  For life--for life--the weary sailors row'd.
  For life--for life--Oh! 'twas a vain endeavor;
  The little skiff o'erburden'd with its load,
  Was slowly sinking in the waves forever--
  Ah! which of them, with land in sight, could bear
  To meet Death thus? Hope makes a coward brave,
  And they who might have shudder'd in despair,
  Kept fearlessly above the billowy wave--
  The dexterous swimmers, reach'd the life-boat's crew,
  And Sobieski could have reach'd it too;
  But in one arm his terror'd child he bore,
  And with the other battled with the sea:
  Bravely he toil'd to gain the distant shore;
  The rest were there already--only he,
  And his wan daughter, with exhausted breath,
  Were flying from the watery jaws of Death.
  At length, the frenzied Pole beheld the land,
  And eager, with a Father's tender hand,
  Fondly, he raised Pascobi's drooping head;
  She trembled not--her terror all had fled--
  The Polish maid was with the fearless dead!

    The distant thunder murmur'd through the air,
  The lightning gleam'd amid the clouds afar,
  The hollow wind went whistling--low, away
  On unknown journies. Light, and lovely day
  Were brightly dawning on that lonely spot,
  Where lay the victim of the direful storm,
  So still--so pale--so beautiful--with not
  An eye to weep for her. In holy calm,
  And silent grief, her sire was kneeling by--
  Pascobi slept, as free from care as pain--
  And 'twere a sin that e'en a father's sigh
  Should wake that daughter into life again.

    Once, Sobieski under Poland's sun
  Had proudly lorded over lands his own--
  And now, his Spirit could not stoop to ask
  A Stranger to bestow on him a grave--
  He took his pale child, 'twas a bitter task,
  And buried her beneath the quiet wave.




BALLAD.


  Far 'neath the dim mountains
    The daylight dies--
  And Heaven is opening
    Her starry eyes;
  The Moon o'er the tree-tops
    Looks down on the stream,
  Where the castle's broad shadow
    Sleeps--dark as a dream.

  From the Oriel-lattice
    A bright Lady gazed--
  Her eyes--sad--though tearless,
    To heaven upraised.
  Her brow was all paleness--
    Yet beauty dwelt there--
  A picture of sorrow
    With raven dark hair.

  She marked not the softness
    Of dim vale and stream--
  The mist on the mountain--
    The lake's distant gleam--
  She saw not the mimic
    Dew-star in the grass,
  Nor the pale damp that hung o'er
    The haunted morass.

  She heard not the owlet's
    Sad song from the wood--
  Nor the rush of his wings as
    He sailed o'er the flood--
  Nor rapid hoofs ringing,
    And neigh echoed shrill,
  As the hurrying horseman
    Spurred over the hill.

  Oh! her thoughts were far distant
    Far--far--in the land,
  Where her gallant crusader
    Held knightly command.
  She prays for his safety,
    Who sleeps in his gore
  By the crimson-dyed sands of
    Far Galilee's shore.

  The dark waving cypress
    O'ershadows his grave--
  A cross tells the pilgrim
    Where sleepeth the brave--
  And the horseman who knocks at
    The castle-gate,
  Hath a tale for its Lady,
    A seal for her fate.

W. M. R.




THE GOURD OF JONAH.


The gourd mentioned in Jonah as springing up in one night, is in the 
Hebrew 'Kikajon.' St. Jerom and many others call it ivy. St. Jerom, 
however, acknowledges ivy to be an improper translation. The Kikajon, 
according to Galmêt, is a non-parasitical shrub found in the sandy 
places of Palestine. It grows with rapidity, and has thick leaves 
resembling those of a vine.


{149}


THE COUSIN OF THE MARRIED, AND THE COUSIN OF THE DEAD. [From the 
French.]


There was found, under the Restoration, a man who was surnamed _The 
Cousin of the Married_, and who merited the appellation by a course of 
industry and ingenuity truly singular. He repaired every morning to 
the office of the Mayor of the twelve districts of Paris, and 
stationed himself before the little grate, where are endorsed notices 
of all marriages about to take place. He read attentively the names of 
the affianced persons, learned their qualities, and informed himself 
of their fortune. When he obtained all this information, the ingenious 
Cousin made his choice, always deciding, however, in favor of that 
marriage which was expected to attract the greatest number of guests, 
and which promised the most sumptuous dinner. He would then buy an 
enormous _bouquet_, put on his fine black coat, a pair of open-work 
stockings and light pumps, and then take from his bandbox his new hat; 
so attired he would proceed cautiously among the carriages, with a 
buoyant step, to the church where the marriage ceremony was to be 
performed, join the crowd of attendants, and officiously offer to hold 
the nuptial veil. When the benediction was pronounced, he created 
himself _Master of Ceremonies_, leading the way to the carriages, 
giving his hand to the ladies, carefully lifting their dresses to 
prevent them from coming in contact with the coach wheels, shutting 
the coach doors and bidding the drivers proceed to the appointed 
hotel. For himself he was no less careful, as he always contrived to 
secure a place for himself in one of the carriages, so as to arrive 
with the rest of the company. It was then that he was brilliant, and 
then that his liveliness and gaiety served to beguile, with the 
company, the tedious hour before dinner. He had for all some remark to 
excite laughter--he repeated a pleasant little story, adapted to the 
time and circumstance of the assembly--he hastened the preparations 
for the repast--humorously recommended the guests to be patient, and 
to prepare their appetites for eating, and when all was ready he would 
announce the fact himself. He was the Major Domo of the house--the man 
indispensable--the commissary of the feast. Every voice was in his 
praise--"_that gentleman is very amiable_"--and if any one 
indiscreetly inquired his name, it was answered that he was presumed 
to be the parent or friend of the bride, or a cousin or an intimate 
friend of the groom.

But it was at the table that his efforts to please were particularly 
conspicuous. He would post himself in the place of honor--seize the 
great carving-knife--cut up the meats with admirable promptness and 
dexterity, and carefully and politely wait upon every guest. He 
directed the servants, overlooked the courses, and tasted the wines. 
Then when the dessert was brought, he would take from his pocket a 
piece of pink paper, mysteriously unfold it, and sing from it a stanza 
in honor of the newly married couple, composed by himself expressly 
for the occasion. The good fellow knew but one little story and but 
one stanza, but he served them up every morning in a new edition.

Unfortunately this witty sharper was one day detected in his career of 
imposition. Seduced by the attraction of great names, he went to the 
marriage festival of a rich nobleman of the Fauborg St. Germain. He 
had assisted at the mass--returned in an elegant barouche to the 
hotel--had glided unobserved into the parlor, and stood waiting for a 
suitable opportunity to rehearse his amusing little story, and to 
commence his _impromptu_ remarks, so often before repeated. All at 
once he became the object of general attention; all at once he found 
all eyes fixed upon him. The mistress of the feast had counted her 
plates and her guests, and had ascertained that of the latter there 
was one too many. She was astonished to find on inquiring the name of 
the Cousin, that no one knew him, and that no one recognized him as a 
friend. For the first time the _Cousin of the Married_ lost his 
self-possession and his assurance. How was he to escape the gaze of 
the eyes fixed upon him? How was he to answer the questions which 
might be addressed to him? Presently, a gentleman advances towards him 
and asks--"By which of the married couple were you invited--on which 
side are you?"

"On which side?" said the Cousin of the Married, taking his hat, "on 
the side of the door;" and so saying, he quickly descended the stairs 
and left the house. Since that day no one has heard tell of him.

But if we have no longer the Cousin of the Married, we have now the 
_Cousin of the Dead_, an expression equally as significant as the 
first.

Ruined by the Revolution of 1793, the Count of V***, was obliged to 
accept of a very modest employment. In consequence of a change in the 
Ministry, the old clerk was compelled to leave his office, with no 
other resource to sustain life, than a miserable income of 400 francs 
per annum. He was old, and alone in the world. His strength did not 
permit him to labor, and by constantly dwelling on his poverty, he 
became melancholy, and subsequently fell dangerously sick. By 
carefully attending to the advice of a physician, who generously 
refused to accept the small sum the old man offered to give for his 
services, he became, in time, somewhat restored. This physician 
prescribed for his patient, on pain of a relapse, frequent exercise 
and a daily ride. You may judge of the poor man's embarrassment! How 
could he ride every day in a carriage, when his little income was 
scarcely sufficient to procure the essentials of life? The smallest 
excursion in a cabriolet cost twenty-five sous--one excursion per day 
would be four hundred and fifty francs per annum, and his whole yearly 
income amounted to only four hundred. At that time omnibusses were not 
invented.

He was beginning to despond when the heavens sent him succor. In 
passing near St. Rock, he observed that the gate of the church was 
hung in black, and that a long line of vehicles were in waiting to 
conduct a funeral procession to _Père La Chaise_. The coachmen were on 
their seats, and their strong and beautiful horses, covered with the 
trappings of mourning, were awaiting with impatience, the moment of 
departure. The advice of the physician recurred with great force to 
the mind of poor V***--a feeling of jealousy glided into his 
inoffensive heart. He envied the fortune of those who could thus ride 
gratis--he envied, for one instant, the happy destiny of the deceased, 
in being conveyed to his last earthly home, in a splendid hearse, 
drawn by four magnificent horses. Feeling a curiosity to know the name 
and history of one upon whom fortune had so lavished {150} her favors, 
he entered the church and piously knelt down among the mourners. V*** 
had on his only black coat, and he was immediately taken for one of 
the friends of the deceased, and after the ceremonies in the church, 
was offered a place in one of the funeral carriages. The occasion was 
too opportune to be neglected, and he gladly jumped into the 
wished-for carriage.

On the way, a thousand ideas passed through his imagination. He 
thanked heaven for having furnished him with the means to fulfil, in 
so economical a manner, the recommendation of his physician. He 
accompanied the corpse to the grave--saw the coffin laid in the tomb, 
and on leaving the churchyard, he found the coach in waiting, and the 
coachman ready to convey him home.

Since that event V*** has become the willing assistant of all public 
interments; and what was, at first, only useful as a means of 
exercise, has become for him a pleasure and a delight. He goes to a 
funeral as others go to the theatre, to a ball, or to a festival. He 
daily reads the lists of deaths in the city, and these lists are to 
him a journal, and the only one for which he conceives there is any 
use. Still more, he has taken lodgings opposite the dwelling of the 
undertaker, and every morning he crosses the street to converse with 
the undertaker, and inform himself of the burials of the day. He puts 
on his blue surtout or his black dress, according to the rank and 
fortune of the deceased, the expenses of the funeral, &c., and for all 
grand ceremonies he wears crape on his arm. V*** is now generally 
known by the title of _the Cousin of the Dead_. For fifteen years he 
has not missed a single funeral. His views are too liberal to adopt 
party feelings; he has assisted to inter Bellart and Manuel, Talma and 
the Bishop of Beauvais, a female follower of St. Simon and the lady 
Superior of the Convent of Minimes, and he hopes to live to inter many 
other characters equally distinguished. He once presented to the 
Chamber of Deputies, a petition for a law interdicting the embalming 
of infants, by which the number of funeral processions is materially 
lessened.

The Cousin of the Dead possesses a remarkably expansive sensibility, 
and an extraordinary quantity of sympathy for the afflictions of 
others. He feels the grief of a bereaved mother, the despair of a 
heart-broken widow, the sorrow of a childless father, with the 
poignancy of truth. Many a legator, in noticing his sorrow at the 
grave, has taken him for a disinherited relative; many a mother has 
been gratified to see him shed tears over her favorite son, and many 
an husband, on losing a beloved wife, has been astonished at his grief 
over her remains. He composes funeral orations for all illustrious 
persons; the burial place is his life and his world. At times, struck 
with the appearance of grief depicted on his countenance, the friends 
of the dead have desired him to be the principal mourner.

One day, during the burial of a personage of considerable importance, 
the Cousin of the Dead was observed to shed an abundance of tears. One 
of the mourners approached him and desired that he would make a few 
appropriate remarks--_jeter quelques fleurs sur le cercueil_--on the 
individual whose remains they had just deposited in the cold grave. 
The procession closed around him as he prepared to speak.

"The tomb," said he, "is again about to enclose the remains of a 
distinguished citizen." He stopped for a moment, and inquired, in a 
low voice, the name of the deceased. He was answered, "Augustin 
Leger."

"Augustin Leger," he resumed, "was a man, grave and austere. His long 
life was but a continued series of virtuous and benevolent acts. He 
was entirely devoted to the holy, the legitimate cause of----"

_He was a regicide!_

"The rights of the sovereign people. His disinterestedness----"

_He was a usurer!_

"His laudable economy, his aversion to luxury, his unassuming and 
modest deportment, had gained for him universal esteem. But still more 
worthy of admiration were his virtues in private life--his patience, 
his humility, and his devoted and unchangeable attachment to the wife 
of his bosom, the lady of his choice."

_He had been divorced!_

"For his children he cherished the most affectionate and tender 
regard."

_He had driven them from his house!_

"Virtuous friend! May the earth rest lightly on thy coffin!"




THE DUC DE L'OMELETTE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  And stepped at once into a cooler clime.
                                            _Cowper_.


Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of _The Andromache_?[1] 
Ignoble souls!--De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. _L'histoire en 
est breve_--assist me Spirit of Apicius!

[Footnote 1: Montfleury. The author of the _Parnasse Reformé_ makes 
him thus express himself in the shades. "The man then who would know 
of what I died, let him not ask if it were of the fever, the dropsy, 
or the gout; but let him know that it was of The Andromache."]

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, 
indolent, to the _Chaussée D'Antin_, from its home in far Peru. From 
its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six 
peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. It was "All for Love."

That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau, he 
reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty 
in outbidding his king--the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.

He buries his face in the pillow--the clock strikes! Unable to 
restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the 
door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most 
delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what 
inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the 
Duc?----"_Horreur!_--_chien!_--_Baptiste!_--_l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! 
cet oiseau modeste que tu as deshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as 
servi sans papier!_" It is superfluous to say more--the Duc expired in 
a paroxysm of disgust.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Ha! ha! ha!"--said his Grace on the third day after his decease.

"He! he! he!"--replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an 
air of hauteur.

"Why, surely you are not serious"--retorted De L'Omelette. "I have 
sinned--_c'est vrai_--but, my good {151} sir, consider!--you have no 
actual intention of putting such--such--barbarous threats into 
execution."

"No _what?_"--said His Majesty--"come sir, strip!"

"Strip indeed!--very pretty i' faith!--no, sir, I shall _not_ strip. 
Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, 
just come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the 
Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest 
pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest _robe-de-chambre_ ever 
put together by Rombêrt--to say nothing of the taking my hair out of 
paper--not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my 
gloves?"

"Who am I?--ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee 
just now from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast 
curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee--my 
Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made 
by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy 
_robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty dimensions."

"Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!--Sir! 
I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!--Sir! 
you shall hear from me! In the meantime _au revoir!_"--and the Duc was 
bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted 
and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed 
his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become 
satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of his 
whereabouts.

The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it _bien comme 
il faut_. It was not very long, nor very broad,--but its height--ah, 
that was appalling! There was no ceiling--certainly none--but a dense, 
whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he 
glanced upwards. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red 
metal--its upper end lost, like C----, _parmi les nues_. From its 
nether extremity hung a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a 
ruby--but from it there poured a light so intense, so still, so 
terrible, Persia never worshipped such--Gheber never imagined 
such--Mussulman never dreamed of such when drugged with opium he has 
tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to 
the God Apollo! The Duc muttered a slight oath decidedly approbatory.

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were 
filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was Grecian, 
their deformity Egyptian, their _tout ensemble_ French. In the fourth 
niche the statue was veiled--it was not colossal. But then there was a 
taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his 
heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic 
Majesty--in a blush.

But the paintings!--Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!--a thousand and the 
same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here; for 
did he not paint the ---- ? and was he not consequently damned? The 
paintings!--the paintings! O Luxury! O Love!--who gazing on those 
forbidden beauties shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the 
golden frames that lie imbedded and asleep against those swellings 
walls of eider down?

But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as you 
suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath 
of those innumerable censers. _C'est vrai que de toutes ces choses il 
a pensé beaucoup--mais!_ The Duc De L'Omelette is terror-stricken; for 
through the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is 
affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly of all fires!

_Le Pauvre Duc!_ He could not help imagining that the glorious, the 
voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they 
passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted 
window panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless and 
the damned! And there too--there--upon that ottoman!--who could _he_ 
be?--he, the _petit-maitre_--no, the Deity--who sat as if carved in 
marble, _et qui sourit_, with his pale countenance, _si amerement_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Mais il faut agir_--that is to say a Frenchman never faints outright. 
Besides, his Grace hated a scene--De L'Omelette is himself again. 
There were some foils upon a table--some points also. The Duc had 
studied under B----, _il avait tué ses six hommes_. Now then _il peut 
s'echapper_. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, 
offers his Majesty the choice. _Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!

_Mais il joue!_--what a happy thought! But his Grace had always an 
excellent memory. He had dipped in the "_Diable_" of the Abbé 
Gualtier. Therein it is said "_que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu 
d'Ecarté_."

But the chances--the chances! True--desperate: but not more desperate 
than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?--had he not skimmed 
over Pere Le Brun? was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un? "_Si Je 
perds_," said he, "_Je serai deux fois perdu_," I shall be doubly 
damned--_voila tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders) _Si Je 
gagne Je serai libre,--que les cartes soient prepareés!_

       *       *       *       *       *

His Grace was all care, all attention--his Majesty all confidence. A 
spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thought 
of his game. His Majesty did not think--he shuffled. The Duc _coupa_.

The cards are dealt. The trump is turned--it is--it is--the king! 
No--it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments. De 
L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart.

They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts 
heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.

"_C'est à vous à faire_"--said his Majesty cutting. His Grace bowed, 
dealt, and arose from the table _en presentant le Roi_.

His Majesty looked chagrined.

Had the drunkard not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and 
the Duc assured his Majesty in taking leave "_que s'il n'etait pas De 
L'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le Diable_."




THE ILIAD.


Mr. H. N. Coleridge says there would be no difficulty in composing a 
complete epic poem with as much symmetry of parts as is seen in the 
Iliad, from the English ballads on Robin Hood.


{152}


RUSTIC COURTSHIP IN NEW ENGLAND.

[_From the lips of an Octogenarian_.]

                         Won by the charms
  Of goodness irresistible.
                                        _Thomson_.


"You see, ma'am," said the old man, "my mother died when I was twelve 
years old. About that time old Mr. C---- came down, and set up for a 
great _marchant_. Well, his wife was sick, and she sent to ----, where 
she came from, for a widow-woman to come and take care of her. This 
widow-woman had three children. Her husband, had been a sea-faring 
man, and he was _wracked_ and lost down there at Halifax,--and left 
his wife with nothing at all, and these three children to take care 
of."

"Well, my daddy, ma'am, fell in with her, some how or other, and 
married her. She was a nice woman--as good a mother as ever was,--and 
had great _larning_, and knew how to do every thing,--only she didn't 
know _nothing_ about country-work, you see. Well, her oldest daughter 
came down, (for my dad had agreed to take one of the children,) and 
she was a nice _gal_; and a while after the boy came down. Well, there 
was nothing said; we all worked along; and the daughter she got 
married--married Mr. H----, (you know his folks?--) he broke his neck 
afterwards, falling from his horse."

"Well, a while after this tother daughter came down. Debby was 
dreadful plain!--I thought she was _dreadful plain!!_--but she was a 
nice _gal_--smart, working--and good to every body. You see, there 
were four young children of the second crop, and they had got ragged; 
and Debby spun, and wove, and clothed, and mended them up. Well, she 
went back,--but they couldn't live without her, and sent for her 
again, and so she came. She took care of every thing--saw to my 
things, and had them all in order,--and every thing comfortable for me 
in the winter, when I went in the woods,--but I thought nothing, no 
more than if she'd been my sister."

"Well, by this time I was a youngish man; and in my day, the young 
folks had a sort of a frolic every night. I used to go,--and sometimes 
went home with one _gal_, sometimes with another,--but never thought 
of Debby. Well, there was a Mr. ---- came to see her, but she wouldn't 
have nothing to say to him; and after that, one came from the 
Shoals--a rich man's son; his father gave him a complete new vessel, 
and every thing to load her; but Debby wouldn't have nothing to do 
with him _nother_. _Then I wasn't worth so much as this stick!_--Well, 
I wondered, and so I says to mother, 'Mother, what's the reason Debby 
wont take this man?--she'll never better herself!'--'Don't you know, 
John?' says mother. 'No.' So I says to Debby--'Why don't you have him, 
Debby?' 'Because,' says Debby, says she, 'if I can't have the one I 
want, I wont have nobody!'"

"Well, I thought nothing,--but went on, frolicking here, and 
frolicking there, till one night as I was going home, just towards 
day, with one of my mates, says I, 'Tom,' says I, 'I wont go to 
another frolic these two months! If I do, I'll give you a 
dollar!'--'You?' says he--'you'll go afore two nights!' 'Well, you'll 
see,' says I.--Well, I stayed at home _steady_; and after a while says 
father, says he to mother, 'Suzy,' says he, (for that was the way he 
always spoke to her--) 'Suzy,' says he, 'I guess John has got tired of 
raking about so,--and I'm glad of it.' 'I hope he has,' says mother."

"Well, one day we were all sitting at table,--mother _sot_ there,--and 
father _sot there_,--and the hired man next him,--(for we had a hired 
man, and hired _gal_,) and Debby was next to mother, and the _gal_ 
next, and I between the hired man and hired _gal_. Well, mother was 
joking the hired man and _gal_,--(she was a great hand to joke,) and I 
cast an eye at Debby, and I thought, 'I never see any body alter as 
you have, Debby!'--She looked handsome!--Well, Debby was weaving up 
stairs; and I was mowing down by the well, close by the house; and I 
felt kind of uneasy, and made an excuse to go in for a drink of water. 
Well, I went in;--and I went up stairs, and into tother chamber--not 
the one where Debby was weaving,--(for I was kind of bashful, you 
see,--) and then I went in where Debby was--but said nothing,--for I 
had never laid the weight of my finger on the _gal_ in my life. At 
last, 'Debby,' says I, 'what sort of a weaver are you, Debby?' 'O, I 
guess I can get off as many yards as any body,' says she; 'and I want 
to get my web out, to go up on the hill to sister's, this afternoon.' 
'Well,' says I, 'tell her to have something nice, for I shall be up 
there.' 'We shan't see you there, I guess,' says Debby. 'You will 
though,' says I; 'see if you don't!' Father had a great pasture on the 
hill,--a kind of farm like, (for my father was a rich man!--) so just 
afore night up I goes, and they had every thing in order. So a while 
after supper I says to Debby, 'Debby, 'tis time for us to go, for 
'twill be milking-time, by the time we get home.' So we went right 
down across,--and on the way we talked the business over. I married 
her--and a better wife never wore shoe-leather!"




PALÆSTINE.


Palæstine derives its name from the Philistæi, who inhabited the coast 
of Judæa. It has also been called "The Holy Land" as being the scene 
of the birth, sufferings and death of our Redeemer. It was bounded on 
the north by Syria, on the east by Arabia Deserta, on the south by 
Arabia Petrea, and on the west by the Mediterranean. The principal 
divisions of the country were Galilea in the north, Samaria in the 
middle, and Judæa in the south. This country is at present under the 
Turkish yoke; and the oppression which it now experiences, as well as 
the visible effects of the divine displeasure, not only during the 
reign of Titus, and afterwards in the inundations of the northern 
barbarians, but also of the Saracens and Crusaders, are more than 
sufficient to have reduced this country, which has been extolled by 
Moses, and even by Julian the Apostate, for its fecundity, to its 
present condition of a desert. Galilea, the northern division, is 
divided by Josephus into Upper Galilea, called Galilea of the Gentiles 
because inhabited by heathen nations--and Lower Galilea which was 
adjacent to the sea of Tiberias, and which contained the tribes of 
Zebulon and Ashur. Galilea was a very populous country: containing, 
according to Josephus 204 cities, and towns, and paying 200 talents in 
tribute.

{153} The middle district, Samaria, had its origin in a division of 
the people of Israel into two distinct kingdoms, during the reign of 
Jeroboam. One of these kingdoms, called Judah, consisted of such as 
adhered to the house of David, comprising the two tribes of Judah and 
Benjamin. The other ten tribes retained the name of Israelites under 
Jeroboam. Their capital was Samaria, which also became the name of 
their country. The Samaritans and people of Judæa were bitter enemies. 
The former differed in many respects from the strictness of the Mosaic 
law. Among the Judæans, the name of Samaritan was a term of reproach.

The southern division, Judæa, did not assume that name until after the 
return of the Jews from the Babylonian captivity--though it had been 
called long before "the kingdom of Judah," in opposition to that of 
Israel. After the return, the tribe of Judah settled first at 
Jerusalem; but afterwards spreading over the whole country, gave it 
the name of "Judæa."

The only rivers of any note in Palæstine are the Jordanes, and the 
Leontes, which latter passes through the northern extremity of 
Galilea. The Jordan, according to a curious story of Philip the 
Tetrarch, has its origin in a lake called Phiala, about ten miles 
north of Cæsarea of Samochon. This is said to have been ascertained by 
throwing into the lake some straw which came out where the river 
emerges from the ground, after having run fifteen miles beneath the 
surface of the earth--Mannert the German, thinks this fabulous, and 
places the source of the river in Mount Paneas, in the province of 
Dan. The Jordan holds a south-westerly course--flows through the lake 
Samochon, or Samochonites, or as it is called in the Bible, Merom; 
after which, proceeding onwards till received by the sea of Tiberias, 
or lake of Genesareth, it emerges from this, and is finally lost in 
the Dead Sea. In ancient times it overflowed its banks annually, about 
the period of early harvest; and thus differing from most other 
rivers, which generally swell in the winter, it was supposed to have a 
subterraneous communication with the Nile. But now, we can perceive no 
rise, which is probably owing to the channel having been deepened by 
the swiftness of the current. The name is supposed to be derived from 
the Hebrew "Jarden," on account of the river's rapid "_descent_" 
through the country.

The Dead Sea, called also Asphaltites, from the "asphaltos," or 
bitumen, which it throws up, is situated in Judæa, and near 100 miles 
long and 25 broad: but is called by Tacitus "Lacus immenso ambitu." 
Its waters are extremely salt; but the vapors exhaled from them are 
found not to be so pestilential as they have been usually represented. 
It is supposed that the thirteen cities, of which Sodom and Gomorrah, 
as mentioned in the Bible, are the chief, were destroyed by a volcano, 
and once occupied the site of the Dead Sea. Earthquakes are now 
frequent in the country. Volumes of smoke are observed to issue from 
the lake, and new crevices are daily found on its margin.

The country is mountainous. The range of Libanus, so named on account 
of their snowy summits, from the Hebrew "Lebanon," _white_, is 
imperfectly defined. The principal part of them lies towards the north 
of Galilea, but the name of Libanus is sometimes given to several 
parallel chains, which run through the whole extent of Palæstine. 
Between two of these ranges lay a valley so beautiful that some have 
called it a terrestrial Paradise; though situated in a much higher 
region than the greater part of the country, it enjoys perpetual 
spring--the trees are always green, and the orchards full of fruit. 
Libanus has been famed for its cedars. Mount Carmel is a celebrated 
mountain, properly belonging to Samaria, but on which the Syrians had 
an altar, _but not a temple_, dedicated to their god Carmelus. A 
priest of this deity, according to Tacitus, (Lib. 2, cap. 78,) 
foretold the accession of Vespasian to the throne.

The principal towns in Galilea were Dio-Cæsarea, Jotapata or Gath, 
Genesareth, and Tiberias. Tiberias was built by Herod, near the lake 
of the same name, and called after the emperor. After the taking of 
Jerusalem, there was at Tiberias a succession of Hebrew judges, till 
about the time of the abdication of Dioclesian and Maximinianus. 
Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis, says that a Hebrew copy of St. John, 
and the Acts of the Apostles, was kept in this city.

The chief cities of Samaria were Neapolis, Antipatris, Archelais, 
Apollonia, Samaria, and Cæsarea. Cæsarea, was the principal, and was 
anciently called "Turris Stratonis." It was much embellished by Herod, 
who named it Cæsarea in honor of Augustus--and was the station of the 
Roman governors. Samaria was situated on Mount Sameron, and was the 
residence of the kings of Israel, from the time of Omri, its founder, 
to the overthrow of the kingdom.

In Judæa, were the cities of Engedi, Herodium, Hebron, Beersheba, 
Jericho, and Jerusalem. Jericho was in the tribe of Benjamin, near the 
river Jordan; and is called by Moses the city of palm-trees, from the 
palms in the adjacent plain, which are also noticed by Tacitus. It was 
destroyed by Joshua, but afterwards rebuilt. Jerusalem, the capital, 
was anciently called Salem, or Jebus, by the Jebusites, who were in 
possession of it till the time of David; but it was then called by the 
Hebrews Jeruschalaim, signifying "the possession of the inheritance of 
peace." The Greeks and Romans called it by the name of Hierosolyma. It 
was built on several hills, of which Mount Sion, in the southern part 
of the city, was the largest. To the north was Acra, called the 
"second," or "lower city"--on the east of which was Solomon's temple, 
built on Mount Moriah. North-east of this was the Mount of Olives, and 
north of it Mount Calvary, the place of the crucifixion. This city was 
taken by Pompey, who thence derived his name of Hierosolymarius. It 
was also taken and destroyed by Titus, (in the year of our Lord 71, by 
the account of Tacitus--but according to Josephus,) on the 8th of 
Sept. A.D. 70--2177 years after its foundation.

In this siege 110,000 persons are said to have perished, and 97,000 to 
have been made prisoners, and as Josephus relates, sold as slaves, or 
thrown to wild beasts for the sport of the conquerors.

P.




MARTORELLI.


Martorelli was occupied for two years in a treatise to prove that the 
use of glass for windows was unknown to the ancients. Fifteen days 
after the publication of his folio, a house was found in Pompeii all 
whose windows were paned with glass.


{154}


LIVING ALONE.

BY T. FLINT.


  There are, to whom to live alone,
  Sounds in their ear the funeral moan
  Of winter's night breeze, sad and deep,
  A prelude of sepulchral sleep.
  To live alone I have no dread,
  And careless hear upon my bed,
  Between the wintry night wind's howl,
  The hootings of the forest owl;
  Reckless I wrap myself in gloom,
  And court endurance for the tomb.
  Time was, my feelings were not so:
  When Spring upon the drifted snow
  Breath'd warm, and bade the waters flow;
  When turtles coo'd; on the green hills
  Skip'd the spring lambs, murmur'd the rills,
  And spread their cups the daffodils,
  I was as gay, and with me played
  Full many a budding, blue-eyed maid;
  My heart, the merriest thing of all,
  Bounded within me at the call
  Of laughing nature. Ah! 'twas then
  The thought of living far from men,
  And festive throngs, and social glee,
  Had seemed a living death to me.
  I loved; but I was plain and poor--
  My fair one rich--and from the door
  She sign'd my passport--bade me go,
  And, as I might, digest my wo.
  One shrug'd, and said, "he must confess,
  To cling to one so purposeless,
  Would be a folly all would blame
  As more than due to friendship's claim."
  Another cut our feeble tye,
  Because I pass'd all chances by
  To mend my fortunes, unimprov'd,
  Too weak to be sustain'd, or lov'd.
  At last I found a pretty one,
  Who lov'd me for myself alone.
  I was thrice dear to her, but she
  A thousand times more dear to me:
  I was the happiest one that liv'd,
  And should have been, while she surviv'd.
  I saw her suffering, saw her fail--
  And in my eye the sun grew pale;
  Nature's stern debt she early paid,
  And in the earth my gem was laid:
  My heart then grew, as marble, cold--
  And, fortune's worst endur'd, grew bold.
  Supine in nature's busy hive,
  Men deem'd me dead, though still alive.
  One and another slid away,
  And left me lonely, old and gray.
  'Tis all a vanity, I said,
  And to my lot bow'd down my head--
  Found pensive gladness in my gloom,
  A prelude requiem of the tomb,
  And felt myself too sternly wise
  With useless grief to blear my eyes.
  As my slow hours still strike their knell,
  I fancy it my passing bell,
  And strive, ere yet I pass away,
  To grow insensible as clay.




THE VALLEY NIS.

BY E. A. POE.


  Far away--far away--
  Far away--as far at least
  Lies that valley as the day
  Down within the golden East--
  All things lovely--are not they
  One and all, too far away?

  It is called the valley Nis:
  And a Syriac tale there is
  Thereabout which Time hath said
  Shall not be interpreted:
  Something about Satan's dart
  Something about angel wings--
  Much about a broken heart--
  All about unhappy things:
  But "the valley Nis" at best
  Means "the valley of unrest."

  _Once_ it smil'd a silent dell
  Where the people did not dwell,
  Having gone unto the wars--
  And the sly, mysterious stars,
  With a visage full of meaning,
  O'er th' unguarded flowers were leaning,
  Or the sun-ray dripp'd all red
  Thro' tall tulips overhead,
  Then grew paler as it fell
  On the quiet Asphodel.

  _Now_ each visiter shall confess
  Nothing there is motionless:
  Nothing save the airs that brood
  O'er the enchanted solitude,
  Save the airs with pinions furled
  That slumber o'er that valley-world.
  No wind in Heaven, and lo! the trees
  Do roll like seas, in Northern breeze,
  Around the stormy Hebrides--
  No wind in Heaven, and clouds do fly,
  Rustling everlastingly,
  Thro' the terror-stricken sky,
  Rolling, like a waterfall,
  O'er th' horizon's fiery wall--
  And Helen, like thy human eye,
  Low crouched on Earth, some violets lie,
  And, nearer Heaven, some lilies wave
  All banner-like, above _a grave_.
  And one by one, from out their tops
  Eternal dews come down in drops,
  Ah, one by one, from off their stems
  Eternal dews come down in gems!




NEW TESTAMENT.

The Greek of the New Testament is by no means, whatever some zealots 
assert, the Greek of Homer, of Anacreon, or of Thucydides. It is 
thickly interspersed with Hebraisms, barbarisms, and theological 
expressions. The Evangelists differ much in style among themselves. 
St. Matthew is not as pure as St. John, nor he as St. Paul. St. Luke 
is the most correct--especially in the Acts.


{155}


CASTELLANUS, OR THE CASTLE-BUILDER TURNED FARMER.

  A pleasing land of drowsy head it was
  Of dreams that wave before the half shut eye,
  And of gay castles in the clouds that pass
  Forever flushing round a summer sky.
                                             _Thomson_.


MR. WHITE,--It is a long time since I threw my mite into the treasury 
of your book; Nugator's occupation's gone! was my ejaculation when 
last I wrote to you. The same devouring element which has recently 
plunged New York in misery and gloom, had just then triumphed over 
much of my earthly possessions, but over none more foolishly prized 
than sundry small wares which were intended for your market. As there 
was no prospect of getting Congress to extend the time of the payment 
of _my bonds_, to which one would think I was as justly entitled as 
the rich merchant, I had to set to work as best I might to repair the 
ravages of fire. In the midst of saws and hammers, of bricks and 
mortar, my ideas have been so vulgarized, that you must not expect to 
see a Phoenix rise from my ashes. From me you must never expect any 
thing but trifles, as my signature portends; yet when I reflect that 
this world is made up of small things as well as great, and that the 
former are as essential to constitute a whole as the latter, and that 
your book ought no more than the world to consist altogether of the 
grand, but should sometimes admit the trifling, I am encouraged to 
begin again, although already scorched by more fires than one, having 
encountered the fire of some of your critics. As the mouse sets off to 
greater advantage the bulk of the mammoth, the critics should rather 
be pleased than otherwise, to see my wretched skeleton in contrast 
with the vast proportions of some of your contributors,--but enough.

Romances and novels made my neighbor Castellanus a castle-builder; 
nothing can be more dissimilar than the world he inhabits and that 
ideal one in which he has always lived; like certain persons who shall 
be nameless, he has been literally _in_ the world and _out_ of it at 
the same time, and his experience therefore might justify a seeming 
paradox. I think it was Godwin in his Fleetwood, who drew so beautiful 
a contrast between our _night_ dreams and _day_ dreams. Castellanus 
never could bear the former, attended by hag and night mare, where we 
are forever struggling to attain some goal, which we can never reach; 
he did not like to start affrighted out of sleep; to sink through 
chasms yawning beneath his feet;

  "Nor toss on shatter'd plank far out upon some deep."

No, I have heard him exclaim, "Give me the dreams of day; let me 
recline upon some bank in summer shade, supine, where fancy fits her 
wings for pleasant flight, and quickly ushers me into her radiant 
halls. No hope defeated can there make me grieve; no cup untasted from 
my lips be dashed; no light, receding ever, there can shine, but 
whatsoever there be of joy or love to mortals known, is seized at once 
and easily made my own." There are few persons, perhaps, who do not at 
some period of life, construct these gay castles, yclept in air, and 
well indeed is the appellation bestowed, for though more splendid far 
than the works of old; more passing rare than all of which we 
read;--Balbec's! Palmyra's!--none could excel them,--yet in a moment 
they will topple down, nor leave one marble column, spared as if to 
point to the scene of desolation and to mourn for its brethren, 
broken, ruined, and overthrown. Such monuments are sometimes seen 
standing amid that decay, produced by Goths and Vandals; and Goths and 
Vandals still in modern times will break, _irruptive_, on the 
castle-builder's chosen spot--misfortunes! griefs! pale care! 
tormenting debt!--Then fancy, all thy revelry is forgotten; 
reluctantly from our sweet couch, we rise and homeward frowning hie to 
toil and writhe and fret. But such is the skill of the artist, that he 
has but to ramble forth where all is still and wave his wand, when in 
an instant, like the enchantment of old, his shining palaces will 
upward climb. It is not so, alas! with those works barbarians 
overturned; none know how to raise them to such sublime heights; lost 
are those arts by which they towering rose, and we but gaze on them to 
sigh and curse the hands which slew them.

This practice of castle-building had been the habit of Castellanus 
from his boyhood. It gave him a strange unsocial turn and made him 
shun the inmates of his father's house. He fled all company, and the 
pleasures which others pursue were rarely pleasures to him. One 
enjoyment he had which never palled. Some lonely seat beside a 
"wimpling burn" or waterfall, where human sounds fell distantly; there 
with book in hand, he drank in the lulling music with which such a 
place is fraught; there would he draw forth, unseen, some old romance 
with worn and dusky lid, of "haunted Priories" with bloody hand, or 
dark "Udolpho" with its deep mysteries, its gliding ghosts, and secret 
pannels. Then would fall the curtain on this mortal vale and all its 
hateful realities, and his rapt soul would revel in the high wrought 
tale of fancy. For him these fictions had an unspeakable 
charm--gallant youths were his companions. He trod with them over Alps 
and Appenines, where banditti lurked amid the dreary forests and 
lights were seen to glance and disappear. Soft maidens, too, were 
there, whose superhuman charms won every heart; encompassed by ten 
thousand dangers, he could not leave them, until he saw them safely 
locked in love's triumphant arms. Though a very ugly fellow, he had 
deceived himself into the belief that he should one day or other marry 
one of these delightful creatures, and had even settled that her name 
should be Julia, and thought he should be one of the happiest fellows 
upon earth; but, Mr. Editor, who do you think he now is? a 
clodhopper!! aye a miserable clodhopper! The owner of land and 
negroes!! In that one sentence, I sum up all of human misery--and what 
do you think is his wife's name? Peggy! Phœbus what a name!

  "Cobblers! take warning by this cobbler's end."

Yes, ye castle-builders! look upon his undone condition and take 
warning. Take warning, parents, and bring up your children to suit the 
sphere in which they are to move. I shall not trouble you with the why 
and the wherefore of his present condition, but suffice it to say that 
such it is, and then picture to yourself the untold miseries he must 
endure when I depict to you the sort of life he is leading, with such 
passions as I have already described his ruling ones to be. 
_Imprimis_: there is Peg--but I had better say as little as possible 
of her, {156} out of respect for the ladies and out of regard for my 
friend, because in truth like "Jerry Sneak," he has not eaten a "_bit 
of under crust since he was married_," but follow me if you please 
upon his farm, and let me introduce you to his plagues and tormentors. 
Let us look for the overseer--we shall find him, if at home, which is 
seldom the case, seated on a _stump_, with the symbol of his office 
under his arm. There he is, you see, mounted on his throne lazily 
looking at the laborers; working the land to death by injudicious 
cultivation; extorting the last drop of vitality from it; a foe to 
every species of improvement, and obstinately bent upon going on in 
the jog trot of his predecessors. This is Castellanus' companion _ex 
necessitate_. Shades of the Orvilles and Mortimers! pity him. What can 
there be in common between them? What can they talk about? About 
Evelina and Amanda?--cottages covered with woodbine and 
honeysuckle?--landscapes and glorious sunsets?--the warbling of 
birds?--Oh no, Suk and Sall, negro cabins or pig-styes, corn fields 
and----yes, they _can_ talk of birds, but they are blackbirds and 
crows, and devil take their warbling--of sunset, but only to lament 
the shortness of the days. His (the overseer's) themes are rogues and 
runaways--he is eloquent upon hog-stealing, and neither Simon 
Sensitive nor Timothy Testy could recount more readily the miseries of 
human life. His are the miseries of Geoponies. Rot--rust--weevil--fly 
and cutworm, haunt his imagination and dwell upon his tongue. 
Castellanus had rather be a dog and bay the moon than discuss such 
subjects. But my friend's delight was once in horses; it was one of 
the few pleasures he had. His fancy was early captivated by Alexander 
mounting Bucephalus; a horse gaily caparisoned and mounted by a steel 
clad knight, was a sight upon which his imagination feasted. The red 
roan charger of Marmion at the battle of Flodden had thrilled his 
every nerve,

  "Blood shot his eyes--his nostril spread
  The loose rein, dangling from his head
  Housing and saddle bloody red."

Oh what a picture! and that I should be obliged to exhibit to your 
view the counterfeit presentment. The ploughboys are just coming out 
of the stable with their master's horses going to plough. Here, sir, 
is Buck-e-fallus, as the negro boys call Bucephalus. There is no 
difficulty in mounting _him_; they have knocked out one of his eyes; 
he has a blind side and cannot see the shadow cast by the sun. If his 
spirit was ever as high as his namesake's, he has lost it now--that 
little ragged urchin can ride him with a grape-vine--raw-boned, 
spavined and wind-galled! let him pass and let us see the next. This 
is Smiler! "Lucus a non lucendo," I suppose; alas! _he_ never 
smiles--he reminds one of Irving's wall eyed horse looking out of the 
stable window on a rainy day. His look is disconsolate in the extreme; 
from the imperturbable gravity of his manners, you perceive he is dead 
to hope; melancholy has marked him for her own; bad feeding, constant 
toil, and a lost currycomb, have made him "what thou well may'st 
hate," although he once "set down" as "shapely a shank" as Burns' Auld 
mare Maggie ever did. Do you see that long legged fellow, that 
Brobdignag, mounted upon the little mare mule? His legs almost drag 
the ground, and he ought in justice to _toat_ (aye, sir, _toat_, a 
good word, an excellent word, and one upon which I mean to send you an 
etymological essay some of these days,) the animal he bestrides. There 
are some singular traits about that mule _Golliver_, as the boys by a 
singular misnomer call her. She keeps fat "while other nags are poor;" 
it is because she lives in the corn-field. She can open the 
stable-door by some inscrutable means, some sort of open sessame; 
gates are no impediments to her, and even ten rails and a rider cannot 
arrest her progress. She seems to have a vow upon her never to leave 
the plantation; she will go as far as the outer gate with her rider, 
but if he attempt to pass that boundary his fate is sealed. He is 
canted most unceremoniously over her head and made to bite the dust; 
that gate is her _ultima Thule_; her ne plus ultra; the utmost bound 
of her ambition. She has acquaintances enough, as Old Oliver says, and 
wishes not to extend the circle. Her policy is Chinese, or perhaps 
like Rasselas, she once escaped from her happy valley and was 
disappointed in the world--"_one fatal remembrance_" perhaps casts its 
"bleak shade" beyond that gate.--I know not in sooth, but heaven help 
me! what am I doing? If I go on thus, with the whole _stud_ of my 
neighbor, and write at large upon every thing which torments him, I 
shall never have done. Suffice it then, that I give you a hasty, 
panoramic sketch of what he has to encounter in his rides over his 
farm. See him mounted on his little switch tailed grey, which has the 
high sounding title of White Surrey, and whose tail is nearly cut off 
at the root by the crupper--the mane in most admired disorder, and 
fetlocks long and bushy. Now what does he behold? Barren 
fields--broken fences--gates unhinged--starving cattle--ragged 
sheep--and jades so galled that they make _him_ wince--hogs that eat 
their own pigs and devastate his crops--mares that sometimes cripple 
their own colts--cows on the contrary which have so much of the milk 
of _vaccine kindness_, that they suffer their offspring to suck after 
being broken to the cart--bulls even, that suck--rams, so pugnacious, 
that they butt his mules down, as the aforesaid Gulliver can attest, 
for often have I seen her knocked down as fast as she could rise--upon 
my life it's true, Mr. Editor, and you need not add with Major 
Longbow, what will you lay it's a lie? It was amusing to see the ram, 
with head erect and fixed eye, moving round in a small circle and 
watching his opportunity to plant his blows, with all the pugilistic 
dexterity of Crib or Molyneux. I once knew my unfortunate neighbor to 
have a fine blooded colt, foaled in the pasture with his mules. These 
vicious devils had no sooner perceived that the colt was without those 
long ears which characterize their species, than they set to work with 
one accord to demolish the _monstrous_ production, and in spite of all 
the efforts of the mother, which fought with a desperation worthy of 
some old Roman, beset by a host of foes, succeeded in trampling to 
death her beautiful offspring. What a picture this is of some 
political zealots and envenomed critics, who no sooner perceive that a 
man has not _asses ears_, like themselves, than they commence a 
senseless outcry against him and compass his destruction. I have 
somewhere read of a madman, and perhaps he was right, who, when 
confined, protested he was not mad; that all mankind were madder than 
he, and that they were envious of his superior intellect and therefore 
wished to put him out of the way. Castellanus goes to ride out with 
Cecilia, Camilla, the {157} Children of the Abbey, or some such book 
in his pocket, and so engrossed is his mind with the elegance and 
refinement of those personages, that he can scarcely bear to go where 
his overseer is. He shuns him as much as Lovel did Captain Mirvan, or 
old Mr. Delville Mr. Briggs. He turns with horror from the pictures of 
desolation and mismanagement around him, and hastens home to find 
consolation in the bosom of his heroines, not of his Peggy, for he 
cannot yet say "_Non clamosa mea mulier jam percutit aures_"[1]--and 
in truth that virtuous lady has a tongue, and with it can ring such a 
peal about the above mentioned unproductive state of things, that he 
had rather hear the "grating on a scrannel-reed of wretched 
straw;"--or, to be less poetical, and to come back to what he hears 
every day, he had rather listen to the music of his own cart-wheels, 
which grate so harshly and scream so loudly that they may be heard a 
mile off. The inevitable result of all I have told you, Mr. Editor, 
is, that my neighbor is actually sinking three or four per cent. upon 
his capital every year, and must come to beggary unless you can arouse 
him from his ridiculous castle-building and novel reading. I wish you 
could see the style in which he moves with his _cara sposa_ to church; 
they have _come down_, as we say, to an old gig, which cannot be quite 
as old as Noah's ark, because no two of the kind were ever seen in 
this world, and therefore could not have been preserved at the time of 
the Deluge, although the brass mountings on the muddy and 
rain-stiffened harness are of so antique a fashion, that we might well 
suppose the ingenuity of that celebrated artificer in brass, Tubal 
Cain, was employed in their construction. This crazy vehicle is drawn 
by the overseer's horse, which is borrowed for the "nonce,"--because 
neither Buck-e-fallus nor Smiler, nor any of the stud are _fit to go_, 
and Gulliver, besides being a mule, has declined, as I have already 
shewn, having any thing to do with our "external relations;" and 
furthermore, because this is the only conceivable mode in which my 
neighbor can obtain a return for that unlimited control which the said 
horse exercises over the corn in his corn-house. The contrast between 
the long lean figure, and rueful and cadaverous countenance of 
Castellanus, and the short figure resembling "_the fat squab upon a 
Chinese fan_," and the ruddy countenance of Mrs. Castellanus, is very 
striking;

  They sit, side by side, in the gig, sir, as solemn
  As Marriage and Death in a newspaper column.

How they ever came together, except by the fortuitous concourse of 
atoms, I cannot divine, for certainly without disrespect, I may say, 
that however charming Mrs. Castellanus may be, she is not

  A beauty ripe as harvest,
  Whose skin is whiter than a swan all over,
  Than silver, snow, or lilies--

nor has she

          --------------------a soft lip
  Would tempt you to eternity of kissing,
  And flesh that melteth in the touch to blood.

But we may cease to wonder at their union, when we reflect on the 
couples we see every day,--so totally dissimilar in taste and external 
appearance, that we may almost believe with St. Pierre that we love 
only those who form a contrast to ourselves. "Love," he says, "results 
only from contrasts, and the greater they are, the more powerful is 
its energy. I could easily demonstrate this by the evidence of a 
thousand historical facts. It is well known, for example, to what mad 
excess of passion that tall and clumsy soldier, Mark Anthony, loved 
and was beloved by Cleopatra; not the person whom our sculptors 
represent of a tall, portly, Sabine figure, but the Cleopatra whom 
historians paint as little, lively and sprightly, carried in disguise 
about the streets of Alexandria, in the night time, packed up in a 
parcel of goods on the shoulders of Apollodorus, to keep an 
assignation with Julius Cæsar."

                                                         NUGATOR.

[Footnote 1: Nay, what's incredible, alack!
             I hardly hear a woman's clack.--_Swift_.]




SONG.


  This is _no_ "dark and dreary world,"
    'Tis full of life and beauty--
  Yet not to him, all "primrose path"
    Who's in the way of duty--
  And yet, to cheer him on the road,
    The way-side flower is springing,
  While to the charms of Nature's day
    The wild-bird's sweetly singing.
  There is a bliss in Virtue's path
    Above all sensual thinking--
  Would he might prove it, he who hath
    "Joy"--_Is_ there "_joy_ in drinking?"

  Believe it not--for who hath wo?
    Oh, who hath saddest "sorrow?"
  "Contentions," "wounds," night-revels show,
    That blush to face the morrow.
  "The wine is red," but "look not thou
    Upon it;" false and glowing,
  "'Twill sting thee like a serpent's tooth,"
    While brightly it is flowing.
  Eschew the joys of sense; they are
    Unto my _sober_ thinking,
  But glozing o'er the black despair,
    The deep, deep _wo_ of drinking.

  Look ye around where frowns "the curse"--
    'Tis but disguised blessing;
  The heart that trusts the living God,
    Feels not its "doom" oppressing.
  Thine, thine the heart, and thine the doom,
    When done this earth's probation,
  To realms of endless light and joy
    A sure and bright translation.
  Yet, e'en "the light that's now in thee,"
    (Ah! 'tis no idle thinking,)
  Will darken'd by "a demon" be,
    If thou hast "joy in drinking."

M. M.




LINES

To Miss M----t W----s, of P. Edward.


    From her own garden Nature chose,
    In all its blooming pride the Rose,
      And from the feathered race the Dove:
    Then Margaret, on thy cheek she threw
    The blushing flower's most beauteous hue,
  And formed thy temper from the bird of love!

    Oh! what delight it is to trace
    The modest sweetness of thy face--
      Thy simple elegance and ease--
    Thy smile, disclosing orient pearl--
    Thy locks, profuse of many a curl--
  And hear thy gentle voice, that _never_ fails to please!


{158}


LIBERIAN LITERATURE.


We are perfectly serious in speaking of _Liberian Literature_. Yes--in 
Liberia, a province on the coast of Africa, where, thirteen years and 
a half ago, the tangled and pathless forest frowned in a silence 
unbroken save by the roar of wild beasts, the fury of the tornado, the 
whoop of the man-stealer, or the agonizing shrieks of his victims on 
being torn from their homes to brave the horrors of the Middle Passage 
and of the West Indies--in Liberia, the English language is now 
spoken; the English spirit is breathed; English Literature exists; and 
with it, exist those comforts, virtues, and pleasures, which the 
existence of Literature necessarily implies. 
Plantations--farm-houses--villages, built of brick, stone, and 
wood--glass windows, carpeted floors, papered walls, and neat if not 
elegant furniture--well-supplied tables--stores, filled with various 
merchandize--churches, where neatly dressed throngs devoutly send up 
the note of praise--bands of infantry and artillery, properly 
organized, armed, and trained--schools, in which hundreds are inducted 
into the pleasant pathway of knowledge--and (the most expressive sign 
of all) a NEWSPAPER, filled with instructive and entertaining 
matter--all these, amid an industrious and thriving population of 
three or four thousand, have taken place of the savage forest and its 
unlovely concomitants. What heightens--indeed what _constitutes_ the 
wonder--is, that the main _operatives_ in this great change are _not 
white men_. The printer and the editor of the newspaper--the 
merchants--most of the teachers and all the pupils--the owners and 
cultivators of the farms--the officers and soldiers in the military 
companies--the throng in the churches--are all _colored people_, 
except some score of whites, whom the climate, generally fatal to 
white men, spares yet awhile, as if in gratitude for their 
benefactions to Africa.

What we especially had in view, however, when we began this article, 
was neither rhapsody nor dissertation upon the march of Liberia to 
prosperity and civilization--unparalleled as that march is, in the 
annals of colonization--but a notice (a _critical notice_, if the 
reader please) of the aforesaid newspaper; by way of _instancing_ the 
literary condition of the settlement. Cowper calls a newspaper, "a map 
of busy life--its fluctuations, and its vast concerns:" and indeed we 
can imagine no surer index to the moral and intellectual character of 
a people, than the 'folio of four pages,' which periodically ministers 
to, and constantly takes its tone from, their prevailing tastes, 
tempers, and opinions.--We have before us half a dozen numbers of the 
"LIBERIA HERALD;" coming down to No. 4, of the sixth volume, dated 
October 31, 1835, whence we learn that it has existed for more than 
five years. It is printed on a sheet as large as many of our village 
papers, and larger than several which we occasionally see.

Its contents (considering where, and by whom they are selected, 
composed, and printed) are in the highest degree curious and 
interesting.

The _shipping list_ for August, exhibits eleven arrivals, and six 
departures--that for April, five arrivals, and three departures--for 
February, 1835, six arrivals, and four departures--for October, three 
arrivals, and two departures. In the August number, are four distinct 
paragraphs, each mentioning a ship arrived with emigrants to the 
colony.

A striking feature in the Herald, is the great quantity of original 
matter which it contains--either editorial, or communicated. The 
number whence the above quotation is made, has four columns of 
editorial articles; and three sensible communications from 
correspondents--one of them detailing the murderous attack of the 
natives, in June last, upon the new settlement at Edina. Another tells 
of an excursion, on which we dare say it will please our readers to 
accompany the "peregrinator." If he does twaddle, he twaddles to the 
full as agreeably as many correspondents of American newspapers, and 
more usefully.


"_For the Liberia Herald_.

"Mr. Editor: I was induced, a few days since, by special invitation, 
to visit Caldwell. The occasion was one of the most honorable: the 
interchange of conjugal vows; the celebration of the nuptials of a 
couple, who conscious of mutual affection, made their offering at the 
hymeneal altar. The ceremonies were performed at 7 o'clock, P.M.; 
after which, the company (small but agreeable) enjoyed the flow of 
soul and social innocent merriment, until 9, when the happy pair 
returned, and the company dispersed. I repaired to Mr. Snetter's 
quarters, where I obtained lodging, comfortable in itself, but 
rendered much more so, by his peculiarly agreable manners. After 
breakfast, on the ensuing day, we peregrinated the settlement. Mr. 
Jameison's farm particularly attracted my attention. The quantity of 
land he has under cultivation, as also the advanced state of the 
produce, equally excited astonishment. He has potatoes, cassada, 
beans, peas, and rice, &c., growing with a luxuriance that I never 
before witnessed in this country. The cultivation of the latter 
article has not been much attended to, until lately; its culture has 
been supposed to be attended with so much difficulty and labor, as to 
deter from the attempt. The apprehension however, was groundless, and 
the perseverance of Messrs. Palm and Nixon, has given us evidence, in 
the most extensive field of rice ever before cultivated in this 
country, that the difficulties are such only as attend every 
experiment where there is the want of resolution to undertake it. The 
settlement of Caldwell is assuming the feature of a regular, farming 
village. The Agency Farm under the management of Mr. Snetter, is in 
forward condition.

                           Yours, &c.        L. R. J."


But the greatest curiosity in this August number, is a _critique_ upon 
Miss Fanny Kemble's Journal. Yes, reader--think of Mrs. Butler, and 
all the "terrifying exactions" of her redoubtable book, subjected, on 
the very margin of Guinea, to the criticism of an African Editor, who 
treats her as unceremoniously, if not as justly, as any critics on 
this side of the Atlantic, or on the north side of the Mediterranean. 
Imagine him in his elbow chair at Monrovia, his broad nose dilating 
and his thick lips swelling with conscious dignity, while he thus 
passes judgment upon one who perhaps would hardly suffer him to clean 
her shoes. The errors of spelling and syntax (the unsexing of the 
authoress included) are doubtless attributable to the printer: but 
there are some queer expressions, which seem the editor's own, and 
which are rather characteristic of African magniloquence.


"_Francis Ann Butler_.--To the politeness of the supercargo of the 
Brig Eliza, we have been indebted for a peep at the Journal of Miss 
Kemble, or as announced by the title page, _Francis Ann Butler_. From 
the celebrity of the tourist, we had anticipated much; but a perusal 
of the book treated us to a most vexatious disappointment. On the 
literary merit of the work, we do not feel ourselves competent to 
decide. But as it is an immunity allowed ignorance, to admire where it 
cannot comprehend, we avail ourselves of the privilege, and put in our 
share of admiration at the bold and beautiful figures which adorn the 
pages; such as 'Miniature Hell:' 'ghastly smiles of the Devil;' 'Blue 
Devils,' &c. These are certainly beauties of which we had no 
conceptions, until we got hold of the work. We may be allowed to say, 
as we pass, that they are not {159} exactly in unison with that soft 
and tender delicacy, of which our imagination had composed the fair 
sex, of the higher order. We regret much that the work is not 
accompanied by a Lexicon, adapted to the style. The want of one has 
deprived us of much gratification; as doubtless the excellences of the 
work is locked up in such words as 'daudle,' 'twaddle,' &c., which are 
to us 'daudles' indeed, or in plain English, unexplorable regions. 
Such works may be of utility in communities, where there is sufficient 
discrimination to separate the little grain from the redundancy of 
chaff, without being chocked [choked] by it, but we can see no earthly 
advantage to us in reading them.

"We will venture to say, however, that if the notes are by the same 
hand, the authoress possesses a pretty considerable share of what may 
be called sound discriminating judgment on some particulars."


One number of the Herald contains some very sensible observations 
(editorial) upon the "_Relations between France and the United 
States_;" in which the probability of war is spoken of, and its 
occurrence earnestly deprecated. The danger from it, to Liberia, is 
considered: fears having been entertained by some, lest France might 
involve that colony, as she once did the British settlement at 
Freetown, in her quarrel with the mother country.


"The case, however," says the editor, "is not exactly parallel: 
Freetown and the whole colony of Sierra Leone, ever since their 
establishment, have been under the British flag, and as such, 
considered a member of the British empire--and therefore, its 
destruction, it might be argued, was perfectly in unison with the 
established principles of war. Ours is an experiment for political 
existence;--having a distinct and peculiar flag, owing allegiance to 
no government, but to that which is represented by the flag that 
floats over Liberia.

"We recollect having read, that at the time the great Navigator 
Captain Cook, was on his voyage of discovery, war broke out between 
England and France, and it was requested that Capt. Cook, should the 
enemy fall in with him, be allowed an unmolested passage. The French 
king replied, that he warred not on science, nor with the principles 
of humanity; and that an expedition undertaken for the benefit of all, 
should never meet obstruction from the flag of France."


A paragraph in the same number, announcing the organization of a Court 
of Appeals, with appellate jurisdiction in cases where the sum in 
dispute exceeds $100, expresses the orthodox republican sentiment, 
that "Laws are made for the benefit of the poor, as well as the rich; 
and in legislating, the former should be more especially kept in 
view."

And in the next column is mentioned the establishment, at Caldwell, of 
a FIFTH _Baptist Church_ in the Colony.

Another number states important and cheering facts in regard to the 
progress of TEMPERANCE. _Five hundred and three persons had signed the 
pledge of total abstinence from the use or sale of spirits, in the 
space of one month._


"So great an influence have these Societies exerted upon the community 
at large, that a sight of the liquid death has become rare.

"To Liberia's honor be it _trumped_, that for _ten_ gallons sold in 
the Colony four months back, there is not _one_ now. There are a few 
that advocate the cause of alcohol; but they cannot support their 
opposition long. Public opinion is issuing her imperious edicts, and 
every opposer will soon be awed into silence."


From the October number we extract the following item.


"_Sabbath School_.--On Sunday the 19th instant, a Sabbath School was 
opened in the Second Baptist Chapel: 33 children and 3 adults 
presented themselves, and had their names registered as scholars. 
Suitable books, such as would enable us to arrange the children in 
classes, are very much wanting. As it is, each having a different 
book, we are obliged to hear them singly, which makes it extremely 
laborious, and precludes the possibility of more than one lesson each, 
during the hours of school."


We would gladly copy a perspicuous and rational account which is given 
in several chapters, of the _climate_ and _seasons of Africa_, the 
_soil of Liberia_, and the _method of clearing lands_; besides many 
other sensible and interesting articles, which say a great deal for 
the editor, correspondents, and readers, of the Herald: but we have so 
far exceeded the space we had allotted for this subject, that we must 
here close our remarks.

No one can read the Liberia Herald, without not only wonder, that so 
much intellect should emanate from such a source, but the strongest 
persuasion, that a colony, which in so brief a time has given such 
striking evidences of advancement in whatever distinguishes civilized 
from savage man, _must succeed_.




GIBBON AND FOX.


Gibbon, the historian, was at one time a zealous partizan of Charles 
Fox. No man denounced Mr. Pitt with a keener sarcasm, or more bitter 
malignity. But he had his price. A lucrative office won him over to 
the ministry. A week before his appointment he had said in Mr. Fox's 
presence, "that public indignation should not be appeased, until the 
heads of at least six of the ministers were laid on the table of the 
House of Commons."

This fact is found stated in the hand writing of Mr. Fox, on a blank 
leaf of a copy of Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire, which was purchased after Mr. F's death, at a sale of 
his effects. The anecdote is followed by these lines, also in Mr. F's 
hand writing.

    King George, in a fright,
    Lest Gibbon should write
  The story of Britain's disgrace,
    Thought no means so sure
    His pen to secure,
  As to give the Historian a place.

    But the caution was vain--
    'Tis the curse of his reign,
  That his projects should never succeed.
    Though he write not a line,
    Yet a cause of decline
  In the Author's example we read.

    His book well describes
    How corruption and bribes
  Overthrew the great Empire of Rome;
    And his writings declare
    A degeneracy there
  Which his conduct exhibits at home.




STATIUS.


In Statius' Poem on the Via Domitiana, are these lines.

  Qui primo Tiberim reliquit ortu,
  Primo vespere navigat Lucrinum--

making a distance of one hundred and twenty-seven miles commonly 
travelled by the Romans in one day.


{160}


LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAPTER VIII.

  ----The yews project their shade; the green
  Spreads her soft lap; the waters whisper sleep:
  Here thou mayest rest secure.

                               _Vacuna, by Sneyd Davies_.


Leaving with speed the painful spectacle of my wounded friend, I fled 
into the close and matted undergrowth of the forest, and pausing for a 
moment to deliberate, I resolved to return to Chalgrave, and brave the 
remote risk of a criminal prosecution for an offence which juries 
tolerate with mercy, and courts with connivance. I was willing to 
trust to that deep-seated public opinion which enacts laws through one 
principle, and controls their execution from another; and from whose 
opiate breath the grim repose of the duelling law has never awakened. 
I passed through many of the classic paths of the old college, and 
suddenly diverging from the view of its rude and grotesque steeple, 
advanced into the broad road. I had not walked far before I perceived 
that I was pursued. Reasoning upon the principle that retreat is more 
or less allied to meanness, I soon found the hand of my pursuer firmly 
fixed on my shoulder, while he said, with a stern voice, "Mr. Granby, 
you are my prisoner! I arrest you in the name of the Commonwealth."

The powerful and iron grasp which was rivetted to my shoulder, 
declared the utter folly of resistance. Through the fading twilight I 
could discern the form of a roughly-built, and the countenance of a 
brave man; while the odd mixture of his apparel, coarse boots and a 
gaudy watch-chain, white ruffles and broad plated buttons, told the 
brief history of many a struggling argument between his purse and 
gentility.

"Release me," said I, "and this (showing a purse, through the net-work 
of which a golden sea leaped up to the eye,) shall be your reward."

"Mr. Granby," he replied, throwing his hand suddenly from me, as if a 
serpent had stung him, "we are now equal. I will teach you that I am 
as far above dishonor as you are. Put up your purse, for I solemnly 
swear that you shall not leave this spot until you have satisfied me 
for your gross and ungenerous insult. Take this pistol--I have 
another; either make an apology or fight. I will measure the distance, 
and you may give the word."

I was struck at once by the innate honor and Virginian feeling of the 
man; and throwing the pistol aside, I tendered him my hand, expressing 
at the same time my regret in having acted so indiscreetly.

"Why do you arrest me?" continued I. "It was an open duel, and Mr. 
Ludwell is not dead."

"Is that then the case?" he replied. "Will you pledge me your honor 
that such is the truth? I was told that it was an unfair duel, and I 
have put myself to great inconvenience to arrest you."

I gave the pledge required, and I was immediately released from the 
grasp of the Commonwealth; her chivalric man of law professing himself 
satisfied of my innocence, complimenting me on being a gentleman, and 
wishing me good night with a profound and dignified bow. I was in no 
humor to moralize on this singular scene; yet I could not forbear to 
smile at this strangest of all paradoxes--that he who was prepared to 
enforce the duelling law, should be so far elevated above its vulgar 
penalty, that he could at pleasure either neutralize its severity, or 
trample on its express ordinances, lending a credulous heart to the 
dreamy nonsense of chivalry, and a deaf ear to the trumpet-tongued 
voice of _Be it enacted_. Such is public opinion, and such are laws; 
when in conflict, a Mezentian union--when acting in harmony, the 
firmest and most durable base for the fabric of government.

Pursuing my course, I fortunately encountered Scipio, who was going to 
the college with his accustomed budget of letters, and dismounting 
him, with orders to go and attend the sick couch of Arthur, I took his 
horse, and rode rapidly on to Chalgrave. The night wore sullenly and 
gloomily away, and ere morning, one of those fast, yet light 
snow-storms, which rush on with a momentary though softened 
fierceness, had thrown a spotless mantle around the trees, the hills 
and plains of Virginia. I passed two or three of our negroes on the 
skirts of the plantation, standing with slouched hats and folded arms, 
like so many statues of ebony on a marble floor. 'Tis then that 
melancholy spreads its deepest gloom over a Virginian farm--a solitude 
fearful, still, and echoless--while all nature bows to its stern 
influence. The cattle are gathered to the _farm-pen_, to ruminate over 
a rasping _shuck_, or a marrowless corn-stalk. From a pool in the 
stable yard, a dense and curling vapor overshadows a motley group of 
ducks and geese, who are quarrelling and floundering in undisputed 
possession of their odorous empire; while the lengthened face of the 
prisoned plough-horse takes a more pallid hue from the sympathy of 
melancholy, and is protruded on the scene like that eternal spectre of 
death which is ever flitting athwart the path of life. Within the 
house there is a confused hurrying to and fro of menials in search of 
wood, carpets, and rugs, while the mistress fairly frets herself into 
philosophy amid the snow, mud, and her own contradictory orders. A 
glance from the window will disclose a crowd of negroes collected 
around the wood-yard, waiting to carry the logs cut by one, who with a 
heavy whirl of his ponderous axe, and a loud moan, scatters his 
wounded chips at every stroke. He is then on the crest of the highest 
wave of vanity, and will ever and anon rest his axe to tell of the 
broad _clearings_ which have opened beneath his giant arm. I looked on 
this quiet and familiar scene with an aching eye and a throbbing 
heart; yet I was soothed into peace by that witching spell which 
spreads its empire from "Indus to the Pole." It was _home_--that spot 
over whose fairy circle my heart, like the gnomon, had dialled all its 
sunlit hours of joy and happiness; and in the gushing memory of 
childhood's romance, I almost forgot that the stain of blood was on my 
hands.

I did not disturb the family until they were seated at breakfast; and 
in reply to my mother's inquiries concerning Arthur's health, I 
hesitated not to relate to her the whole detail of the tragic meeting. 
Lucy entered the room ere I had finished my sad narrative, and 
catching the truth of my tale, suddenly stared at me with a full and 
lustreless eye, and looking up for a moment, fell with an hysteric 
shriek on the floor. My mother's stern pride subdued her swelling 
feelings, and rising from her seat, with a starting tear in her eye, 
she led Lucy from the room. Frederick remained cold and unmoved, 
throwing his fork into his plate, and playing {161} with his tea-spoon 
with an air of frigid indifference. My uncle alone advanced to me, and 
seizing my hand, exclaimed in a generous though quivering voice, "_I_ 
will not forsake you, my dear boy! You have been indiscreet and 
passionate, but your honor is untainted! I knew that you could not 
wilfully kill Arthur. Come with me; an express shall be sent to the 
college instantly. The odds are greatly in favor of his recovery. I 
have in the library a table of fifty duels, prepared by my pen, and 
strengthened by my experience. Out of that number but four were 
killed, and ten wounded. There is only one bad sign in the whole 
affair, and that is the fact that Arthur fell too soon. I have known 
many a man carry two balls in his body before he would droop. No 
wadding entered his body, for my pistols do not bear it; and you may 
hope for the best."

My uncle's plan of sending an express to the college was approved by 
the whole family, and in a short time the house re-echoed to repeated 
calls for the ostler. He soon made his appearance, and in reply to my 
mother's directions, he gave the usual stable diary of a Virginian 
farm.

"Why, ma'am, there is not a horse on the land fit to ride. Mass 
Charles sent the mare out of the county on yesterday to Col. C.'s for 
a pointer puppy, and as the boy did not come back in time, he has sent 
another on the black horse to look for him. The chariot horses Mass 
Charles sent to the court house, with a barrel of cider royal to Capt. 
R.; and Miss Lucy's pony has not got a shoe to his foot."

"Where is the overseer?" said my mother, who was too much accustomed 
to scenes of this character to lose any of the calmness of her temper.

"Oh, he went to the warrant-trying yesterday evening to dispute the 
blacksmith's account; and I heard him say that he would stay at the 
shop till he could have the beards of two of Mass Charles' Levier 
fishing hooks altered. Now, if mistress must send, I will get one of 
the blooded plough-horses, and he will make out as well as any."

This ready auxiliary of a Virginian hurry was necessarily adopted; and 
in a short time the old servant, encased in a pair of ponderous boots, 
enveloped in an overcoat which fitted him like a shroud, and mounted 
on a plough-horse--the gaunt anatomy of poverty--wended his way to 
fulfil a mission of charity and repentance.

The return of the messenger brought the agreeable tidings of Arthur's 
convalescence; and when, at the expiration of a week, Scipio delivered 
me a letter from Arthur, full of undiminished friendship, the spirits 
of our whole household rose to unusual elevation. They were satisfied 
that he was now secure from every burst of my dangerous temper; and 
when I told them that I was guiltless of his blood, I found my 
recompense in the blush of mingled pride and gratitude which mantled 
over the cheek of Lucy. My misfortune, in humbling my pride, had the 
happy effect of silencing that "fearful felicity" of elocution (as Sir 
Philip Sidney terms it) which made my uncle the zealous annalist of 
duels, pistols, chivalry, and arrangements.

How naturally does the heart, when oppressed by disease, or humbled by 
misfortune, turn, like the wounded deer, to the silent refuge of 
solitude--invoking, under its peaceful shade, that balm of 
life--woman's love--that rare medicinal, which pours its rosy health 
into the wounds of manhood's fretted existence. Ambition--the quick 
pulse of bloated avarice--the rotten pageantry of the world--and the 
fret and faction of life, may for a while lure us from its sacred 
altar; yet in our moments of despair, we turn to its holy shrine with 
renewed devotion, and ever find its radiance, like the brightness of 
the tropic-lights, flitting its steady blaze around the darkness of 
our destiny. I was so deeply cursed by temper, and depraved by its 
exercise, that the love which commonly cheats us into happiness, or 
obliterates ennui, brought no relief to my lacerated spirit. Romance 
no longer culled its flattering trophies from the memory of Isa 
Gordon. I looked on her as one who was too proud to bow to my despotic 
love, while I had gained by absence from her at college a spirit of 
freedom and independence. She was my _first love_; and, despite the 
dictates of common sense, I was almost compelled to believe that such 
love was of the purest and firmest character, merely because I had 
fallen into it in the ignorance and inexperience of boyhood. What a 
paradox! and how fondly does stupidity cherish it! The boy's heart is 
a tablet on which is shadowed the outline of an April day--a gorgeous 
sunshine plays around his imagination, and the fleeting clouds which 
disturb it, never dim the horizon before him. He loves from nature--he 
is ever a poligamist--and mistakes the fervor of passion for the truth 
of love; while his youth, which cures every disease, soon cicatrizes 
the wound of despised affection. 'Tis manhood's destiny to writhe 
under the slow and searching poison of unrequited constancy. He lays 
all the powers of his heart, mind, and education, at the foot of 
woman; and the blow which prostrates him, shakes to its base a granite 
fabric. He knows the value of the priceless feeling which he offers, 
and demands in return a heart which must make him the god of its 
idolatry. I was egotistical and selfish in my reasoning; yet that very 
reasoning, in teaching me to forget Isa Gordon, made my heart loiter 
with a holy enthusiasm around the memory of Ellen Pilton. She had 
written to me in a style of affectionate and confiding attachment; and 
though I did not answer her letters, she still continued to write, and 
wondered why I did not receive them. No dream of my treachery ever 
entered her guileless heart, and she knew not that her letters were 
the harvest of my revenge. Suddenly I ceased to hear from her, and I 
then found that the darkest passion of our nature loses its poisoned 
fang when struck by the magic wand of love. Could I forget her purity 
and gentleness of character--the impassioned tenderness with which she 
had entrusted the destiny of her life--the aspirations of her 
untainted youth--and all the faith and fervor of her virgin 
innocence--to whom? to one who had gained this unique gem, as the 
plaything of a fiend.

Stimulated by jealousy, and prompted by a desire to satisfy myself of 
Ellen's truth, I resolved to visit a college friend who lived in the 
immediate vicinity of her father's residence, and there patiently wait 
until I might have an opportunity of seeing her. My uncle was my 
confidant; and when I entered his room for the purpose of disclosing 
my intentions, I found him seated as usual amid a crowd of antique 
volumes, while his eyes were keenly gloating over the original-brained 
tittle-tattle of "Howel's Letters." His large centre table displayed a 
motley mixture of the stable, chase, and library. On a copy of the 
_Divine Legation_ lay a {162} curb-bit. The _Castle of Indolence_ was 
crowded into an old-fashioned stirrup. A dog collar belonging to one 
of King Charles' breed, surmounted _Clarendon_. Two broken 
throat-lashes were placed on _State Trials_, and a pair of spurs had 
worked their rowels deep into the binding of _Stith's History of 
Virginia_. The _Defence of Poesy_, _Rhymer's Foedera_, _Fuller's Holy 
State_, _Catullus_, and _Tom Jones_, were tied together with a bridle 
rein; while a full record (_tested_ by the clerk of the council, and 
dated July 9th, 1630,) of the trial of Doctor John Pott, late Governor 
of Virginia, for cattle stealing, spread its broad pages over the 
whole table. I caught a glimpse of a long and copious commentary which 
my uncle had written at the foot of it, in which he had proved the 
innocence of the Ex-Governor, and the perjury of Kingsmell, the 
principal witness, whom as the record narrates, "Doctor Pott 
endeavored to prove an hypocrite by a story of Gusman of Alfrach the 
rogue."

I soon declared the purpose of my visit, and that I was determined to 
see Ellen Pilton.

"I do not like her name," said my uncle; "it would have a plebeian 
sound in any part of the world; yet her mother bore a proud title, and 
as she loves you, do not act dishonorably. I take it for granted that 
she loves you merely because you affirm it, but you may rest assured 
that she will yet make a goose of you. Coquetry--arrant coquetry, is 
the business, the pursuit, the occupation of woman's life. They learn 
its treacheries when they dress their first doll; its edge is 
sharpened by every lover; and many a belle who dies in early glory, 
coquettes with the priest who shrives her. Venus commenced its 
practice the moment she was born; and though untaught in its 
mysteries, she laughingly bid the Tritons to look some other way. 
Horace reads us many a fine truth about it, and Tibullus and 
Propertius tell in trembling lines of the fascinations of that female 
garb which was brought from the Coian Isle. Our Virginian girls have a 
prescriptive right to all its prerogatives. Oh, there was rare 
coquetry when that gentle ship landed its blushing freight at 
Jamestown! Old "_Dust and Ashes_,"[1] that fast friend of the colony, 
and he who stole this title from a sexton, that under its shade he 
might nobly endow a _free school_ in Virginia, made their invoice in a 
gay doublet, and copied the bill of lading with a smile on his 
care-worn cheek, and a fresh posy in his bosom. Our proud ancestor, 
Sir Eyre Granby, was present when they landed, and saw them leaping 
and gambolling about the shore like young minnows in a mountain 
stream. One fair girl, with a dove-like face and a sparkling eye, gave 
Sir Eyre a silver tobacco pipe, which she had brought from home for 
the stranger who should most interest her maiden heart. Alas! he was a 
married man; and all he could do was to kiss her hand and give her a 
bunch of flowers. The anxious bachelors who found a wife on that day, 
imitated his example; and to this hour, Virginia's maidens ask no 
better declaration of love than this silly compliment. Take care, my 
dear boy, of their hands; do not look at their rings; and let the 
flowers grow where God planted them. If they should be sick, do not 
show too much tenderness. I have known coquetry assume every type of 
fierce fever and pining atrophy; and remember, that the last dyke in 
the fortress of coquetry, is the coral cheek of consumption. Go, and 
learn from experience, and may Cupid prosper you."

[Footnote 1: "Mr. Nathaniel Barber, the chief manager and book-keeper 
of the Company's lotteries." _Stith_ 216. Even at that dark period 
public education though a puling was a lusty child--'tis _now_ a paper 
mummy.]

Early on the next morning I left Chalgrave; and finding the outer gate 
of the plantation closely barred with fence rails, I was about to 
dismount and open it, when my old nurse made her appearance, 
exclaiming, "Let it alone, Mass Lionel; I barred it--for I did not 
want you to go from home to-day till I could see you. Bad luck is 
hanging over our family. Is not this the seventh day of the 
month?--the day on which your stout old grandfather died, and on which 
your father sickened unto death. Did I not last night gather the wild 
hemlock from his grave; and with a lock of his hair, and a piece of 
the caul which covered your baby face, try seven times the charm which 
an Obi man taught my mother? Oh! it was a dreadful sight; I saw you 
mangled and wounded, and your white hand was red with blood. I heard 
an owl shriek seven times on the wall of our graveyard; it flew in at 
my window, put out my light, and left me in darkness. Do not go away 
now."

"Do you still take me for a child? I must go; farewell, dear mammy."

"Oh! call me dear mammy once more," she replied, "and let me kiss you 
for the last time."

I granted her request, and rode rapidly away, while I vainly 
endeavored to keep down the fear and superstition with which her 
narrative had filled my bosom. My journey was long and tedious, and 
ere night I had lost myself in the mazes and tortuous paths of a 
forest road. On every side I was met by gates, drawbars, and 
_gaps_--the necessary appendages in the economy of Virginian 
idleness,--and wandered about until I was finally fairly lost in a 
broad thicket of luxuriant myrtle. Trusting to the sagacity of my 
horse, he brought me into an open road, at the extremity of which a 
feeble light caught my eye. Advancing to it, I found a crowd of 
negroes gathered in a cabin, and dancing with that joyous flush of 
elastic carelessness which a negro only feels, to the music of a 
banjo, triangle, and squirrel-skin fiddle. All of them offered to show 
me the way, and each invariably decreased the distance in proportion 
to the anxiety which my inquiries expressed. I took the direction 
which I had thus received, and late at night I passed by an 
old-fashioned house, from a lower window of which shot a feeble and 
fluttering light. Here I met a negro who informed me that I was on the 
Pilton plantation--that the mansion-house was before me--that he was 
the best axe-man on the land--that his Mass Edmund had just come home 
on a fine horse--and that Miss Ellen was sick and poorly. A pang of 
remorse passed through my bosom; and reckless of every principle of 
honor, I determined to approach nearer to the house, and gaze, like 
the pilgrim, on that shrine which held the worshipped idol of my 
heart. Riding rapidly away from the negro, I suddenly turned my 
course, and dismounting from my horse, leaped over the garden wall. 
Cautiously threading my path through tangled shrubbery, leafless 
rosebushes, and crooked hedges, I quickly turned, as the light from 
the house streamed before me, and looking {163} up to the window, I 
beheld the form of Ellen Pilton in an attitude which arrested my 
attention, and chained my footsteps to the earth. Her head was resting 
on her right hand, while in her left she held the fatal evergreen 
which had marked with tenderness our earliest acquaintance. A dark and 
fleecy cloud of long and luxuriant hair swept over her marbled brow. 
Her cheek was illuminated with a vermillion glow, like those bright 
colors which decorate the holiness of some antique missal, while the 
ardent gaze which she bestowed on this memorial of my treachery, 
mingled itself with the patient melancholy which disease had written 
on her face. I saw her weep like a child, as she replaced it in her 
bosom; and at that moment the giant voice of conscience rang through 
my heart, pealing the knell of my perfidy and duplicity. Chastened by 
contrition--humbled by the consciousness of my own falsehood--and 
elevated by this unerring indication of her singleness of heart, I 
felt the contagion of resistless sympathy, and on that silent spot I 
poured out the pure orisons of a love which had sprung from the 
blackest passion of my nature. I continued in a fixed posture for many 
moments, inebriated into utter forgetfulness of my flagrant violation 
of honor. A feeling of debasement came over me, and yielding to its 
influence, I turned away from the window. My position was no sooner 
changed, than I was met by Edmund Pilton,--his face almost touching my 
shoulder.

"Mr. Granby," said he, in a voice of stifled anger, "an 
eavesdropper!--a cowardly intruder on female privacy!--I wish him 
profit in his honorable profession, and may darkness ever hide his 
blush of shame."

I staggered back with fear and agitation; and for the only time in my 
life I felt as a coward. Nature had given me courage, and education 
had endowed me with that chivalry which feared only the shame of fear; 
yet that consciousness of disgrace which wrecks the proudest heart, 
left me the shuddering craven of its withering power.

"Mr. Pilton must excuse me," I replied; "I was endeavoring to find the 
way to--" here I half uttered a rising falsehood. "I will satisfy him 
at another time of my innocence--I must now retire."

"Certainly, sir," said he, "you may retire, and rest in the shade of 
your victorious laurels; but remember--" and here his hollow voice 
increased in volume, and quivered with passion, "that if ever you 
again approach my sister in any shape or form, I will put you to 
death, even in her hallowed presence. I refused your foolish 
challenge; but there is a point beyond which prudence loses all its 
virtues, and the next time I chastise you for an insult to a sister, 
your blood shall write the record. Neither darkness shall conceal, 
cowardice protect, nor lunacy excuse you!"

I might have been more humbled by my own sense of degradation, but the 
last word was a talisman which awoke into frenzy the demoniac hate 
which had long rioted in my bosom; and approaching nearer to Pilton, I 
leaped at him, and grasped his throat with the fierceness of the 
tiger. He was better built, more athletic, and stronger than myself, 
and in the struggle that ensued, I found myself fast wasting away; yet 
I could hear his short and strangled breath laboring under the iron 
grasp of my fingers. He now drew a small knife, and began to cut the 
hand which held his throat. I felt the warm blood trickling over its 
relaxed strength; and releasing my hold, I sunk upon the ground. He 
instantly fell upon me; and after a long and violent scuffle, I 
succeeded in rescuing myself. We were again on our feet, and I now had 
time to draw a small dirk from my bosom. He was ignorant that I was 
armed; and approaching him, as he leaned breathless and exhausted 
against a tree, I struck him with the weapon just below his shoulder. 
He gave one groan, and reeled to the earth. I was about to repeat the 
blow, when a piercing shriek burst upon my ear,--and Ellen Pilton fell 
upon the body of her prostrate brother.

"Oh, God!" she cried, "kill him not--spare him!--take my life! Is it 
you, Lionel?" she screamed, as she looked up and recognized my 
features--"and would _you_ murder my brother--you would not, dear 
Lionel."

I was silent.

"Go away--I loathe, I abhor, I hate you!"

Ere the first light of day had kissed the tranquil waters of the 
Chesapeake, my jaded horse was browzing on the fertile meadows of the 
Rappahannock, and I found a refuge on board the good ship "Tobacco 
Plant," Capt. Z., bound to London.




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.


JONATHAN P. CUSHING was born March 12, 1793, at Rochester, 
New-Hampshire, and, like most of the eminent men of our country, in 
humble circumstances. He was early left an orphan to the care of a 
guardian, who seems to have been both negligent and unfaithful. By 
this man he was carried to his own residence, in a remote part of the 
State, where the population was scanty, and there were few schools. In 
his immediate vicinity there were none. There he was employed in doing 
the drudgery of his guardian's farm and mill until his thirteenth or 
fourteenth year. It was an improvement in his situation, when at that 
time he was bound apprentice to a saddler, especially as in New 
Hampshire by law, or custom equally imperative with law, it is the 
duty of a master to send his apprentices to school for six months of 
the term for which they are bound. This advantage Mr. Cushing enjoyed, 
and it seems to have been the only regular instruction he received 
before his eighteenth year. But even that germ, falling on a good 
soil, fructified. He began to feel the thirst for learning, which was 
to be the reigning impulse of his later years, and to loathe the 
prospect of a life spent in mere bodily labor. His mind, conscious of 
its own powers, and having once tasted of the sweets flowing from 
their exercise, could not submit to sink back again to the state of 
lethargy from which it had just been roused. The fruit of such 
thoughts and feelings was a resolution which he formed and very 
suddenly announced while at work one day, with another apprentice. 
Starting up from his seat he said "I am determined to have a liberal 
education, if it cost me forty years of my life to get it." He bought 
out the remainder of his term, and entered himself at an academy at 
Exeter, in his native State. There he prosecuted his studies with 
great diligence, supporting himself meanwhile by laboring at his 
trade, until he was prepared to enter Dartmouth College. He became a 
member of the Junior Class in that institution in 1815, and obtained 
his first degree in 1817. His standing in his class was highly 
respectable, though not so {164} elevated as would naturally be 
supposed by his acquaintances in after life, who knew nothing of the 
deficiencies of his early education, and only adverted to his 
acknowledged talents, his literary zeal, and the strength and 
constancy of his character. On leaving the walls of College, the world 
was all before him. Go where he would, he must look to his labors, not 
merely for fame and fortune, but for subsistence; and in every 
direction around him (thanks to the good Being who has so abundantly 
blessed our country) he saw fields of usefulness and distinction 
inviting, and promising liberally to reward, his exertions. The 
intensity of his studies, however, for the last few years, had 
impaired his constitution, and he had reason to believe that a 
southern residence would be more propitious to the restoration of his 
health, and at least equally favorable to his success in other 
respects. With these views he left his native State, determined to 
establish himself as a lawyer at Charleston, S. C. On reaching 
Richmond, he met with an acquaintance from New England, who had been 
engaged as a tutor at Hampden Sidney College, (an institution of which 
until that time Mr. Cushing had never heard) but who from ill health 
was not able to enter on the discharge of his duties. At his 
solicitation, strengthened by that of the late Dr. Rice, ("_clarum et 
venerabile nomen_") with whom Mr. C. then became acquainted, the 
latter was induced to undertake for a few weeks the fulfilment of his 
friend's engagement. Before even that brief time had expired, the 
young man died, and Mr. Cushing became, by a train of circumstances 
apparently fortuitous, and almost without his own agency, a member of 
the Faculty of H. S. College. There was but little in the condition of 
the institution at that time to induce such a man, young, of energetic 
character, and conscious ability, to desire to cast in his lot there. 
No class had graduated regularly for several years, and the degrees 
occasionally conferred on individuals, who had gone through the whole 
course, were not respected at other Colleges. There was hardly the 
name of a Library or Philosophical Apparatus; and the buildings were 
to the last degree unsightly and inadequate. It had, however, one 
recommendation, which with Mr. Cushing, would outweigh many defects. 
It was a seminary of learning, where he could gratify the strong 
passion of his soul for acquiring and communicating instruction, more 
delightful to him, as he often declared, than food to a hungry man. 
With all this, however, he could not readily forego the advantages 
attending the line of life he had chalked out for himself. Twice he 
determined to dissolve the connexion he had formed with the College, 
and once he had gone to the tavern for the purpose of taking his seat 
in the stage which was to carry him away. On this occasion he was 
induced to return by Dr. Hoge, the then President, to whom he looked 
up with affectionate veneration, and his acquaintance with whom he was 
accustomed to regard as one of the most fortunate events of his life. 
So soon as he considered himself established at Hampden Sidney, he set 
to work with characteristic vigor and singleness of purpose, to raise 
the standing of the institution. He prevailed on the Trustees to 
introduce a new system of discipline and study, and being soon 
appointed Professor of Natural Philosophy and Chemistry, and 
experiencing the disadvantages of the very deficient apparatus, he 
made large additions to it at his own expense, trusting to the future 
ability of the College to repay him. Dr. Hoge dying in 1820, Mr. 
Cushing was elected President, and from that time till his own death 
within the last twelve months, the events of his life were little more 
than a series of efforts, the most judicious, untiring, and 
self-sacrificing, to foster the interests of the College over which he 
presided. One of his first objects, necessarily, was to improve and 
enlarge the College buildings, which at that time were probably by far 
the most indifferent belonging to any institution of the kind in the 
Union. But while it was obvious that the prosperity, perhaps the 
existence of the College depended on making this improvement, the 
means of making it were far from being equally apparent.

The institution possessing very little corporate property, and having 
never been a favorite with the Legislature, the possible munificence 
of individuals seemed to offer the only hope of success. That this 
would avail, was so little expected, that in the expressive language 
of one of its friends, his plans were looked on by the trustees as the 
dreams of youth. He was the man, however, to change such dreams into 
realities. His appeals to the liberality of the friends of the College 
were so well responded to, that in a short time he had caused to be 
erected the centre and one wing of a stately and commodious building, 
altogether suited to the purposes intended; and in the years 1829, 
'30, and '31, he procured additional subscriptions to the amount of 
$30,000, with which that building was completed, others erected, and a 
permanent fund established to aid in the support of the Professors. 
From time to time he continued to make additions to the philosophical 
apparatus, and carried the students of the College through a regular 
course of literary and scientific study, having early obtained for his 
graduates an admission "_ad eundem gradum_" at other Colleges without 
examination. While thus efficiently discharging his duties as 
President, he did not neglect those of Professor. On the contrary, all 
who knew him will bear witness to the study and labor with which he 
extended his researches into those branches of learning which it was 
his province to teach. His lectures were thus the overflowings of a 
mind filled with the results of previous investigation and meditation; 
not, as we sometimes see in the case of indolent Professors, themes 
prepared for the occasion, and exhausting the scanty stock of science 
which had been accumulated on the subject. But while justice is thus 
done to Mr. Cushing's real ability, and to the admirable use which he 
made of it, (his strength of purpose, like a hard master, exacting its 
full quota of exertion from every faculty,) it yet cannot be 
maintained that his mind was of the highest order. His case well 
illustrated the distinction which has been taken between genius and 
talent. The former original and creative; the latter acquiring, 
modifying, and adapting to general use the productions of the first. 
While it is the prerogative of genius to discover fields of science 
hitherto unknown, it is the more humble, but perhaps not less useful 
province of talent, to cultivate what is thus brought to light, and 
prepare it to be possessed by the public mind. The love of 
communicating knowledge, which has been already mentioned as one of 
Mr. Cushing's most striking characteristics, indicated, or at least 
happily coincided with, the line of {165} usefulness for which, 
according to this view of his mental constitution, nature had fitted 
him. And it may well be questioned whether any of those who have 
sounded the profoundest depths of science, and first brought into 
light great truths previously unknown, would, if placed in the same 
circumstances with himself, have effected so much, and discharged the 
manifold and peculiar duties devolving on him, with equal skill and 
success. As a disciplinarian, he was mild and lenient, even to an 
extent considered by some as approaching to laxity. But such persons 
do not seem sufficiently to have adverted to the difficulties of his 
situation. He was not the Rector of Christ Church, or of Trinity--not 
even the President of Harvard or of Yale, but the head of a feeble 
institution, struggling almost for existence, and dependent on public 
patronage for support. With him, forbearance was among the first and 
most essential duties. Moreover, it was well understood by his 
students that his mildness was the result of principle, not of 
feebleness of character, and that there was a point beyond which they 
could not with impunity transgress. Such zeal, tempered by such 
prudence, could not be fruitless. The result of his labors and his 
cares, of what he did, and what he forebore to do, was, that in a few 
years after his induction into the Presidency, Hampden Sidney might 
fairly be pronounced the most flourishing literary institution in the 
Commonwealth. Its tide of success, however, was soon checked, and its 
onward progress stayed, by the opening of the halls of the University 
to students, an event which, however auspicious to the literary 
interests of the community at large, could not fail to be unfavorable 
to another seminary of learning in the same region of country, and 
dependent in a great degree on the same population for its supply of 
pupils. Visible as this was in the thinned ranks of his students, it 
does not seem to have caused Mr. Cushing to "bate one jot of heart or 
hope," but rather to have stimulated him to renewed exertions. For it 
was soon after this that he undertook and effected the improvement of 
the College buildings and the acquisition of a permanent fund. Nor did 
he cease to urge on the Legislature the just claims of the College to 
some share of the public favor. But the bills introduced for that 
purpose, though generally zealously supported and sustained, on 
grounds which ought to have insured their success, were always gotten 
rid of--most usually by the parliamentary manœuvre of tacking to them 
other subjects more or less incongruous, until they broke down under 
their own weight.

It is our purpose to consider the character of President Cushing, 
mainly as one of the scholars and public men of Virginia. We shall 
therefore dwell but little on his private affairs. But in a sketch of 
his life, even so brief as this, we cannot omit a fact which exerted 
the strongest influence on the happiness of his latter years. In the 
year 1827 he _married_, in an adjoining county, a pious, intelligent, 
and interesting young lady, of whom, as she survives to mourn his 
loss, delicacy forbids that we should speak in terms of stronger 
panegyric. A good Providence crowned their union with lovely children; 
and in the bosom of a family so interesting, President Cushing found a 
felicity which he well knew how to enjoy, and a relaxation from his 
incessant toils and harassing cares equally necessary to his body and 
to his mind. Though to the world chiefly known as a scholar and the 
President of a College, it was perhaps in the mild and mellow light of 
domestic retirement that his character shone with the most attractive 
lustre. As a friend he made few professions, but when self-denying 
service was needed, his zeal prompted him to exertions the most 
strenuous, persevering, and efficient. He knew how to feel for the 
bereavement of the widow's heart, and with tender sympathy to wipe the 
tear from the widow's eye. May He who seeth in secret reward him for 
these deeds of love, by pouring consolation into that cup of 
affliction which His providence has presented to the lip of her who 
was once too happy in being her husband's helpmate in ministering 
consolation to others.

Although a native of another State, Mr. Cushing was, in his connexions 
and his feelings, thoroughly a Virginian; and, as might be supposed 
from the nature of his pursuits, peculiarly regardful of the literary 
interests of the Commonwealth. He therefore hailed with joy, and 
actively engaged in establishing and fostering the Society for the 
promotion of those interests, formed in Richmond four or five years 
ago, of which he continued a zealous and efficient member the short 
residue of his days. For Hampden Sidney, however, he continued to feel 
a peculiar regard, which he evinced not only by the faithful 
performance of his duties as its President, but by repeatedly refusing 
very advantageous offers made him of Professorships in other Colleges, 
and by expressions of warm attachment to that institution, at that 
last solemn period of his life, when affectation of such regard, if 
ever possible with him, would have been effectually checked by the 
near prospect of the awful realities of the eternal world. His death, 
though an untimely, was not a sudden event. His constitution had 
perhaps never entirely recovered from the injury inflicted by intense 
application whilst a college student; and as his habits of study 
continued the same, the effects became gradually more apparent, until 
at length the unprecedented rigor of the last winter prostrated the 
structure which had been so long undermined. Early in the spring, 
being advised by his physicians to seek a milder climate, he set out 
for the south, accompanied by a part of his family. But on reaching 
Raleigh, his journey and his earthly pilgrimage were both cut short. 
There, surrounded by those whom he loved best on earth, and who he 
knew well returned his love, looking back on a life of useful and 
honorable exertion, rewarded by distinguished success; and looking 
forward in the full assurance of hope to an eternity of happiness, 
secured to him by a Savior in whom he cordially believed, and whom he 
had long found precious to his soul, he met death not with calmness 
and fortitude merely, but with triumph! He had just entered on his 
forty-third year, and it may be supposed had hardly obtained the 
maturity of his powers and the full limits of his influence. To our 
eyes, it would seem his sun went down at noonday. His death was a 
source of the truest and deepest grief, not only to a family more than 
ordinarily devoted to him, but to a large circle of friends his 
virtues had gained to him throughout Virginia, and to those especially 
who had at heart the prosperity of the College over which he had so 
ably presided. He died in the communion of the Episcopal Church, which 
with many inducements to bias him in {166} another direction, he had 
chosen for his spiritual mother at the commencement of his religious 
life, and which with decided, and it is believed increasing affection, 
he continued to love even unto death. Yet no man possessed a spirit 
more truly Catholic, and no man delighted more to enjoy Christian 
communion with the followers of his master, though they might in some 
less essential particulars, understand the will of that master 
differently from himself. Like the Apostle Paul, he rejoiced in the 
spread of the gospel, by whomsoever preached; and he was far more 
desirous to see his Savior honored, and to learn that sinners had 
repented and believed, through whatever instrumentality it pleased God 
to use, than to see the tokens of divine favor confined even to that 
church which he best loved. In his last days, like the illustrious 
Grotius, he suspected that even science, with all her loveliness and 
her benificence, had engrossed more of his affections and more of his 
thoughts than should have been given to aught below the skies; and as 
he drew nearer to the eternal world, his soul was more and more rapt 
in the beatific contemplation of that incomprehensible glory which God 
hath prepared for them that love his Son.

His remains are interred in the burying-ground of the Episcopal Church 
in the city of Raleigh. The spot which contains them is marked by a 
monument erected by the Trustees of Hampden Sidney College, and 
designed, while it commemorates his merits, to testify their sorrow 
for his loss, and their gratitude for his services. But a more 
enduring monument, and that which he would have prized far above any 
other, will be found, as we trust, in the abiding and brightening 
glories of the Institution to which his best years were devoted, and 
which shared, with the partner of his bosom and the children of his 
affection, the last anxieties of his ebbing life.




LINES

On reaching the banks of the Mississippi at the junction of the Ohio, 
1st July, 1818.


  Mighty stream, I see thee rushing
    Proudly, madly, wild along--
  Like a summer torrent, gushing
    Sudden, rapid, swift and strong.

  Now my prow is on thy waters,
    And I gaze with secret aim,
  To discover wherein centered,
    Lies the secret of thy fame.

  But I gaze in vain--thy billows
    Gurgle as they haste away;
  Could their sounds my soul unriddle,
    I might learn wherein it lay.

  I might learn that riven mountains,
    Headlong falls, unpencilled yet,
  Plains untravelled, thou hast wandered,
    Ere thy weary waters met.

  Plains! where still the Bison feeding,
    Paws in ire the solid ground--
  Or the fiery Bear, in fury,
    Sudden pours his lion-sound.

  In thy rushing roar of waters
    I might learn that rivers speak;
  Great Missouri cries--I mingle,
    Konza--ho! the sea I seek.

  Mild Ohio, sweet and mighty,
    In thy onward wave is lost,
  And a thousand lesser fountains,
    Pouring down a varied coast.

  In a region, drear and polar,
    Thou hast thy unnoticed rise,
  And dost issue where the solar
    Burning heats pervade the skies.

  Far beyond the white man's daring
    Sits the lordly Indian lone,
  Gazing on that rich creation
    Heaven, he deems, hath made his own.

  Length, and depth, and speed, and volume,
    All that swell o'er swell, create--
  These, perchance, thy sounds would tell me,
    These, these only, make thee great.

  'Tis not clearness--'tis not brightness,
    Such as dwell in mountain brooks--
  'Tis thy big, big, boiling torrent--
    'Tis thy wild and angry looks.

  Flow then, river--rushing river--
    Flow, till thou invade the sea;
  Many millions, uncreated,
    Shall desire thy waves to see.

  But while millions uncreated,
    Sigh o'er millions pass'd away,
  Thou shalt roll, in all thy splendor,
    Till thy Maker bids thee stay.

H. R. S.

_Washington_.





SKETCHES OF LAKE SUPERIOR.


No part of America presents a more ample field of scenic attractions 
than the lake referred to. In some respects these attractions are 
peculiar. It is not only the largest body of fresh water on the 
continent, but pre-eminently so, the largest in the world. Titicaca, 
the greatest lake of South America, is computed to be two hundred and 
forty miles in circumference--a circle less than Ontario, and falling 
infinitely short of Erie, Huron or Michigan.

Superior is about ten miles short of five hundred, in its most direct 
line of coast, and may be computed at fifteen hundred miles in 
circumference.[1] About one third of this is caused by its 
promontories and inlets, which give it a striking irregularity of 
outline. The direct line of inland navigation, which would be opened 
were the rapids at St. Mary's overcome, would be about twelve hundred 
and sixty miles in the outward voyage. It possesses several fine 
harbors and anchorage grounds. Its general features may be inferred 
from the maps, but no existing map can be relied on for the accuracy 
of its delineations. Its basin consists of massy formations of 
primitive rock, with dykes of trap, and horizontal walls of sandstone, 
giving rise to much variety in its features. Islands, mountains and 
cliffs, pass the eye of the voyager, with an animating succession, and 
appear as if they were suspended in the pellucid waters, for which 
this lake has been noted from the earliest times. This purity may be 
noticed in connexion with the absence of limestone among its 
formations, no locality of which {167} has hitherto been discovered. 
It has, apparently, been the theatre of extensive geological 
convulsions, which have lifted up its horizontal rocks for a hundred 
and twenty miles in extent. Other portions bear striking evidences of 
having been submitted to oceanic action, the effect of which has been 
to break down its sandstone coasts, and deposit the _debris_ in 
extensive plains, or sand mountains. Peaks, of a black basaltic 
aspect, cast their angular shadows over some of the more westerly 
portions of the lake; and the prospect from some of the higher points 
of those on which we have stood, is such as to excite the most exalted 
and transporting conceptions.

[Footnote 1: Mackenzie says seventeen hundred.]

The Porcupine mountains may be distinguished, from all that is known 
of them, as a volcanic group. They are situated in latitude 46° 52'. 
It would be practicable, in the range of American mountain scenery, to 
indicate points which have a higher elevation above the sea. Some of 
the peaks of New England or Virginia lift the observer into the mid 
heavens. But they are entirely wanting in the effect produced by a 
transparent mirror of water at their base--for it must be remembered, 
that no increase of altitude or magnitude can compensate for the 
absence of water. There is a single precipice, in these mountains, 
which the Indians represent to be one thousand feet in perpendicular 
height, having a deep, crater-shaped lake at its base.

The peninsula of Kewena extends into lake Superior about forty-five 
miles from its southern shore--the last ten or fifteen of which 
exhibit the shape of a lofty comb of the trap formations. Two points 
of this, which are sometimes called the Mamelles, have been descried, 
in clear weather, sixty-five miles. From the top of this ridge, the 
spectator looks to the east, and the west, and the north, and beholds 
one interminable sheet of crystal water. It seems, from the height, 
that the action of a single tempest, on so vast a mass of water, would 
be sufficient to prostrate the whole in ruins. Yet there is a breadth 
of several miles of solid rock, which has resisted the storms of ages. 
The effects of the action of the water, are the most striking on its 
western coast, which has been fretted into bays and inlets, leaving 
huge, castellated portions of unbroken rock standing in the water. 
These isolated masses, in misty weather, assume a spectral aspect. The 
Indians, who find aliment to their superstitions in scenes of awe, 
formerly deemed this part of the peninsula sacred, and never passed 
around it in their canoes.

The splendid formation of graywacke rocks on Presque Isle river, is 
worth the whole journey from St. Mary's, to behold. In its spring 
floods this river is a torrent rushing from a mountain. When drained 
to the minimum of its summer level, an extensive area of denuded rock 
is exposed to view, arranged in a stair-like form, and partaking of an 
air of gloom, from the dark hue of the deeply excavated banks.

Iron river has its course through a similar formation, being _east_, 
as the Presque Isle is _west_, of the Porcupine range. This river has 
no striking perpendicular falls, but flows down a hackly, rocky bed, 
in which the water, in its summer phase, stands in pools, or trickles 
from one triangular tank to another.

The Breast, or Potoash, and the Cradle Top mountains, are two 
prominent elevations in the primitive range west of the Grand Island. 
No one, we venture to predict, from our own experience, will ever 
ascend them without labor, or reach their summits without high 
gratification.

The outer coast of Grand Island presents the north westerly front of 
that magnificent sandstone formation, called Ishpábica by the Indians, 
and Picture Rocks by the whites, which assumes so imposing an outline 
in the range of coast ruins immediately east of that island. The Great 
Sand Downs,[2] form a continuation of this coast toward the east, and 
renew in this lighter form, a most picturesque series of elevations, 
which the former range exhibits in rock. Minuter sections of the 
coast, and of the banks of the rivers that intersect it, are of a 
character to arrest attention, and will furnish, in after years, a 
tissue of glowing themes for the pen and pencil. Among these, we may 
notice the falls of the Taquimenon, the Monia, and the St. Louis.

[Footnote 2: _Les Grandes Sables_.]

Up to the year 1820, very little was known, even by report, of this 
interesting and romantic region. The scanty notices of it in the 
colonial writers were of the most vague and unsatisfactory character. 
The tale of the massacre of the garrison of Michilimackinac, and of a 
far off region in which Pontiac exerted his power, had been 
occasionally heard. But as these events were to be found only in the 
works of the early French writers, few took the trouble to examine 
them. Still fewer knew aught of its topography and natural resources, 
or of the interesting communities of men, women and children, to whom 
it was "a home and a country" long before Columbus reached St. 
Salvador. In the year referred to, the gentleman who at present fills 
the chair of the War Department conducted an exploratory expedition 
through the region. Its capacities for military occupation, and the 
character and disposition of its native population and mineral 
topography, constituted the principal objects of attention. But no one 
who was a member of that expedition, could remain an indifferent 
spectator of the striking scenery, and the varied forms of thrilling 
interest which it threw before the eye. It may be regretted that Mr. 
Cass himself has given so little of his attention to descriptions of 
these rife scenes. His graphic notice of the "Pictured Rocks," and his 
historical illustrations of ancient Indian institutions, will be 
remembered by the reader.

We have merely adverted to this era, to notice the apathy which has 
succeeded. The "far West" and the sunny "South," have engaged the pens 
of genius. But much of the area to which we have called attention, 
remains, as to its description, _a terra incognita_. We have given 
most of the time we have ourselves spent in its solitudes, to the 
consideration of its phenomena, as mere physical facts, and to the 
history and language of its native inhabitants. But aside from these 
objects, we think it a rich field for the future tourist. We 
anticipate the time, as not far distant, when it will not only attract 
frequent visits from the literary and scientific, but from all classes 
who possess the means of enjoying out door health and intellectual 
pleasure.

We submit the following letters, embracing sketches of some prominent 
portions of the scenery of this lake, as a sequel to these remarks. 
They are from the pen of a young man who accompanied the writer of 
this notice on a tour through that lake in 1831. His mind {168} was 
much engrossed with the beauty and grandeur of the scenes he daily 
witnessed, and he wrote these unpretending letters, at snatches of 
time, by the way. Soon after his return from this tour, he visited one 
of our Atlantic cities, where he suddenly sickened and died. This 
circumstance is mentioned, as the motive for retaining the name of the 
individual, which is associated with recollections of modest worth and 
ingenuous sensibility.


I.

Granite Point, Lake Superior, July 3, 1831.

_Esteemed Friend_,--While looking over the life of Dr. Payson, at your 
house, I was pleased with a remark of his, in which he says "that a 
formal letter to a friend, is like 'Madam, I hope I have the pleasure 
to see you in good health,' addressed by a son to his mother, after a 
year's absence." These may not be the exact words, but they convey the 
sentiment. Had I the disposition to write to you such a letter, the 
circumstances of my situation would most effectually preclude its 
gratification.

One week has now elapsed since we were climbing the rugged sides of 
the Iroquois mountain, and together gazing upon the peaceful lake 
whose waters reposed in quietness at its base. During that week you 
may well imagine that scenes have passed before me, as diverse and 
varied in interest and excitement as the vicissitudes of human life. 
We have glided over the limpid waters of the Superior, when its broad 
surface lay stretched out before us with all the placidity of a 
polished mirror, and anon our slender barks have been tossed like a 
feather upon the rushing billows. We have rambled along the sandy 
beach, or the gravelled shore, or bounded from rock to rock in search 
of new objects of attraction. We have ascended the sliding sands of 
the Grande Sable, viewed with admiration and awe the variegated walls 
of the Pictured Rocks, passed under the Doric arches, and scaled its 
summit, and last but not least, climbed a weary way up the mountain of 
the Breast. But I shall not be thanked for filling up my sheet with 
such general observations.

Very little of interest is to be found upon the coast from Point 
Iroquois to the Grande Marais. Nothing but a continuous sandy beach 
meets the eye, which at length becomes tedious in the extreme. At the 
Grande Marais, however, the scene changes. Here the lofty mountains of 
Sable commence, which in themselves are sufficient to occupy the mind 
until new wonders are presented. Mr. Johnston and myself, accompanied 
by two of the Indian lads, ascended them near the beginning of the 
range. Upon arriving at the summit, the prospect was at once 
impressive and sublime. Behind us was the Superior, bounded but by the 
horizon,--before us a gigantic amphitheatre, whose walls on either 
side rose into the magnitude of mountains. We descended into the area, 
and it was one in which the Olympian combatants would have delighted 
to wage their contests for a false and short-lived fame. It was early 
when we embarked, and being invigorated by the night's repose, we felt 
inclined, despite fatigue, to make a survey of all that might prove 
interesting. Passing on, we found that the winds had disposed of the 
sand alternately in hills and valleys. Nothing but an arid waste met 
the eye, except when here and there a hardy plant had reared its head 
above the yellow surface, or a little islet _oasis_ of green was 
observed on a hillock's side, struggling with surrounding desolation. 
Being informed that a small lake lay beyond the Grande Sable, we 
immediately resolved upon paying it a visit. The distance we had to 
traverse was about a mile; and as we wound our way along, I 
involuntarily drew the comparison between the journey of life and our 
morning's excursion. How true is it that the great portion of our 
existence in this world, is filled up with events that but leave the 
soul in bitterness, while at times some bright flower, some sunny spot 
will appear, to which memory can recur with pleasure, and draw new 
hopes for the future. How miserable the condition of those whose ideas 
of happiness are bounded by present enjoyment; to them, futurity 
appears a something gloomy and undefinable, the very thoughts of which 
are unwelcome. But the Christian can look into a world beyond the 
grave, and the vista, like the green forest around this miniature 
Zahara, is pleasant to the sight. And even here, although his course 
may be over a desert, yet every bud of promise, every opening flower, 
serve but as a source of new excitement, and from them he gathers 
strength to press his onward march amid the many thorns that beset his 
path. But ere I had concluded moralizing,--upon gaining the top of a 
sand hill, a scene opened to the view, of the most romantic beauty. 
Unconsciously I stopped, lest I should too soon rush upon a prospect 
of such quiet loveliness. We had passed over a desert whose only 
attraction consisted in the novelty of its character and the majesty 
of its outline, but the repetition of its barrenness began to pall 
upon the sight, and oppress the mind with a sensation of weariness, 
when instantly the entire scene was changed. Instead of sterile 
heights, every thing bloomed in the vigor and freshness of vegetation. 
The forest resounded with "the sweet notes of the summer birds," and 
as the eye sought for the merry warblers, it caught a glimpse of the 
blue water as its ripples sparkled in the morning sun. My hesitation 
was but for a moment,--and bounding down the precipitous sand hills, 
the isolated lake, that seemed to exult in its wild solitude, with its 
richly diversified and picturesque enclosures, was spread before me. 
O, it was a scene that the poet and the painter would love to dwell 
upon. Cold must be the heart, ungrateful the affections of that being, 
who, blessed with intelligence, can behold the fairest of Nature's 
works, and not adore the God of Nature. My fancy might have been 
highly wrought,--but it all appeared more like a pleasant dream that 
fills the mind, when slumber steals over the senses as we are thinking 
upon absent friends, and the haunts of happy hours.

The lake itself is about nine miles in circumference, and in general 
form, as near as a comparison can be made, resembles a heart. The 
shores are deeply indented and irregular, now projecting into the 
water in small semi-circular promontories, and again retiring, as if 
half afraid of the embraces of the limpid element. On the south and 
west, as far as the eye can reach, the land rises into mountainous 
elevations; on the north, stand the lofty sand banks, affording a fine 
contrast with the fertility around, while on the east, it is bounded 
by lower grounds, that in one instance descend to a beautiful grassy 
lawn. The water appears to be very deep, and as we sent a shout over 
its surface we were answered by a startled water fowl, that seldom, 
very seldom, hears the sound of a human voice in its wild {169} 
retreat. Every thing seemed to conspire to render this one of the most 
enchanting spots in nature, and it was with regret that we turned to 
regain our canoe.

Such is lake _Leelinau_; and while the breeze that moved over its 
waters sent its waves to my feet, I thought of the friend after whom I 
named it, and from my heart wished that her life might be as calm and 
joyous as the bright prospect before me. By that name it _shall_ be 
known; and if this faint description of the beauties it unfolds, will 
serve to beguile a passing moment, a double object will have been 
achieved.

As we hurried along on our return, George pointed out to me the fairy 
tracks that occasionally are seen on these hills. They were, in fact, 
exact representations of the print of the human foot, and about the 
size of your Chinese lady's. But alas! how unpoetical! we were forced 
to come to the conclusion that our fairy was nothing more than a 
_porcupine_. Although the 30th of June, we stopped at a _snow bank_, 
and after indulging for a moment in a winter's sport, filled one of 
our Indian's hats with specimens for Mr. S. We travelled over nearly 
four miles of these sandy mountains. Their summit, near the lake, is 
covered with pebbles, among which I found several carnelians.

It was nearly _six_ o'clock when we descended to our canoes; and the 
thought crossed my mind, that _probably_ our friends at St. Mary's 
were beginning to shake the poppies from their eyes, and seriously 
think of taking a peep at the sunny sky. At eight we landed to 
breakfast, and need I tell you that _consumption_ presided at the 
board--not the arch fiend with the bright though sunken eye, the 
hectic cough, and the delicate but death-boding tint, but a 
consumption that caused the solid viands before us to disappear with a 
marvellous quickness.

But to ensure the perusal of any future production, I must tax your 
patience no farther now. Suffice it to say that the farther I advance 
the better am I pleased with the tour I have undertaken. Let the issue 
be what it may, the commencement has introduced to me a friend, whom I 
shall _never_ forget. May the blessing of the Christian's God attend 
you.

MELANCTHON L. WOOLSEY.

To ---- ----.


II.

Lake Superior, July 5, 1831.

It was my intention to have had a letter for you in readiness to send 
by Mr. Aikin, but we met him sooner than we expected, and I was 
obliged to postpone the fulfilment of my promise until the Indian boys 
returned.

In my letter to Mrs. S., I conducted her as far as Lake Leelinau. 
Supposing that an account of our further progress would be as 
acceptable as any thing I can write, I will give you an invitation to 
a seat in our canoe, as we depart for the Pictured Rocks. These you 
have often heard described, and nothing can be added by my poor pen to 
what has already been said about them. They were all, and more than an 
excited imagination had conceived them to be. As we approach them the 
mind is struck with awe at their lofty battlements, and in comparison 
the most stupendous of the works of art sink into insignificance. Near 
their commencement a beautiful cascade comes tumbling down the rocks, 
and finally makes a leap of about thirty feet into the waters below. 
Passing on from this, we soon come to a most singular arrangement of 
rocks and arches, and the first thought that strikes the mind is, to 
ascend and give them an examination. It is the work but of a moment, 
for the eye is unsatisfied until it has drunk in all the wonders 
before it. Our first resting place was under the main arch, from which 
we had a bird's-eye view of the world of woods, and waters, and rocks, 
by which we were surrounded. While here, Mr. Clary with his barge came 
along, and jumping upon the rocks, he soon made one of our party, when 
we commenced a minute examination of the celebrated Doric Rock. The 
principal arch, under which we were, is about twenty feet in height; 
and while standing under its crumbling walls, our sensations were not 
lessened by the idea that in an instant it might be said of us, _we 
had been_. At our left, and in the centre of one of the large pillars 
another arch is formed,--upon entering this we still find one more at 
our right, and which commands a view of the lake. Between the two 
stands a pillar of stone, near four feet in height, entirely detached 
at the sides, and composed of thin plates of sand rock. As we go out 
from these, for the purpose of ascending the roof, a large urn of 
nature's own design and workmanship, appears before us. It might be a 
fit depository for the ashes of some of those mighty men, who before 
the children "with a white, white face," overran their country, strode 
through these forests, or in their light canoes bounded over these 
vast waters--but alas, their graves and those of their fathers are 
mingling with the common dust! Near this urn are the remains of an 
Indian's fire, which he had lighted at the close of his fast, when 
propitiating his Manito--a place well calculated to foster the 
wildness of superstition, and which to a mind more enlightened than 
that of the poor wanderer of the wilderness, would not be deficient in 
suggestions of mystery. Who can wonder that the untaught natives of a 
region like this, should make to themselves a Deity in the rushing 
stream or the beetling cliff? They act from the impulse of nature, and 
well will it be for those who enjoy every advantage that civilization 
and Christianity can bestow, if when weighed in the balance, even with 
the pagan Indian, they are not found wanting. We were soon at the top 
of the Doric Rock, and from its dizzy height the prospect was such as 
to preclude all attempt at delineation, at least by language. Your 
brother expressed his emotion as well as it was in the power of any 
mortal to do. Clapping his hands together, and putting a peculiar 
emphasis upon the last syllable, he exclaimed "Oh! _Oh!_" Nothing more 
could be said. But while enjoying the grandeur of the scene, I wished 
that M. was at my side, for my pleasure would have been increased 
tenfold by sharing it with her. The summit of the arch is itself a 
curiosity. It does not appear to be more than three feet in thickness, 
and yet it supports and nourishes several lofty pine trees, whose 
weight alone I should think would crush it to atoms. The root of one 
of them winds around the outer edge of the rock, as if to support the 
source of its existence. But we had not long to indulge our 
admiration, for our table was spread under the shade of one of these 
immense rocks, and all the sublimity around us could not satisfy the 
imperious demands of appetite; so after regaling ourselves on some of 
the dainties furnished by our excellent friends at the Sault, we 
departed to behold new wonders, and utter repeated exclamations of 
_Oh! Oh!_ Turning a point of the rocks, {170} we came in view of those 
natural excavations that have excited so much astonishment. It was our 
intention to pass through one of them, but the entrance was blocked up 
by the falling of an arch, the ruins of which were scattered around. 
We were obliged to content ourselves with an outside view; but this 
surpassed every thing of the kind I had before seen. We were in a bay 
formed by a semi-circle in the rocks. Above us the cliff, at the 
height of upwards of a hundred feet, projected far beyond our canoes, 
and formed a canopy of the most terrific description. We could not 
behold it without a shudder of awe. Upon leaving it we discharged our 
gun, and the reverberations were almost deafening. The sound rolled 
through these vast ramparts, and seemed to shake them to their 
foundations. It was like the groaning of an imprisoned spirit in its 
struggle to be free. At every stage of our progress we had new cause 
for amazement; and when we left them it was with the impression that 
we "ne'er should look upon their like again." Our encampment was at 
Grand Island. The next day we reached the _Riviere des Moines_,--here 
we pitched our tents, and immediately commenced a search for some of 
the precious minerals. The locality proved so interesting that it was 
determined we should devote a day or two to its examination. For the 
first time we were compelled to resort to our musquito bars, and it 
afforded me infinite amusement upon waking in the morning, to see 
about fifty of these insects puzzling their brains to discover the 
meaning of certain initials that seemed to attract their attention. 
This day we removed our encampment four miles. In so doing we passed a 
rocky mountain, that filled us instantly with a desire to ascend to 
its summit. This was resolved on, and at five in the afternoon we 
procured an Indian guide, and were soon clinging to the roots and 
branches that overhung its precipitous sides, as we scrambled up the 
ascent. We were amply repaid for our fatigue, by the prospect from its 
peak. Immediately before us was a beautiful bay, studded with numerous 
islands, some of which were crowned with verdure, while others were 
immense masses of rock. The bay was formed by the projections of 
Granite Point and Presque Isle, both of which terminated in circular 
mountainous elevations that were connected to the main land, but by 
very narrow isthmuses. At the distance of fifty miles were seen Grand 
Island and the Pictured Rocks. To the north-west are seen seven large 
bays, and Point Kewena, from which we are 65 miles distant. In the 
back ground, mountain rises on mountain, as far as the eye can reach. 
Here and there, to add variety to the scene, a lofty peak of massy, 
naked granite, rears its head high above its less aspiring neighbors; 
and to soften the asperity of the view, there are two beautiful open 
spots of level green, that might be taken for fairy playgrounds--so 
secluded, and so environed, that even the spirits of the air in them 
could find a resting place. And think you not when my eyes were gazing 
at the splendor of this scene, glowing as it was in the last rays of a 
glorious sun-set, that my mind wandered to the Being who is the author 
of these creations?

When we have occasionally met the traders, as they were returning from 
their year's residence among the Indians, I have asked myself what 
mysterious excitement there could be in the spirit of gain, that will 
cause men to separate themselves from society, and voluntarily 
renounce those privileges incident to an intercourse with the world? 
But as I pass along my wonder ceases. There is such an union of beauty 
and grandeur in all the works of nature throughout this region, that 
it is impossible to be acquainted with them, and not wish to pass a 
life in their admiration. Following the impulse of my present 
feelings, I could joyfully make my home among these hills and valleys, 
and I should want no other. 'Tis true, the busy hum of men would not 
reach such a wild retreat, neither would their faithlessness and cold 
deceit.

And now, let me tell you how I have written this letter. We are 
waiting, at the Kewena Bay, for the arrival of some Indians to 
transport part of our baggage to the Ontonagon. Mr. S., and Mr. 
Houghton, with Lt. Clary, are by this time over the traverse. It was 
uncertain how soon we might be able to embark, but I resolved to 
devote what time I had to you. Accordingly at 5 o'clock this morning, 
I turned a chest upside down for a desk, planted myself against the 
tent-pole, and with the stump of a pen commenced operations. But alas! 
the sand flies and musquitoes made such a desperate onset that I was 
obliged to haul down my colors, and ingloriously fly for my life. I 
then waited until after breakfast, and commenced again with no better 
success. I then resorted to the open air; and placing my paper on a 
small bank, and standing on the stones below, with the sun at 90, 
pouring its rays upon my head, while with one hand and sometimes two, 
I battled insects of divers descriptions, at last have made _black 
marks_, over the greater part of this sheet. Should you in decyphering 
these hieroglyphics, come to any place where the subject was suddenly 
dropped and another commenced, without any apology, attribute it to a 
huge horse-fly, which lighting on my nasal protuberance, caused me to 
drop my pen, and with it my ideas. But here come a dozen of them, so 
good bye till you hear from me again.

M. L. WOOLSEY.

To ---- ----.


III.

La Pointe, Lake Superior, July 17, 1831.

Instead of a sand bank for a writing desk, I am now seated by the side 
of a good table in your brother's house, and surrounded by comforts 
and conveniences that would be no discredit to a place less out of the 
world than La Pointe. We have luxuries that even the inhabitants of 
St. Mary's might envy. Our table groans beneath its load of white-fish 
and trout, veal and pigeons, rice-puddings and strawberries, all of 
which are served up _à la mode_, in Joseph's best style, assisted by 
the culinary skill of _Plufe_, the cook. We at present adopt the 
maxim, "Live while you may," for we well know that soon we will be out 
of the reach of every thing of this sort, and be glad to get our dish 
of corn-soup. This is a very pleasant island, and presents quite a 
village-like appearance. There are several large dwelling houses, 
besides the trading establishment, and cultivated fields, with cattle 
strolling about, that altogether make up a scene quite different from 
any thing I expected to see before arriving at Green Bay.

Since my _first_ and _last_ letter to you, we have passed through a 
variety of interesting incidents. As I closed my letter our Indians 
arrived, and in a short time we were on our way across the Kewena 
traverse. But now a fresh breeze had supplanted the calm atmosphere 
{171} of the morning, and before we were half-way over the Bay, we 
began to anticipate a second edition of the troubles and danger 
experienced by Mr. S. in 1820. But we fortunately escaped, with no 
inconvenience but a slight wetting, and at 12 at night came up to the 
encampment of our friends,--when not wishing to disturb them, we 
spread our blankets upon the gravel, with the heavens for our canopy, 
and sought a few hours repose, previous to commencing an examination 
of Kewena Point. In this we promised ourselves an abundance of 
interest, and we suffered no disappointment. Such a banging the rocks 
have not experienced for many a day, and we robbed them of no 
inconsiderable quantity of their precious contents. The "King of the 
metals" will be under the necessity of holding another convention,[3] 
and if some of the delegates do not appear with battered visages, and 
broken bones, then there is no virtue in our well-tried hammers. Now 
you know, as we go skipping down the vale of life, that it is not 
every circumstance that assumes a serious cast, but that we have a 
mixture, or a kind of dish which in Scotland, and by Dr. Johnson, 
would be called _hodge-podge_. So with us--after wearying ourselves in 
discovering copper mines, and hunting from their dark and stony 
enclosures the precious gems which here abounded, we would join with 
no little zest in the pleasures of the chase. One or two opportunities 
of doing this occurred while going round this Point. This was in the 
pursuit of _quacks_; and impelled by the purest _patriotism_, we were 
determined upon the extirpation of all that might fall in our way. 
What, ask you, is it possible, that the _pro_scribed _pre_scribers of 
"roots and herbs," and steam restoratives, have found their way to the 
lone regions of the north? Why no, not exactly _this_ kind of quacks, 
but a species more honest, who tell us beforehand what they are, and 
which, of themselves, when properly prepared by a _suitable_ 
apothecary, form an excellent remedy for a well-known disease, and 
which those in particular are apt to contract who labor for hours 
together among rocks and over mountains. But to tell a plain 
story:--while in our canoes we surprised several large broods of 
ducks, which happened to be in that state when their unfledged wings 
forbade them to fly, but when they were sufficiently large to furnish 
excellent game for the table. Consequently it was a trial of skill 
between our canoe-men and the poor quacklings, to see who could paddle 
the fastest; but like the boys and the frogs, while it was sport to 
the former, it was death to the latter. Although at first they 
literally walked over the water, yet their strength was soon 
exhausted; and what with the shouts of the men, which of themselves 
were sufficient to scare a duck out of its senses, and their own 
fatigue, they fell an easy prey to their enemies. But to secure the 
victims after they were run down, afforded us the most amusement. The 
men seemed to have given up their whole souls to the chase, and as the 
ducks would dive to escape being taken, they would endeavor to spear 
them with their poles and paddles, and these proving ineffectual, 
plunge in themselves regardless of the consequences. Their zeal was 
rewarded by the capture of twelve or fifteen of the unfortunate birds. 
The only fear I experienced during this enlivening scene, was that the 
Doctor would exhaust his stock of risibility, and in future we should 
be deprived of his hearty ha, ha, that makes one join in sympathy with 
him, _before the story comes_. He surrendered himself entirely to the 
power of Momus; but we have had abundant demonstration since, that he 
is still a subject of the laughing deity. But the afterpiece was the 
most interesting to us individually; what that was you must guess. But 
luckily the clouds now "began to gather blackness;" and before we had 
proceeded many miles, we were favored with a couple of smart showers, 
and finally obliged by the rain to go on shore--_luckily_, because 
this spot proved to be the richest in minerals and metals, that we had 
yet visited. Your brother discovered two rich veins of copper ore, and 
we found agates and other gems in quantities. While we were thumping 
about us, the Doctor got into the canoe for the purpose of seeking an 
encamping place. This was found at the bottom of a very pretty bay, 
but which nevertheless we dignified with the name of Musquito Cove. 
Here we were wind-bound, and I spent a half hour very pleasantly on 
the rocks, witnessing the foaming and dashing of the waves, that 
seemed enraged at the resistance which they met, while the rocks 
themselves groaned at the rencounter as if fearful of being shaken 
from their solid foundations. Here was a place for melancholy, and a 
mind like yours would have held a revelry with the wildness of the 
scene. My curiosity to witness the onset of the waters, prompted me to 
venture too near them, as I found by a salute, not very friendly, that 
left me in rather a moist condition; but although experience is the 
best school, yet forgetting myself, I was again reminded that being 
but a spectator, it would be well to retire from the influence of the 
battle shock.

[Footnote 3: Alludes to a jeu d' esprit poem.]

       *       *       *       *       *

This ceremony over, we turned our faces homewards, but stopped for a 
moment on the way to take a peep at the Superior. This was so pleasing 
that I felt no disposition to quit it, and continued my way over the 
rocks, until weariness alone induced me to return. My path was through 
a pleasant wood, and as I was loitering along, I was startled by the 
report of a gun, repeated three or four times in quick succession; and 
upon making up to the place from whence the sound proceeded, found 
that two of the men had been sent out to search for the supposed lost 
one. The wind had abated, and we left our camp as the sun began to dip 
below the horizon. The rest of my story I hope to have the pleasure of 
communicating to you by word of mouth.

You will not probably hear from us again until our arrival at the 
Sault.

In the meantime remember me to William, and the young gentlemen of 
your household.

M. L. W.




GREECE.

"Amphyction erected a Temple at Athens in honor of the Hours, in which 
those citizens who knew the value of time and opportunity habitually 
offered their sacrifices."


  "To the Temple of the Hours! Let us early pay the vow;
  Aurora's bright and blushing kiss is on Hymettus' brow--
  And the Hours, that lead the dapple morn thro' trembling rays of
      light,
  Glance tow'rds the past eternity, with pinions stretch'd for flight.

  "To the Temple of the Hours! Deeper grows the orient blush,
  The light shafts of the polished Fane reflect the rosy flush;
  While dews are on the cypress bough and blooming myrtle spray,
  A sacrifice, as fresh and fair, we'll on their altar lay.  {172}

  "With offering we'll propitiate--invoke with lyre and song--
  And rich shall be the sacrifice--the music loud and long;
  Then, Hours, as lightly over us you wing your noiseless flight,
  Pour on our pathway, graciously, a flood of love and light."

  Thus Athens' sons. How vainly wise!--The scathing foot hath trod,
  Where many a costly Temple rose, to many an 'unknown God;'
  And Hours, with retribution fraught, on pinions bathed in woes,
  Long lingered where their beauteous Fane of tintless marble rose.

  And have those retributive Hours passed o'er, with leaden flight?
  On Athens breaks a brighter day? Dawns there a purer light?
  Rejoice! The "Star of Bethlehem" leads on a perfect day,
  And fades the Crescent from the skies, lost in its brighter ray.

  The altar 'To the unknown God,' the Temple to the Hours,
  'The Prophets' crescent-mounted Mosques, fail from her cypress
      bowers;
  The Tissue from the Cross shall fall, by error wreathed so fair,
  Fall--and the shrinking drapery's folds reveal a Saviour there.

  _Then, Greece_, shall smile propitiously, the bright, the favoring
      Hours--
  Then praise shall rise, as sweet as breath from Tempe's vale of
      Flowers;
  Rise, from that heart of love--of woe--of poesy profound--
  The heart of Greece!--her sons are free--the noble mind unbound.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




READINGS WITH MY PENCIL.

NO. I.

  "Legere sine calamo est dormire."--_Quintilian_.


1. "I am resolved, by the grace of God, always to make my heart and 
tongue go together: so as never to speak with the one what I do not 
think with the other."--_Bishop Beveridge_.

There is a fine philosophy in the above excellent determination of the 
pious and learned bishop: it is but a paraphrase of the homely maxim, 
"Honesty is the best policy." But the most striking idea conveyed by 
it is its negative character: the resolution being, not to speak all 
that the heart thinketh, but never to speak what it thinketh not.


2. "I deny the lawfulness of telling a lie to a sick man for fear of 
alarming him. You have no business with consequences: you are to tell 
the truth."--_Dr. Johnson_.

Boswell says that the Doctor said this to him. I do not doubt it. It 
is nothing new. _St. Paul_ said it before Dr. Johnson. "What then? 
Shall we do evil that good may come? God forbid!" Now, a lie of this 
kind would be venial, where other lies, told upon occasions of less 
magnitude and importance, would be unpardonable. And the Doctor's idea 
seems to be very well explained in the next passage.


3. "All truth is not of equal importance; but if little violations be 
allowed, all violations will, in time, be thought little."--_Dr. 
Johnson_.

So much for Truth; which, according to Herodotus, was one of the three 
lessons inculcated by the ancient Persians upon their children.


4. "The Four Elements are the Four Volumes in which all Nature's works 
are written."--_Jeremy Taylor_.

What is that volume, red-bound and glittering with golden tooling, 
more brilliant than the highest reach of Art has ever approached; 
dazzling with its illuminated pages, which none can read but the 
eagle-eye of him who has learned to gaze upon the living light of 
heavenly Truth, as written by the finger of the Almighty Omniscient? 
It is the volume of _Fire_--Nature's _Philosophy_. That beautiful 
volume, delicately bound in soft cerulean, sparkling with starry 
splendors, and redolent of "that odor within the sense, so delicate, 
soft, and intense," which gives its pages the fragrance no less than 
the shining beauty of Paradise--that volume is _Air_--and it is 
Nature's _Music and Poetry_. See Nature's _History_ in those two 
immense volumes, _Earth_ and _Water_. In them read the History of 
Empires, their rise, decline, and fall: the History of Man; his birth, 
his life, and death: the History of Passion; its conception, 
development, and disappointment: the History of Evil; its origin, 
dominion, and decay: the History of Good; its slow and steady, yet 
neglected and uncultured growth--its secret yet secure and strong 
dominion--its lasting and undying strength: and the History of all 
Nature and her works--recording all her beauties, all her glories, all 
her triumphs, all her lessons, all her immortal lore!


5. "Not only by the warmth,
   And soothing sunshine of delightful things,
   Do minds grow up and flourish."--_Akenside_.

No more than flowers grow up and flourish best, when reared in a 
hot-house. Those flowers may have more beauty, but where is the 
strength which the free blowing blossom of the wilderness alone 
possesses? The corolla is delicate, its petals each a separate 
loveliness: but where is the noble stalk sustaining many and more 
voluminous, though less gaudy blossoms, which rears its enduring head 
aloft, living when the other is dead--fragrant when the other is 
withered upon the dewless earth around its drooping stem? Adversity 
has been the parent of master minds. Homer and Milton, and Shakspeare, 
and Burns--these were no hot-house plants in Nature's garden: they 
were born in obscurity; their upward growth was watered with the 
dew-like tears of adversity; they were reared in the great wilderness 
of the world, amid its storms, its tempests, and its fitful gleams of 
sunshine: and _so_ "do minds grow up and flourish."


6. "Renewed friendships are to be conducted with greater nicety than 
such as have never been broken."--_Rochefoucault_.

Yes: just as one should handle a porcelain vase, once fractured and 
repaired, more carefully than before it was injured.


7. "I do not subscribe to the notion that poets are _born_," said 
Herbert.--_Private Life_.

Horace thought otherwise. I never agreed with the Venusian poet. 
Walter Scott was not a _born_ poet: he was _made_ by the scenes around 
him from his birth. Byron was not a native poet: his early "poetry" 
(?) proves the fact abundantly. His only true poetry was the result of 
circumstances. His first good poem was _made_ by an article in the 
Edinburgh Review. His next was _made_ by an unhappy marriage, and all 
the rest that deserved the name have an origin of the kind. Would 
Burns the cit have ever turned out what Burns the Ayrshire ploughman 
proved, think ye? And was Pope _born_ a poet? No more than Napoleon 
was _born_ Emperor of the French!

J. F. O.


{173}


_EDITORIAL_.




CRITICAL NOTICES.


PAUL ULRIC.

_Paul Ulric: Or the Adventures of an Enthusiast. New York: Published 
by Harper & Brothers._

These two volumes are by Morris Mattson, Esq. of Philadelphia, and we 
presume that Mr. Mattson is a very young man. Be this as it may, when 
we called Norman Leslie the silliest book in the world we had 
certainly never seen Paul Ulric. _One_ sentence in the latter, 
however, is worthy of our serious attention. "We want a few faithful 
laborers in the vineyard of literature, to root out the noxious weeds 
which infest it." See page 116, vol. ii.

In itself, the book before us is too purely imbecile to merit an 
extended critique--but as a portion of our daily literary food--as an 
American work published by the Harpers--as one of a class of 
absurdities with an inundation of which our country is grievously 
threatened--we shall have no hesitation, and shall spare no pains, in 
exposing fully before the public eye its four hundred and forty-three 
pages of utter folly, bombast, and inanity.

"My name," commences Mr. Mattson, "is Paul Ulric. Thus much, gentle 
reader, you already know of one whose history is about to be recorded 
for the benefit of the world. I was always an enthusiast, but of this 
I deem it inexpedient to say much at present. I will merely remark 
that I possessed by nature a wild and adventurous spirit which has led 
me on blindly and hurriedly, from object to object, without any 
definite or specific aim. My life has been one of continual 
excitement, and in my wild career I have tasted of joy as well as of 
sorrow. [Oh remarkable Mr. Ulric!] At one moment I have been elevated 
to the very pinnacle of human happiness, at the next I have sunk to 
the lowest depths of despair. Still I fancied there was always an 
equilibrium. This may seem a strange philosophy to some, but is it the 
less true? The human mind is so constituted as always to seek a 
level--if it is depressed it will be proportionately elevated, if 
elevated it will be proportionately depressed. But" says Mr. U., 
interrupting himself, "I am growing metaphysical!" We had thought he 
was only growing absurd.

He proceeds to tell us of his father who was born in Lower Saxony--who 
went, when only a year old, to England--who, being thrown upon the 
parish, was initiated into the mysteries of boot cleaning--who, at the 
age of ten, became a vender of newspapers in the city of London--at 
twelve sold potatoes in Covent Garden--at fifteen absconded from a 
soap-boiler in the Strand to whom he had been apprenticed--at eighteen 
sold old clothes--at twenty became the proprietor of a mock auction in 
Cheapside--at twenty-five was owner of a house in Regent Street, and 
had several thousand pounds in the Funds--and before thirty was 
created a Baronet, with the title of Sir John Augustus Frederick 
Geoffry Ulric, Bart., for merely picking up and carrying home his 
Majesty King George the Fourth, whom Mr. U. assures us upon his word 
and honor, his father found lying beastly drunk, one fine day, in some 
gutter, in some particular thoroughfare of London.

Our hero himself was born, we are told, on the borders of the Thames, 
not far from Greenwich. When a well grown lad he accompanies his 
father to the continent. In Florence he falls in love with a Countess 
in her thirty-fifth year, who curls his hair and gives him 
sugar-plums. The issue of the adventure with the Countess is thus 
told.


"You have chosen them with much taste," said the Countess; "a 
beautiful flower is this!" she continued, selecting one from among the 
number, "its vermillion is in your cheeks, its blue in your eyes, and 
for this pretty compliment I deserve a ---- you resist eh! My pretty, 
pretty lad, I _will!_ There! Another, and you may go free. Still 
perverse? Oh, you stubborn boy! How can you refuse? One--two--three! I 
shall _devour_ you with kisses!"

       *       *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


We have printed the passage precisely as we find it in the book--notes 
of admiration--dashes--Italics--and all. Two rows of stars wind up the 
matter, and stand for the catastrophe--for we hear no more of the 
Countess. Now if any person over curious should demand why Morris 
Mattson, Esq. has mistaken notes of admiration for sense--dashes, 
kisses, stars and Italics for sentiment--the answer is very simple 
indeed. The author of Vivian Grey made the same mistake before him.

Indeed we have made up our minds to forward Ben D'Israeli a copy of 
Paul Ulric. He will read it, and if he do not expire upon the spot, it 
will do him more real service than the crutch. Never was there a more 
laughable burlesque of any man's manner. Had Mr. Mattson only 
_intended it_ as a burlesque we would have called him a clever fellow. 
But unfortunately this is not the case. No jackdaw was ever more 
soberly serious in fancying herself a peacock, than our author in 
thinking himself D'Israeli the second.

"Every day," says Paul after the kissing scene, "filled me with a new 
spirit of romance. I had sailed upon the winding streams of Germany; I 
had walked beneath the bright skies of Italy; I had clambered the 
majestic mountains of Switzerland." His father, however, determines 
upon visiting the United States, and taking his family with him. His 
reasons for so doing should be recorded. "His republicanism" says 
Paul, "had long rendered him an object of aversion to the aristocracy. 
He had had the hardihood to compare the _salary_ of the President with 
the _civil list_ of the king--_consequently he was threatened with an 
indictment for treason!_ My mother suggested the propriety of 
immediately quitting the country."

Mr. Mattson does not give us an account of the voyage. "I have no 
disposition," says his hero, "to describe a trip across the 
Atlantic--particularly as I am not in a sentimental mood--otherwise I 
might turn over the poets, and make up a long chapter of extracts from 
Moore, Byron, and Rogers of the Old World, or Percival, Bryant, and 
Halleck of the New." A range of stars accordingly, is introduced at 
this crisis of affairs, and we must understand them to express all the 
little matters which our author is too fastidious to detail. Having 
sufficiently admired the stars, we turn over the next leaf and "Land 
ho!" shouts one of the seamen on the fore-topsail yard.

Arrived in Philadelphia, Mr. Ulric (our hero's father) {174} "is 
divided," so says Mr. Mattson, "between the charms of a city and 
country life." His family at this time, we are told, consisted of five 
persons; and Mr. U. Jr. takes this opportunity of formally introducing 
to us, his two sisters Eleanor and Rosaline. This introduction, 
however, is evidently to little purpose, for we hear no more, 
throughout the two volumes, of either the one young lady or the other. 
After much deliberation the family fix their residence in "Essex, a 
delightful country village in the interior of Pennsylvania;" and we 
beg our readers to bear in mind that the surprising adventures of Paul 
Ulric are, for the most part, perpetrated in the immediate vicinity of 
this village.

The young gentleman (notwithstanding his late love affair with the 
Countess) is now, very properly, sent to school--or rather a private 
tutor is engaged for him--one Lionel Wafer. A rapid proficiency in 
Latin, Greek, Hebrew, music, dancing, and fencing, is the result; "and 
with these accomplishments," says the young calf, "I believed myself 
fitted for the noise and bustle of the world." Accordingly, his father 
having given him a flogging one afternoon, he determines upon running 
away. In two days he "arrives in one of the Atlantic cities." Rambling 
about the streets he enters into conversation with a sharper, who 
succeeds in selling him, for forty dollars, a watch made of tinsel and 
put together with paste. This and subsequent adventures in the city 
form the best portion of the book--if _best_ should be applied, in any 
way, to what is altogether abominable. Mr. Ulric goes to the theatre, 
and the play is Romeo and Juliet. The orchestra "breaks forth in full 
chorus" and our hero soliloquizes. We copy his soliloquy with the end 
of placing before our readers what we consider the finest passage in 
Mr. Mattson's novel. We wish to do that gentleman every possible act 
of justice; and when we write down the few words to which we allude, 
and when we say that they are not absolutely intolerable, we have done 
all, in the way of commendation, which lies in our power. We have not 
one other word of praise to throw away upon Paul Ulric.


"Oh Music!--the theme of bards from time immemorial--who can sing of 
thee as thou deservest? What wondrous miracles hast thou not 
accomplished? The war-drum beats--the clarion gives forth its piercing 
notes--and legions of armed men rush headlong to the fierce and 
devastating battle. Again, the drum is muffled, and its deep notes 
break heavily upon the air, while the dead warrior is borne along upon 
his bier, and thousands mingle their tears to his memory. The tender 
lute sounds upon the silvery waters, and the lover throws aside his 
oar, and imprints a kiss upon the lips of his beloved. The bugle rings 
in the mountain's recesses, and a thousand spears are uplifted for a 
fearful and desperate conflict. And now the organ peals, and, with its 
swelling notes, the soul leaps into the very presence of the Deity."


Our hero decides upon adopting the stage as a profession, and with 
this view takes lessons in elocution. Having perfected himself in this 
art, he applies to a manager, by note, for permission to display his 
abilities, but is informed that the nights are engaged for two months 
ahead, and it would be impossible for him to appear during the season. 
By the influence, however, of some hanger-on of the theatre, his 
wishes are at length gratified, and he is announced in the bills as 
"the celebrated Master Le Brun, the son of a distinguished English 
nobleman, whose success was so unprecedented in London as to have 
performed fifty nights in succession at the Theatre Royal, Drury 
Lane"--a sentence in which we are at a loss to discover whether the 
English nobleman, or the English nobleman's son, or the success of the 
English nobleman's son is the distinguished performer in question.

Our adventurer succeeds in his debût, and is in a fair way of becoming 
a popular performer, when his prospects are suddenly nipped in the 
bud. His valet one morning announces a Sir Thomas Le Brun, and Sir 
Thomas Le Brun proves to be that worthy gentleman Sir John Augustus 
Frederick Geoffry Ulric, Baronet. A scene ensues. Paul screams, and 
Sir John clenches his fist. The father makes a speech, and the son 
makes a speech and a bow. At length they fly into each other's arms, 
and the drama closes by the old personage taking the young personage 
home in his carriage. In all this balderdash about the stage, there is 
not one original incident or idea. The same anecdotes are told, but in 
infinitely better language, in every book of dramatic reminiscences 
since the flood.

Our author now indulges in what we suppose to be satire. The arrows of 
his wit are directed, with much pertinacity at least, against one 
Borel Bunting, by which name it strikes us that Mr. M. wishes to 
indicate some poor devil of an editor in bonâ fide existence--perhaps 
some infatuated young person who could not be prevailed upon, by love 
or money, to look over the MS. of Paul Ulric. If our supposition be 
true, we could wish Mr. Borel Bunting no better revenge than what the 
novelist has himself afforded by this public exposure of his 
imbecility. We must do our readers the favor of copying for their 
especial perusal, a portion of this vehement attack.


There has been much speculation as to the birthplace of Borel; (in 
this respect he somewhat resembled Homer) but if I have been correctly 
informed it was in one of the New England States. Further than this I 
cannot particularize. When he came to Essex he managed to procure a 
situation in a counting-house, which afforded him the means of support 
as well as leisure for study. He did not overlook these advantages, 
and gradually rose in public estimation until he became the editor of 
the Literary Herald. This gentleman was deeply read in the classics, 
and had also perused every novel and volume of poetry from the 
earliest period of English literature down to the present. Such had 
been his indefatigable research, that there was not a remarkable 
passage in the whole range of the Waverley fictions, or indeed any 
other fictions, to which he could not instantly turn. As to poetry, he 
was an oracle. He could repeat the whole of Shelley, Moore, and 
Wordsworth, _verbatim_. He was a very Sidrophel in his acquirements. 
He could tell 

  "How many scores a flea would jump;"

he could prove, also, "that the man in the moon's a sea 
Mediterranean," and

  "In lyric numbers write an ode on
   His mistress eating a black pudding."

He composed acrostics extempore by the dozen; we say _extempore_, 
though it was once remarked that he was months in bringing them to 
maturity. He was inimitable, moreover, in his pictures of natural 
scenery. When a river, or a mountain, or a waterfall was to be 
sketched, Borel Bunting, of all others, was the man to guide the 
pencil. He had the rare faculty of bringing every thing distinctly 
before the mind of the reader--a compliment to which a majority of his 
brother scribes are not entitled.

Borel Bunting possessed also a considerable degree {175} of critical 
acumen. Southey was a mere doggerelist; Cooper and Irving were not men 
of genius: so said Borel. Pope, he declared, was the first of poets, 
because Lord Byron said so before him. Tom Jones, he contended, was 
the most perfect specimen of a novel extant. He was also willing to 
admit that Goldsmith had shown some talent in his Vicar of Wakefield.

In a word, Borel's wonderful acquirements secured him the favorable 
attention of many distinguished men; and at length (as a reward of his 
industry and merit) he was regularly installed in the chair editorial 
of the "_Literary Herald_," an important weekly periodical, fifteen 
inches in diameter. His salary, it is supposed, was something less 
than that received by the President of the United States.

The Literary Herald, Borel (or rather, Mr. Bunting--we beg his pardon) 
considered the paragon of perfection. No one could ever hope to be 
distinguished in literature who was not a contributor to its columns. 
It was the only sure medium through which young Ambition could make 
its way to immortality. In short, (to use one of Bunting's favorite 
words,) it was the "_nonpareil_" of learning, literature, wit, 
philosophy, and science.

Mr. Bunting corresponded regularly with many distinguished individuals 
in Europe. I called upon him one morning, just after the arrival of a 
foreign mail, when he read me portions of seven letters which he had 
just received. One was from Lafayette, another from Charles X., a 
third from the author of a fashionable novel, a fourth from Miss 
L----, a beautiful poetess in London, a fifth from a German count, a 
sixth from an Italian prince, and a seventh from Stpqrstuwsptrsm, (I 
vouch not for the orthography, not being so well acquainted with the 
art of spelling as the learned Borel,) a distinguished Russian general 
in the service of the great "Northern Bear."

The most unfortunate charge that was ever preferred against Borel, in 
his editorial capacity, was that of _plagiarism_. He had inserted an 
article in his paper over his acknowledged signature, entitled 
"_Desultory Musings_," which some one boldly asserted was an extract 
from Zimmerman on Solitude; and, upon its being denied by the editor, 
reference was given to the identical page whence it was taken. These 
things boded no good to the reputation of the scribe; nevertheless, he 
continued his career without interruption, and, had he lived in the 
days of Pope, the latter might well have asked,

  "Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
   He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
   Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
   The creature's at his dirty work again--
       *       *       *       *       *
   Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines."


Mr. Ulric now indulges us with another love affair, beginning as 
follows: "Oh thou strange and incomprehensible passion! to what canst 
thou be compared? At times thou art gentle as the zephyr; at others 
thou art mighty as the tempest. Thou canst calm the throbbing bosom, 
or thou canst fill it with wilder commotion. A single smile of thy 
benign countenance calleth new rapture to the anguished heart, and 
scattereth every doubt, every fear, every perplexity. But enough of 
this."  True.

A young lady falls into a river or a ditch, (our author says she was 
fishing for a water-lily) and Mr. Ulric is at the trouble of pulling 
her out. "What a charming incident!" says Mr. Mattson. Her name is 
Violet, and our susceptible youth falls in love with her. "Shall I 
ever," quoth Paul, "shall I ever forget my sensations at that 
period?--never!!" Among other methods of evincing his passion he 
writes a copy of verses "To Violet," and sends them to the _Literary 
Herald_. All, however, is to little purpose. The lady is no fool, and 
very properly does not wish a fool for a husband.

Our hero now places his affections upon the wife of a silk-dyer. He 
has a rival, however, in the person of the redoubted editor, Borel 
Bunting, and a duel ensues, in which, although the matter is a hoax, 
and the pistols have no load in them, Mr. Mattson assures us that the 
editor "in firing, lodged the _contents_ of his weapon in the ground a 
few inches from his feet." The chapter immediately following this 
adventure is headed with poetical quotations occupying two-thirds of a 
page. One is from _Byron_--another from _All's Well that Ends 
Well_--and the third from _Brown's Lecture on Perpetual Motion_. The 
chapter itself would form not quite half a column such as we are now 
writing, and in it we are informed that Bunting, having discovered the 
perpetual motion, determines upon a tour in Europe.

The editor being thus disposed of, Mr. Mattson now enters seriously 
upon the business of his novel. We beg the attention of our readers 
while we detail a tissue of such absurdity, as we did not believe it 
possible, at this day, for any respectable bookseller to publish, or 
the very youngest of young gentlemen to indite.

Let us bear in mind that the scene of the following events is in the 
vicinity of Philadelphia, and the epoch, the present day. Mr. Ulric 
takes a stroll one May morning with his gun. "Nature seems to be at 
rest," &c.--"the warbling of birds," &c.--"perched among trees," &c. 
was all very fine, &c. "While gazing," says Paul, "upon these 
objects," (that is to say, the warbling of the birds) "I beheld a 
young and beautiful female trip lightly over the grass, and seat 
herself beneath a willow which stood in the middle of a park." 
Whereupon our adventurer throws himself into an attitude, and 
soliloquizes as follows.


"It seems that there is an indescribable something in the features of 
many women--a look, a smile, or a glance of the eye--that sends the 
blood thrilling to the heart, and involuntarily kindles the flame of 
love upon its altar. It is no wonder that sages and philosophers have 
worshipped with such mad devotion at the shrine of beauty! It is no 
wonder that the mighty Pericles knelt at the feet of his beloved 
Aspasia! It is no wonder that the once powerful Antony sacrificed his 
country to the fatal embraces of the bewitching Cleopatra! It is no 
wonder that the thirst for glory cooled in the heart of the 
philosophic Abelard, when he beheld the beauty of the exquisite 
Heloise! It is no wonder, indeed, that he quitted the dry maxims of 
Aristotle to practise the more pleasing precepts of Ovid! But this is 
rhapsody!"    It is.


The lady is dressed in white, (probably cambric muslin,) and Mr. 
Mattson assures us that her features he shall not attempt to describe. 
He proceeds, however, to say that her "eyes are hazel, but very dark," 
"her complexion pure as alabaster," her lips like the lips of Canova's 
Venus, and her forehead like--something very fine. Mr. Ulric attempts 
to speak, but his embarrassment prevents him. The young lady "turns to 
depart," and our adventurer goes home as he came.

The next chapter commences with "How mysterious is human 
existence!"--which means, when translated, "How original is Mr. 
Mattson!" This initial paragraph concludes with a solemn assurance 
that we are perishable creatures, and that it is very possible we may 
all die--every mother's son of us. But as Mr. M. hath it--"to our 
story." Paul has discovered the mansion of the young lady--but can see 
no more of the young lady herself. He therefore stands sentinel before 
{176} the door, with the purpose "of making observations." While thus 
engaged, he perceives a tall fellow, "with huge black whiskers and a 
most forbidding aspect," enter the house, in a familiar manner. Our 
hero is, of course, in despair. The tall gentleman could be no other 
than the accepted lover of the young lady. Having arrived at this 
conclusion, Paul espies a column of smoke in the woods, and after some 
trouble discovers it to proceed from "a log dwelling which stood 
alone, with its roof of moss, amid the silence and solitude of 
nature." A dog barks, and an old woman makes her appearance.

This old lady is a most portentous being. She is, however, a little 
given to drinking; and offers our hero a dram, of which Mr. Mattson 
positively assures us that gentleman did not accept.


"Can you tell me," says Paul, "who lives in the stone house?"

"Do you mean the Florence mansion," she asked.

"Very like--who is its owner?"

"A man of the same name--Richard Florence."

"Who is Richard Florence?"

"An Englishman; he came to this country a year or two ago."

"Has he a wife?"

"Not that I know of."

"Children?"

"An only daughter."

"What is her name?"

"Emily."

"Emily!--Is she beautiful?"

"Very beautiful!"

"And amiable?"

"Her like is not to be found."

"What," [exclaims our hero, perhaps starting back and running his 
fingers through his hair]--"what are all the fleeting and fickle 
pleasures of the world! what the magnificent palaces of kings, with 
their imperial banquetings and gorgeous processions! what, indeed, are 
all the treasures of the earth or the sea, in comparison with the 
pure, the bright, the beautiful object of our young and innocent 
affections!!!"


The name of the old hag is Meg Lawler, and she favors Mr. Ulric with 
her private history. The morality of her disclosures is 
questionable--but "morals, at the present day, quoth Mr. Mattson, are 
rarely sought in works of fiction, and perhaps _less_ rarely found." 
The gentleman means _more_ rarely. But let us proceed. Meg Lawler 
relates a tale of seduction. It ends in the most approved form. "I 
knew," says she, "that the day of sorrow and tribulation was at hand, 
but alas, there was no saving power!" Here follows a double range of 
stars--after which, the narrative is resumed as follows.


Dame Lawler paused, and turning upon me her glaring and blood-shot 
eyes exclaimed--

"Do you think there is a punishment hereafter for the evil deeds done 
in the body?"

"Such," I replied, "the divines have long taught us."

"_Then is my destroyer writhing in the agonies of hell!!_"


Mr. Ulric is, of course, electrified, and the chapter closes.

Our hero, some time after this, succeeds in making the acquaintance of 
Miss Emily Florence. The scene of the first interview is the cottage 
of Meg Lawler. Mr. U. proposes a walk--the lady at first refuses, but 
finally consents.

"There were two paths," says our hero, "either of which we might have 
chosen: one led into the forest, the other towards her father's house. 
I struck into the latter--but she abruptly paused."

"Shall we continue our walk?" I asked, observing that she still 
hesitated.

"Yes," she at length answered; "but I would prefer the other 
path"--that is to say the path through the woods--O fi, Miss Emily 
Florence! During the walk, our hero arrives at the conclusion that his 
beloved is "some unfortunate captive whose fears, or whose sense of 
dependence, might render it imprudent for her to be seen in the 
society of a stranger." In addition to all this, Dame Lawler has told 
Mr. U. that "she did not believe Emily was the daughter of Mr. 
Florence"--hereby filling the interesting youth with suspicions, which 
Mr. Mattson assures us "were materials for the most painful 
reflection."

On their way home our lovers meet with an adventure. Mr. Ulric happens 
to espy a--man. Miss Emily Florence thus explains this momentous 
occurrence. _"There is a band of robbers who have their retreat in the 
neighboring hills--and this was no doubt one of them. They are headed 
by a brave and reckless fellow of the name of Elmo--Captain Elmo I 
think they call him. They have been the terror of the inhabitants for 
a long time. My father went out sometime ago with an armed force in 
pursuit of them, but could not discover their hiding place. I have 
heard it said that they steal away the children of wealthy parents 
that they may exact a ransom."_ Once more we beg our readers to 
remember that Mr. Mattson's novel is a Tale of the Present Times, and 
that its scene is in the near vicinity of the city of Brotherly Love.

Having convinced her lover that the man so portentously seen can be 
nobody in the world but "that brave and reckless fellow" Captain Elmo, 
Miss Florence proceeds to assure Mr. U. that she (Miss Florence) is 
neither afraid of man nor the devil--and forthwith brandishes in the 
eyes of our adventurer an ivory-hilted dagger, or a carving-knife, or 
some such murderous affair. "Scarcely knowing what I did," says our 
gallant friend, "I imprinted a kiss (the first--burning, passionate, 
and full of rapture) upon her innocent lips, and--_darted into the 
woods!!!_" It was impossible to stand the carving-knife.

As Mr. U. takes his way home after this memorable adventure, he is 
waylaid by an old woman, who turns out to be a robber in disguise. A 
scuffle ensues, and our hero knocks down his antagonist--what less 
could such a hero do? Instead however of putting an end at once to his 
robbership, our friend merely stands over him and requests him to 
recite his adventures. This the old woman does. Her name is Dingee 
O'Dougherty, or perhaps Dingy O'Dirty--and she proves to be one and 
the same personage with the little man in gray who sold Mr. U. the 
tinsel watch spoken of in the beginning of the history. During the 
catechism, however, a second robber comes up, and the odds are now 
against our hero. But on account of his affectionate forbearance to 
Dingy O'Dirty no farther molestation is offered--and the three part 
with an amicable understanding.

Mr. Ulric is now taken ill of a fever--and during his illness a 
servant of Mr. Florence having left that gentleman's service, calls 
upon his heroship to communicate some most astounding intelligence. 
Miss Florence, it appears, has been missing for some days, and her 
father receives a letter (purporting to be from the captain of {177} 
the banditti) in which it is stated that they have carried her away, 
and would only return her in consideration of a ransom. Florence is 
requested to meet them at a certain spot and hour, when they propose 
to make known their conditions. Upon hearing this extraordinary news 
our adventurer jumps out of bed, throws himself into attitude No. 2, 
and swears a round oath that he will deliver Miss Emily himself. Thus 
ends the first volume.

Volume the second commences with spirit. Mr. U. hires "three fearless 
and able-bodied men to accompany and render him assistance in the 
event of danger. Each of them was supplied with a belt containing a 
brace of pistols, and a large Spanish knife." With these terrible 
desperadoes, our friend arrives at the spot designated by the bandit. 
Leaving his companions near at hand, he advances, and recognizes the 
redoubted Captain Elmo, who demands a thousand pounds as the ransom of 
Miss Emily Florence. Our hero considers this too much, and the Captain 
consents to take five hundred. This too Mr. U. refuses to give, and 
with his three friends makes an attack upon the bandit. But a posse of 
robbers coming to the aid of their leader, our hero is about to meet 
with his deserts when he is rescued by no less a personage than our 
old acquaintance Dingy O'Dirty, who proves to be one of the banditti. 
Through the intercession of this friend, Mr. U. and his trio are 
permitted to go home in safety--but our hero, in a private 
conversation with Dingy, prevails upon that gentleman to aid him in 
the rescue of Miss Emily. A plot is arranged between the two worthies, 
the most important point of which is that Mr. U. is to become one of 
the robber fraternity.

In a week's time, accordingly, we behold Paul Ulric, Esq. in a cavern 
of banditti, somewhere in the neighborhood of Philadelphia!! His 
doings in this cavern, as related by Mr. Mattson, we must be allowed 
to consider the most laughable piece of plagiarism on record--with the 
exception perhaps of something in this same book which we shall speak 
of hereafter. Our author, it appears, has read Gil Blas, Pelham, and 
Anne of Gierstein, and has concocted, from diverse passages in the 
three, a banditti scene for his own especial use, and for the readers 
of Paul Ulric. The _imitations_ (let us be courteous!) from Pelham are 
not so palpable as those from the other two novels. It will be 
remembered that Bulwer's hero introduces himself into a nest of London 
rogues with the end of proving his friend's innocence of murder. Paul 
joins a band of robbers _near Philadelphia_, for the purpose of 
rescuing a mistress--the chief similarity will be found in the 
circumstances of the blindfold introduction, and in the slang dialect 
made use of by either novelist. The slang in Pelham is stupid 
enough--but still very natural in the mouths of the cutthroats of 
Cockaigne. Mr. Mattson, however, has thought proper to bring it over, 
will I nill I, into Pennsylvania, and to make the pickpockets of 
Yankeeland discourse in the most learned manner of nothing less than 
"_flat-catching_," "_velvet_," "_dubbing up possibles_," "_shelling 
out_," "_twisting French lace_," "_wakeful winkers_," "_white wool_," 
"_pig's whispers_," and "_horses' nightcaps!_"

Having introduced his adventurer _à la_ Pelham, Mr. Mattson entertains 
him _à la_ Gil Blas. The hero of Santillane finds his cavern a 
pleasant residence, and so does the hero of our novel. Captain Rolando 
is a fine fellow, and so is Captain Elmo. In Gil Blas, the robbers 
amuse themselves by reciting their adventures--so they do in Paul 
Ulric. In both the Captain tells his own history first. In the one 
there is a rheumatic old cook--in the other there is a rheumatic old 
cook. In the one there is a porter who is the main obstacle to 
escape--in the other ditto. In the one there is a lady in durance--in 
the other ditto. In the one the hero determines to release the 
lady--in the other ditto. In the one Gil Blas feigns illness to effect 
his end, in the other Mr. Ulric feigns illness for the same object. In 
the one, advantage is taken of the robbers' absence to escape--so in 
the other. The cook is sick, at the time, in both.

In regard to Anne of Gierstein the plagiarism is still more laughable. 
We must all remember the proceedings of the _Secret Tribunal_ in 
Scott's novel. Mr. Mattson has evidently been ignorant that the Great 
Unknown's account of these proceedings was principally based on fact. 
He has supposed them imaginary _in toto_, and, seeing no good reason 
to the contrary, determined to have a Secret Tribunal of his own 
manufacture, and could think of no better location for it than a 
cavern somewhere about the suburbs of Philadelphia. We must be 
pardoned for giving Mr. Mattson's account of this matter in his own 
words.


Dingee disappeared, [this is our old friend Dingy O'Dirty] Dingee, 
[quoth Mr. Mattson,] disappeared--leaving me for a time alone. When he 
returned, he said every thing was in readiness for the ceremony, [the 
ceremony of Mr. Ulric's initiation as a robber.] The place appointed 
for this purpose was called the '_Room of Sculls_'--and thither, 
blindfolded, I was led.

'A candidate for our order!' said a voice, which I recognized as 
O'Dougherty's.

'Let him see the light!' exclaimed another in an opposite direction. 
The mandate was obeyed, and I was restored to sight.

I looked wildly and fearfully around--but no living object was 
perceptible. Before me stood an altar, hung about with red curtains, 
and ornamented with fringe of the same color. Above it, on a white 
Banner, was a painting of the human heart, with a dagger struck to the 
hilt, and the blood streaming from the wound. Directly under this 
horrible device, was written, in large letters,

  THE PUNISHMENT OF THE UNFAITHFUL.

Around, wherever I turned my eyes, there was little else to be seen 
but skeletons of human bodies--with their arms uplifted, and 
stretching forward--suspended in every direction from the walls. One 
of them I involuntarily touched, and down it came with a fearful 
crash--its dry bones rattling upon the granite floor, until the whole 
cavern reverberated with the sound. I turned from this spectacle, and 
opposite beheld a guillotine--the fatal axe smeared with blood; and 
near it was a head--looking as if it had just been severed from the 
body--with the countenance ghastly--the lips parted--and the eyes 
staring wide open. There, also, was the body, covered, however, with a 
cloth, so that little was seen except the neck, mangled and bloody, 
and a small portion of the hand, hanging out from its shroud, grasping 
in its fingers a tablet with the following inscription:

  THE END OF THE BETRAYER.

I sickened and fell. When I awoke to consciousness I found myself in 
the arms of O'Dougherty. He was bathing my temples with a fragrant 
liquor. When I had sufficiently recovered, he put his mouth close to 
my ear and whispered--'Where is your courage man? Do you know there is 
a score of eyes upon you?'

{178} 'Alas! I am unused to such scenes--I confess they have unmanned 
me. But now I am firm; you have only to command, and I will obey.'

'Bravo!' exclaimed O'Dougherty, 'you must now be introduced to the 
high priest of our order. He has taken his seat at the altar--prepared 
for your reception. I will retire that you may do him 
reverence--trusting soon to hail you as a brother.'

The curtains about the altar had been grouped up, and there, indeed, 
sat the high dignitary in all his splendor. He was closely masked, and 
reclined in a high-backed chair, with his head turned carelessly to 
one side, with an expression of the most singular good humor. At that 
moment, also, there issued from numerous recesses, which I had not 
hitherto observed, a number of grotesque-looking shapes, not unlike 
the weird sisters in Macbeth, who quietly took their stations around 
the apartment, and fixed upon me their fearful and startling gaze. 
Their garments were hanging in shreds--an emblem, perhaps, of their 
own desperate pursuits. Their faces were daubed with paint of various 
colors, which gave them a wild and fiendish aspect. Each one grasped a 
long knife, which he brandished furiously above his head, the blades 
sometimes striking heavily together. They then sprang simultaneously 
forward, forming themselves into a circle, while one stationed himself 
as the centre, around whom they slowly moved with dismal and 
half-suppressed groans. They continued this ceremony until some one 
exclaimed--

'Bring forth the dead!'

'Bring forth the dead!'--they all repeated, until the cavern rang with 
a thousand echoes.

The banditti now stood in a line, stretching from one end of the room 
to the other, and remained some time in silence. Directly a dead 
body--mutilated and bloody--was borne by some invisible agency into 
our presence. It rested upon a bier--without pall or other covering--a 
spectacle too horrible for description. I thought, at first, that it 
was some optical delusion--but, alas! it proved a fearful reality--a 
dread and reckless assassination, prompted by that hellish and 
vindictive spirit, which appeared so exclusively to govern the 
ruffians with whom I was voluntarily associated. The victim before me 
was a transgressor of their laws; and this punishment had been dealt 
out to him as the reward of his perfidy. Life, to all appearance, was 
extinct; but the sluggish and inert clay still remained, as if in 
mockery of all law--all humanity--all mercy.

'Behold the traitor!'--exclaimed one of the number.

'Behold the traitor!'--they all repeated in concert.

'Bear away the dead!'--commanded the priest at the altar.

'Bear away the dead! bear away the dead!'--was reiterated in 
succession by every tongue, until the lifeless body disappeared--and 
with it the fiendish revellers who had sported so terrifically in its 
presence.


We have only to say, that if our readers are not absolutely petrified 
after all this conglomeration of horrors, it is no fault either of 
Paul Ulric's, Morris Mattson's, or Dingy O'Dirty's.

Miss Emily Florence is at length rescued, and with her lover, is rowed 
down some river in a skiff by Dingy, who thus discourses on the way. 
We quote the passage as a specimen of exquisite morality.


"Had I the sensibility of many men, a recollection of my crimes would 
sink me into the dust--but as it is, I can almost fancy them to be so 
many virtues. I see you smile; but is it not a truth, that every thing 
of good and evil exists altogether in idea? The highwayman is driven 
by necessity to attack the traveller, and demand his purse. This is a 
crime--so says the law--so says society--and must be punished as our 
wise men have decreed. Nations go to war with each other--they 
plunder--burn--destroy--and murder--yet there is nothing wrong in 
this, because nations sanction it. But where is the difference between 
the highwayman, in the exercise of a profession by which he is to 
obtain a livelihood, and a nation, with perhaps less adequate cause, 
which despoils another of its treasures, and deluges it in blood? Is 
not this a proof that our ideas of immorality and wickedness are 
derived in a great measure from habit and education?" "The 
metaphysical outlaw," [says our hero,] "the metaphysical outlaw here 
concluded his discourse." [What an excessively funny idea Mr. Mattson 
must have of metaphysics!]


Having left the boat, taken leave of Dingy O'Dirty, and put on a pair 
of breeches, Miss Florence now accompanies our adventurer to a village 
hard by. Entering a tavern the lovers seat themselves at the breakfast 
table with two or three other persons. The conversation turns upon one 
Mr. Crawford, a great favorite in the village. In the midst of his own 
praises the gentleman himself enters--"and lo!" says Mr. Ulric, "in 
the person of Mr. Crawford, I recognized the notorious Captain Elmo!" 
The hue and cry is immediately raised, but the Captain makes his 
escape through a window. Our hero pursues him to no purpose, and in 
returning from the pursuit is near being run over by a carriage and 
six. The carriage doors happen to be wide open, and in the vehicle Mr. 
Ulric discovers--oh horrible!--Miss Emily Florence in the embrace of 
the fellow with the big whiskers!

Having lost his sweetheart a second time, our adventurer is in 
despair. But despair, or indeed any thing else, is of little 
consequence to a hero. "It is true," says Paul, "I was sometimes 
melancholy; but melancholy with me is as the radiant sunlight, 
imparting a hue of gladness to every thing around!!" Being, therefore, 
in excellent spirits with his melancholy, Mr. Ulric determines upon 
writing a novel. The novel is written, printed, published, and puffed. 
Why not?--we have even seen "_Paul Ulric_" puffed. But let us hasten 
to the _dénouement_ of our tale. The hero receives a letter from his 
guardian angel, Dingy O'Dirty, who, it appears, is in England. He 
informs Mr. U. that Miss Florence is in London, for he (Dingy O'Dirty) 
has seen her. Hereupon our friend takes shipping for that city. Of 
course he is shipwrecked--and, of course, every soul on board perishes 
but himself. He, indeed, is a most fortunate young man. Some person 
pulls him on shore, and this person proves to be the very person he 
was going all the way to London to look for--it was Richard Florence 
himself. What is more to the purpose, Mr. F. has repented of promising 
Miss Emily to the fellow with the big whiskers. Every thing now 
happens precisely as it should. Miss E. is proved to be an heiress, 
and no daughter of Florence's after all. Our hero leads her to the 
altar. Matters come rapidly to a crisis. All the good characters are 
made excessively happy people, and all the bad characters die sudden 
deaths, and go, post haste, to the devil.

Mr. Mattson is a very generous young man, and is not above patronizing 
a fellow-writer occasionally. Some person having sent him a MS. poem 
for perusal and an opinion, our author consigns the new candidate for 
fame to immortality at once, by heading a chapter in Paul Ulric with 
four entire lines from the MS., and appending the following note at 
the bottom of the page.


From a MS. poem entitled "_Drusilla_," with which we have been 
politely favored for perusal. It is a delightful work, and shows the 
writer to be a man of {179} genius and reflection. We hope it will not 
be long before the lovers of poetry are favored with this production; 
it will win deserved celebrity for its author.


And as a farther instance of disinterestedness, see this conversation 
between Mr. Mattson's hero, and a young lady in London who wrote for 
the annuals.


"What do you think of D'Israeli's novels?"--asked she.

"Excellent! Excellent!" I replied, "especially Vivian Grey: take for 
example the scene in the long gallery between Vivian, and Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine."

"Admirable!"--returned the young lady, "but, by the way, how do you 
like Bulwer?"

"Well enough," I answered.

"Pray, Mr. Ulric, how many female writers of distinction have you in 
America? Honest old Blackwood tells us of but two or three."

"And who are they?"

"Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, and Mrs. Sigourney."

"He should have added another--Miss Leslie."


We fancy it is long since Miss Leslie, Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. 
Sigourney, Lytton Bulwer, and Ben D'Israeli have been so 
affectionately patted on the back.

Of Mr. Mattson's _style_ the less we say the better. It is quite good 
enough for Mr. Mattson's matter. Besides--all fine writers have pet 
words and phrases. Mr. Fay had his "_blisters_"--Mr. Simms had his 
"_coils_," "_hugs_," and "_old-times_"--and Mr. M. must be allowed his 
"_suches_" and "_so muches_." Such is genius!--and so much for the 
Adventures of an Enthusiast! But we must positively say a word in 
regard to Mr. Mattson's _erudition_. On page 97, vol. ii, our author 
is discoursing of the novel which his hero is about to indite. He is 
speaking more particularly of _titles_. Let us see what he says.


"An ill-chosen title is sufficient to condemn the best of books. Never 
does an author exhibit his taste and skill more than in this 
particular. Just think for a moment of _the Frenchman's version of 
Doctor Johnson's 'Rambler' into 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and what was 
still more laughable, his innocently addressing the author by the 
appellation of Mr. Vagabond!_ By the way, the modern fanatics were 
somewhat remarkable in the choice of their titles. Take for example 
the following--_'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary' and 'Some fine 
Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the 
Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet 
Swallows of Salvation.'_"


Having admired this specimen of deep research, let us turn to page 
125, vol. ii. Mr. Ulric is here vindicating himself from some charges 
brought against his book. Have patience, gentle reader, while we copy 
what he says.


"In the first place we are accused of _vulgarity_. In this respect we 
certainly bear a strong resemblance to Plautus, who was censured by 
the satirical Horace for the same thing. Next come _Ignorance_, 
_Vanity_, and _Stupidity_. Of the first two, the classic reader will 
not forget that Aristotle (who wrote not less than four hundred 
volumes) was calumniated by Cicero and Plutarch, both of whom 
endeavored to make it appear that he was _ignorant_ as well as _vain_. 
But what of our stupidity? Socrates himself was treated by Athenæus as 
_illiterate_; the divine Plato, called by some the philosopher of the 
Christians, by others the god of philosophers, was accused by 
Theopompus of _lying_, by Aristophanes of _impiety_, and by Aulus 
Gellius of _robbery_. The fifth charge is a _want of invention_. Pliny 
has alleged the same thing of Virgil--and surely it is some 
consolation to know that we have such excellent company. And last, 
though not least, is _plagiarism_. Here again Naucrates tells us that 
Homer pillaged some of his best thoughts from the library at Memphis. 
It is recorded, moreover, that Horace plundered from the minor Greek 
poets, and Virgil from his great prototype, Homer, as well as 
Nicander, and Apollonius Rhodius. Why then should we trouble ourselves 
about these sweeping denunciations?"


What a learned man is Morris Mattson, Esq.! He is intimately versed 
not only in Horace, Aristotle, Cicero, Plutarch, Virgil, Homer, Plato, 
Pliny, and Aristophanes--but (_credat Judæus!_) in Nicander, Aulus 
Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus, and Apollonius Rhodius! I. 
D'Israeli, however, the father of Ben D'Israeli aforesaid, is (we have 
no hesitation in saying it,) one of the most scoundrelly plagiarists 
in Christendom. He has not scrupled to steal entire passages verbatim 
from Paul Ulric! On page 1, vol. ii, second edition, of '_The 
Curiosities of Literature_,' in a chapter on _Titles_, we have all 
about Dr. Johnson, Le Chevalier Errant, and Mr. Vagabond, precisely in 
the language of Mr. Mattson. O thou abandoned robber, D'Israeli! Here 
is the sentence. It will be seen, that it corresponds with the first 
sentence italicized in the paragraph (above) beginning 'An ill-chosen 
title, &c.' "The Rambler was so little understood, at the time of its 
appearance, that a French Journalist has translated it 'Le Chevalier 
Errant,' and a foreigner drank Johnson's health one day, by innocently 
addressing him by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond!" And on page 11, of 
the same volume, we perceive the following, which answers to the 
_second_ sentence italicized in the paragraph above mentioned. "A 
collection of passages from the Fathers is called 'The Shop of the 
Spiritual Apothecary'--one of these works bears the elaborate title 
'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved 
for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the 
Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'" There can be no doubt whatever of 
D'Israeli's having pilfered this thing from Paul Ulric, for Mr. 
Mattson having, inadvertently we suppose, written _Baskets_ for 
_Biscuits_, the error is adopted by the plagiarist. But we have a 
still more impudent piece of robbery to mention. The whole of the 
_erudition_, and two-thirds of the words in the paragraph above, 
beginning 'In the first place we are accused of vulgarity,' &c. is to 
be found on page 42, vol. i, second edition, of The '_Curiosities!_' 
Let us transcribe some of D'Israeli's words in illustration of our 
remark. We refer the reader for more particular information to the 
book itself.


"Horace censures the coarse humor of Plautus--Aristotle (whose 
industry composed more than four hundred volumes) has not been less 
spared by the critics. Diogenes Laertius, Cicero and Plutarch have 
forgotten nothing that can tend to show his ignorance, his ambition, 
and his vanity--Socrates, considered as the wisest, and most moral of 
men, Cicero treated as an usurer, and the pedant Athenæus as 
illiterate--Plato, who has been called, by Clement of Alexandria, the 
Moses of Athens; the philosopher of the Christians by Arnobius, and 
the god of philosophers by Cicero; Athenæus accuses of envy; 
Theopompus of lying; Suidas of avarice; Aulus Gellius of robbery; 
Porphyry of incontinence, and Aristophanes of impiety--Virgil is 
destitute of invention, if we are to give credit to Pliny--Naucrates 
points out the source (of the Iliad and Odyssey,) in the library at 
Memphis, which, according to him, the blind bard completely 
pillaged--Horace has been blamed for the free use he made of the minor 
Greek {180} poets. Even the author of his (Virgil's) apology, has 
confessed that he has stolen, from Homer, his greatest beauties, from 
Apollonius Rhodius many of his pathetic passages, and from Nicander 
hints for his Georgics."


Well, Mr. Mattson, what have you to say for yourself? Is not I. 
D'Israeli the most impudent thief since the days of Prometheus?

In summing up an opinion of Paul Ulric, it is by no means our 
intention to mince the matter at all. The book is despicable in every 
respect. Such are the works which bring daily discredit upon our 
national literature. We have no right to complain of being laughed at 
abroad when so villainous a compound, as the thing we now hold in our 
hand, of incongruous folly, plagiarism, immorality, inanity, and 
bombast, can command at any moment both a puff and a publisher. To Mr. 
Mattson himself we have only one word to say before throwing his book 
into the fire. Dress it up, good sir, for the nursery, and call it the 
"Life and Surprising Adventures of Dingy O'Dirty." Humph!--Only think 
of Plato, Pliny, Aristotle, Aristophanes, Nicander, Aulus Gellius, 
Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus and Apollonius Rhodius!!


MARTIN'S GAZETTEER.

_A New and Comprehensive Gazetteer of Virginia, and the District of 
Columbia: containing a copious collection of Geographical, 
Statistical, Political, Commercial, Religious, Moral and Miscellaneous 
Information, collected and compiled from the most respectable, and 
chiefly from original sources; by Joseph Martin. To which is added a 
History of Virginia from its first settlement to the year 1754: with 
an abstract of the principal events from that period to the 
independence of Virginia, written expressly for the work, by a citizen 
of Virginia. Charlottesville: Published by Joseph Martin. 1835._

We ought to have noticed this book sooner. Mr. Martin deserves well of 
the country for having laid the foundation, amidst numerous obstacles, 
of a work of great utility and importance. In his preface, he disavows 
all pretension to literary attainment, and claims only the merit of 
enterprise and perseverance in the execution of his design. He is 
entitled to all the rewards of a bold pioneer, struggling with 
pecuniary difficulties, and, we might add, with public indifference, 
in amassing a large amount of valuable information--interesting to 
almost every man in the Commonwealth. It is one of the evils attendant 
upon a high state of political excitement in any country, that what is 
really and substantially good, is forgotten or neglected. The 
resources of our great Commonwealth are immense, and if we could once 
get the public mind into a condition favorable to their full 
development, the most important consequences might be expected to 
follow. Societies and associations for collecting information in the 
various departments of moral and physical science, have abounded in 
most countries having the least pretension to civilization; and even 
in some of the States of our confederacy, it is known that an 
enlightened spirit of inquiry exists on the same subject. Our own 
state indeed, boastful as it is of its early history, the renown of 
some of its sons, and its abundant natural advantages, has 
nevertheless, we are pained to admit, manifested too little of that 
public spirit which has animated other communities. Of late, indeed, 
some signs have been exhibited of a more liberal and resolute course 
of action, and we are not without hope that these efforts will be 
crowned by highly useful and practical results.

It is because Mr. Martin has been obliged to rely principally upon 
individual contributions, in order to obtain which he must necessarily 
have used great diligence, and submitted to much pecuniary sacrifice, 
that we think him entitled to a double portion of praise. Few 
individuals would, under such circumstances, have incurred the risk of 
failure; and our wonder is, not that the work is not perfect, but 
that, contending with so many disadvantages, it should have so nearly 
accomplished what has been long a _desideratum_ in Virginia 
literature. Our limits will not permit any thing like a minute 
analysis of its contents. The arrangement of the volume strikes us as 
superior to the ordinary alphabetical plan; and although there is much 
repetition even in its present form, much more we think has been 
avoided. That part of the General Description of the State, which 
especially treats of the climate, is admirably well written; and, 
considering the scantiness of the author's materials, owing to the 
general neglect of meteorological observations in Virginia, his 
reasoning is clear, forcible, and philosophical. In the Sketch which 
is given of the county of Louisa, we think we can recognize a pen 
which has not unfrequently adorned the pages of the "Messenger"--and 
the History of the State from its earliest settlement, appended to the 
work, is written with vigor and ability, and, as far as we can judge, 
with accuracy. If Mr. Martin is sustained by public liberality, which 
we earnestly hope will be the case, he will not only be enabled, in 
the next edition, to correct such imperfections as may be found to 
exist in the present, but to engraft a large amount of additional 
information, derived from authentic sources. The report of Professor 
Rogers, for example, on the Geology of Virginia, made to the present 
Legislature, will shed much light on the mineral resources of the 
State; and the report of the President and Directors of the Literary 
Fund, embracing as it does, detailed information with respect to all 
our literary institutions, will greatly illustrate the means in 
operation for diffusing the blessings and benefits of education. The 
statistical tables, too, can be revised and corrected in another 
edition; and we doubt not that many individuals into whose hands the 
work may fall, will voluntarily contribute such suggestions and 
improvements as their means of information will authorize. Such a work 
to the man of business, and to the traveller, and indeed to the 
general reader, is invaluable, and we heartily recommend it to public 
patronage.


ROSE-HILL.

_Rose-Hill: A Tale of the Old Dominion. By a Virginian. Philadelphia: 
Key & Biddle._

This is an unpretending little duodecimo of about two hundred pages. 
It embraces some events connected with two (fictitious) families in 
the Western section of Virginia during the Revolution. The chief merit 
of the work consists in a vein of piety and strict morality pervading 
its pages. The story itself is interesting, but not very well put 
together, while the _style_ might be amended in many respects. We wish 
the book, however, every success.


{181} CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL.

1. _An Eulogy on the Life and Character of John Marshall. Delivered at 
the request of the Councils of Philadelphia, on the 24th of September, 
1835. By Horace Binney. pp. 55._

2. _A Discourse on the Life, &c. of John Marshall, L.L.D. Pronounced 
on the 15th of October, 1835, at the request of the Suffolk Bar 
(Boston.) By Joseph Story, L.L.D., and published at their request, pp. 
70._

3. _An Oration on the Life and Character of John Marshall, late Chief 
Justice of the United States, pronounced before the Citizens of 
Alexandria, D. C. August 12, 1835. By Edgar Snowden. Published by 
request of the Committee of Arrangements._[1]

[Footnote 1: The late hour at which we have received this pamphlet, 
has prevented us from speaking as fully as we intended of its 
distinguished merits. It would have given us great pleasure to have 
embodied, in the text of this article, portions of Mr. Snowden's 
Oration--an Oration justly entitled to companionship with the 
Discourse of Judge Story, and the Eulogy of Mr. Binney. We must now, 
however, at this late day, confine ourselves to a general expression 
of commendation, and a short extract from the conclusion of the 
Oration.

"But the 'good' of Marshall is not interred with his bones. It lives 
after him, and will live after him in all time to come. The incense of 
virtue which he burned upon his country's altar, will continue to rise 
to heaven, and diffuse itself throughout the land for all following 
generations. When our children shall read the story of his life, they 
will find it one which, in its purity and beauty, cannot be surpassed 
by the history of any other man of our age. And who can calculate the 
extent of the influence of such a character upon the hearts and minds 
of this people, and even upon the future destinies of this country, in 
regulating the dispositions of those who aspire and those who are 
called to the high places of the nation? Who can say that it will not 
pervade the moral atmosphere, so as to correct many of those evil 
tendencies which we now see constantly developing themselves. We want 
such men as Marshall to rise up in our midst, and shed around the 
chastened light of their influence. The glare of military fame, and 
the glittering trappings of power, dazzle but too often to delude 
those who gaze at them with admiration. But upon the mellow radiance 
of his virtues we can all look with unclouded eyes--we can all dwell 
with unmingled satisfaction."]

A formal criticism upon these discourses, is the least of our 
intentions in placing them at the head of this article. Not that they 
are either unworthy of criticism, or incapable of abiding its test: 
but that, slight and unpretending as they are in their form and guise, 
the consideration which their uncommon literary merits would otherwise 
ensure them, is in great part lost, in the overshadowing magnitude of 
their subject. To be engrossed by beauties or defects (if there are 
defects) in the _style_ of a shilling pamphlet, when its theme is "the 
Life, Character and Services" of one who blended the benevolence and 
purity of Hale, the piercing and comprehensive genius of Mansfield, 
and the logical power of Erskine; and who, in the majestic simplicity 
of varied yet harmonious greatness, as we verily believe, is next to 
Washington; would be to imitate Seneca's grammarian, who in reading 
Virgil, thinks only of _longs and shorts_--disregarding all the charms 
of incident, and all the glories of imagery. What we have to say of 
the discourses, therefore, shall be little more, than that they are 
worthy of their authors; who by these productions, if THESE stood 
alone, have shown minds proof against the cramping tendencies of a 
profession, so much better fitted (according to Mr. Burke) to _quicken 
and invigorate_, than to _open and liberalize_ the intellect. All of 
them have given narratives, crowded with interesting particulars; and, 
what might not have been expected from his less intimate association 
with the deceased, Mr. Binney seems to have acquired a larger store of 
these, than Judge Story. The latter, however, (what might have been as 
little expected from his grave judicial station, so long occupied) has 
adorned his pages more highly, with the flowers and graces of style.

But our main design in bringing them before our readers, is to 
present, at the smallest possible expense of labor to ourselves, an 
outline of _his_ life, and a just view of _his_ character, whose 
talents and virtues they have both so successfully commemorated. With 
this intent, we purpose making large extracts from the discourses; and 
even where we do not literally _quote_, we are willing to be regarded 
as merely paraphrasing them,--for by far the most of the incidents we 
are about to give, are drawn from no other source. We agree, with Lord 
Bacon, that in general, it is "only the meaner sort of books" that 
should be thus _hashed_ and read at second-hand; and that "distilled 
books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things." But stinted 
time and space oblige us here to be content with a _rifacimento_, in 
which we trust our readers may still find much of the savor of the 
viands whence we make our extracts.

JOHN MARSHALL was born Sept. 24th, 1755, in Fauquier County, 
Virginia--a little more than two months after Braddock's defeat; and 
was the eldest of fifteen children, of Thomas Marshall, who was a 
colonel in the continental line of the Revolutionary Army, remarkable 
for courage, and for strength of mind. His courage was signalized at 
the Battles of Trenton and Brandywine; his regiment, at the latter, 
bearing the brunt of the attacking column led by Cornwallis in person. 
Though greatly outnumbered, it "maintained its position without losing 
an inch of ground, until both its flanks were turned, its ammunition 
nearly expended, and more than half the officers and one third of the 
soldiers were killed or wounded. Col. Marshall, whose horse had 
received two balls, then retired in good order to resume his position 
on the right of his division, but it had already retreated."[2] The 
heroism of such a father, could not be lost upon the son.

[Footnote 2: 1. Marshall's Washington, 158.]

The sparsely peopled region in which he lived, co-operating with a 
narrow fortune, afforded Col. Marshall but little opportunity for 
sending his children to school; and he was compelled to be almost 
exclusively himself their teacher. In his eldest son he early 
implanted a taste for English literature; "especially for poetry and 
history." At the age of twelve, John had _transcribed_ the whole of 
Pope's Essay on Man, and some of his Moral Essays; and had _committed 
to memory_ many of the most interesting passages of that distinguished 
poet.


"The love of poetry, thus awakened in his warm and vigorous mind, soon 
exerted a commanding influence over it. He became enamored of the 
classical writers of the old English school, of Milton, and 
Shakspeare, and Dryden, and Pope; and was instructed by their solid 
sense and beautiful imagery. In the enthusiasm of youth, he often 
indulged himself in poetical compositions, and freely gave up his 
leisure hours to those delicious dreamings with the muses, which (say 
what we may) constitute with many the purest source of pleasure in the 
gayer scenes of life, and the sweetest consolation in the hours of 
adversity.

{182} "One of the best recommendations, indeed, of the early 
cultivation of a taste for poetry, and the kindred branches of 
literature, is, that it does not expire with youth. It affords to 
maturer years a refreshing relaxation from the severe cares of 
business, and to old age a quiet and welcome employment, always within 
reach, and always bringing with it, if not the charms of novelty, at 
least the soothing reminiscences of other days. The votary of the 
muses may not always tread upon enchanted ground; but the gentle 
influences of fiction and song will steal over his thoughts, and 
breathe, as it were, into his soul the fragrance of a second spring of 
life.

"Throughout the whole of his life, and down to its very close, Mr. 
Marshall continued to cultivate a taste for general literature, and 
especially for those departments of it, which had been the favorite 
studies of his youth. He was familiar with all its light, as well as 
its more recondite, productions. He read with intense interest, as his 
leisure would allow, all the higher literature of modern times; and, 
especially, the works of the great masters of the art were his 
constant delight."--[_Judge Story_.]


The entire compatibility of such a love for elegant literature with 
"the severe logic and closeness of thought, which belonged to" Judge 
Marshall's character, is well vindicated by Judge Story's 
observations, as well as by many illustrious examples. Among them may 
be named William Wirt. The flowery complexion of his writings, his 
evident delight in works of fancy, and the extraordinary graces of his 
oratory, made the multitude believe him to be "of imagination all 
compact." But he was in truth far more profoundly versed in the dry, 
intricate lore of his profession, and by far more capable of thridding 
its nicest subtleties, than thousands, whose whole minds have been 
occupied with its "mystic, dark, discordant" tomes. We have been told 
by one who knew him intimately, that there were few harder students 
than Mr. Wirt: and that our informant had known him repeatedly sit for 
six or seven hours at a time, intensely engaged in examining a single 
question of law; and this too, at a period of his life when the world 
thought him little more than a frothy declaimer, a spouter of poetry, 
and an inditer of light newspaper essays. But to return--Judge Story 
presents us most pleasing views of Col. Marshall's character, derived 
from conversations with his more distinguished son:

"I have often heard the Chief Justice speak of him in terms of the 
deepest affection and reverence."... "Indeed, he never named his 
father, without dwelling on his character with a fond and winning 
enthusiasm. It was a theme, on which he broke out with spontaneous 
eloquence; and in the spirit of the most persuasive confidence, he 
would delight to expatiate on his virtues and talents. 'My father,' he 
would say with kindled feelings and emphasis, 'my father was a far 
abler man than any of his sons. To him I owe the solid foundation of 
all my own success in life.' Such praise from such lips is 
inexpressibly precious. I know not whether it be most honorable to the 
parent, or to the child. It warms, while it elevates our admiration of 
both."

There is great truth in the remark, that children reared among 
numerous brothers and sisters are the more apt, on that account, to 
make good men and women. The kindly affections are more exercised; 
emulation, tempered by such love as prevents its festering into 
malignity, stimulates to greater activity of body and of mind; each 
one has less expectation of hereditary fortune--that great palsier of 
useful energies; and each comes in for less of that parental fondness, 
which, when concentrated upon one, or two, or three children, so often 
spoils their characters, and embitters their lives. To the influence 
of this truth upon young Marshall's destinies, add the judicious 
training and admirable example of an intelligent father, and the 
hardy, active life he led, in a wild and mountainous region abounding 
in game--and many of the best traits in his character, as well as much 
of his subsequent eminence, are at once accounted for.

At fourteen, he was sent to Westmoreland, one hundred miles off, where 
for a year he was instructed in Latin by a clergyman named Campbell, 
and where James Monroe was one of his fellow students. Returning then 
to his father's house, he, for another year, received instruction in 
Latin from a Scotch clergyman named Thompson; "and this was the whole 
of the classical tuition he ever obtained."[3] By the assistance of 
his father, however, and the persevering efforts of his own mind, he 
continued to enlarge his knowledge, while he strengthened his body by 
"hardy, athletic exercises in the open air. He engaged in field 
sports; he wandered in the deep woods; he indulged his solitary 
meditations amidst the wildest scenery of nature; he delighted to 
brush away the earliest dew of the morning."... "It was to these early 
habits in a mountainous region, that he probably owed that robust and 
vigorous constitution, which carried him almost to the close of his 
life with the freshness and firmness of manhood."[4]

[Footnote 3: Mr. Binney.]

[Footnote 4: Judge Story.]

About his eighteenth year, when he had commenced the study of the Law, 
the lowering aspect of affairs between the Colonies and Great Britain 
attracted his notice, and he devoted himself chiefly to the acquiring 
of military skill, in a volunteer corps of the neighborhood. At length 
news came, of the battle of Lexington. A militia company, in which he 
held a commission, was ordered to assemble at a place ten miles from 
his father's house. Mr. Binney says, "A kinsman and contemporary, who 
was an eye witness of this scene, has thus described it to me:--"


"It was in May, 1775. He was then a youth of nineteen. The muster 
field was some twenty miles distant from the Court House, and a 
section of country peopled by tillers of the earth. Rumors of the 
occurrences near Boston, had circulated with the effect of alarm and 
agitation, but without the means of ascertaining the truth, for not a 
newspaper was printed nearer than Williamsburg, nor was one taken 
within the bounds of the militia company, though large. The Captain 
had called the company together, and was expected to attend, but did 
not. John Marshall had been appointed Lieutenant to it. His father had 
formerly commanded it. Soon after Lieutenant Marshall's appearance on 
the ground, those who knew him clustered about him to greet him, 
others from curiosity and to hear the news.

"He proceeded to inform the company that the Captain would not be 
there, and that he had been appointed Lieutenant instead of a 
better:--that he had come to meet them as fellow soldiers, who were 
likely to be called on to defend their country, and their own rights 
and liberties invaded by the British:--that there had been a battle at 
Lexington in Massachusetts, between the British and Americans, in 
which the Americans were victorious, but that more fighting was 
expected:--that soldiers were called for, and that it was time to 
brighten their fire arms, and learn to use them in the field;--and 
that if they would fall into a single line, he would show them the new 
manual exercise, for which purpose he had brought his gun,--bringing 
it up to his shoulder. The sergeants put the men in line, and their 
fugleman presented himself in front to the right. His figure, says his 
venerable kinsman, I have now before me. He was about six feet high, 
straight and rather slender, of dark complexion--showing little if any 
rosy red, yet good health, the outline of the face nearly a circle, 
and within that, eyes dark to blackness, strong and penetrating, 
beaming with intelligence and good nature; an upright forehead, rather 
low, was terminated in a {183} horizontal line by a mass of 
raven-black hair of unusual thickness and strength--the features of 
the face were in harmony with this outline, and the temples fully 
developed. The result of this combination was interesting and very 
agreeable. The body and limbs indicated agility, rather than strength, 
in which, however, he was by no means deficient. He wore a purple or 
pale-blue hunting-shirt, and trowsers of the same material fringed 
with white. A round black hat, mounted with the bucks-tail for a 
cockade, crowned the figure and the man.

"He went through the manual exercise by word and motion deliberately 
pronounced and performed, in the presence of the company, before he 
required the men to imitate him; and then proceeded to exercise them, 
with the most perfect temper. Never did man possess a temper more 
happy, or if otherwise, more subdued or better disciplined.

"After a few lessons, the company were dismissed, and informed that if 
they wished to hear more about the war, and would form a circle around 
him, he would tell them what he understood about it. The circle was 
formed, and he addressed the company for something like an hour. I 
remember, for I was near him, that he spoke at the close of his speech 
of the Minute Battalion, about to be raised, and said he was going 
into it, and expected to be joined by many of his hearers. He then 
challenged an acquaintance to a game of quoits, and they closed the 
day with foot races, and other athletic exercises, _at which there was 
no betting_. He had walked ten miles to the muster field, and returned 
the same distance on foot to his father's house at Oak Hill, where he 
arrived a little after sunset."


"This is a portrait," to which, as we can testify with Mr. Binney, "in 
simplicity, gaiety of heart, and manliness of spirit," John Marshall 
"never lost his resemblance. All who knew him well, will recognize its 
truth to nature."

In the summer of 1775, he was appointed a Lieutenant in the "Minute 
Battalion;" and having been sent, in the next autumn, to defend the 
country around Norfolk against a predatory force under Lord Dunmore, 
he, on the 9th of December, had a full and honorable share in the 
successful action at the Great Bridge, which resulted in Lord D.'s 
defeat, and flight to his ships. In July 1776, being made lieutenant 
in the 11th Virginia Regiment in the Continental Service, he marched 
to the Middle States, where, in May 1777, he was promoted to a 
captaincy. Remaining constantly in service from this time until the 
close of 1779, he participated largely and actively in the most trying 
difficulties of the darkest period of the Revolution. He was in the 
skirmish at Iron Hill, and the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and 
Monmouth. "He was one of that body of men, never surpassed in the 
history of the world, who, unpaid, unclothed, unfed,--tracked the 
snows of Valley Forge with the blood of their footsteps in the 
rigorous winter of 1778, and yet turned not their faces from their 
country in resentment, or from their enemies in fear."[5] Acting often 
as Deputy Judge Advocate, he formed a wide acquaintance and influence 
among his brother officers. "I myself," says Judge Story, "have often 
heard him spoken of by these veterans in terms of the highest praise. 
In an especial manner, the officers of the Virginia Line, (now, 'few 
and faint, but fearless still') appeared almost to idolize him." 
During this period of his service he became acquainted with Gen. 
Washington and Col. Hamilton.

[Footnote 5: Mr. Binney.]

In the winter of 1779, Captain Marshall was sent to Virginia as a 
supernumerary, to take the command of such men as the State 
Legislature might entrust to him. He used this opportunity, to attend 
a course of Law-Lectures, delivered by Mr. (afterwards Chancellor) 
Wythe, in William & Mary College; and Mr. (afterwards Bishop) 
Madison's Lectures on Natural Philosophy. In the following summer, he 
was licensed to practise Law; and in October, rejoined the army. It 
was probably on this occasion, that he went on foot from Virginia to 
Philadelphia, in order to be inoculated for the small pox; travelling 
at the rate of thirty-five miles daily. On his arrival, (as we learn 
from one to whom he related the incident,) he was refused admittance 
into one of the hotels, on account of his long beard and shabby 
clothing. He continued in the army till the end of Arnold's invasion 
of Virginia; when, there being still a redundancy of officers in the 
Virginia line, he resigned his commission, and devoted himself to his 
Law studies. The courts were then silenced in Virginia, by the tumult 
of War. As soon as they were opened, after the capture of Cornwallis, 
Mr. Marshall commenced practice.


"But a short time elapsed after his appearance at the bar of Virginia, 
before he attracted the notice of the public. His placidity, 
moderation, and calmness, irresistibly won the esteem of men, and 
invited them to intercourse with him;--his benevolent heart, and his 
serene and at times joyous temper, made him the cherished companion of 
his friends;--his candor and integrity attracted the confidence of the 
bar;--and that extraordinary comprehension and grasp of mind, by which 
difficulties were seized and overcome without effort or parade, 
commanded the attention and respect of the Courts of Justice. This is 
the traditionary account of the first professional years of John 
Marshall. He accordingly rose rapidly to distinction, and to a 
distinction which nobody envied, because he seemed neither to wish it, 
nor to be conscious of it himself."[6]

[Footnote 6: Mr. Binney.]


In April 1782, he was chosen a member of the House of Delegates, in 
the Virginia Legislature; and in the next autumn, of the Executive 
Council. In January 1783, he married Miss Ambler, daughter of 
Jacquelin Ambler, then Treasurer of Virginia. To this lady he had 
become attached while in the army; and their union of nearly fifty 
years, amid the most devoted affection, was broken by her death, about 
three years before his own. Having fixed his residence in Richmond, he 
resigned his seat in the Council, the more closely to pursue his 
profession; but his friends and former constituents in Fauquier, 
nevertheless, elected him again to represent them in the Legislature. 
In 1787, he was chosen to represent the city of Richmond.

Times of civil trouble had now come, teeming with dangers hardly less 
than those which had beset the country ten years before. The 
Confederation, by which the States were united, was found too feeble a 
bond of union, and a still feebler means of concurrent action. It 
could resolve, legislate, and make requisitions upon the States; but 
had no power to effectuate its resolutions, laws, or requisitions. It 
could contract debts, but not lay taxes of any kind to pay them. It 
could declare war, but not raise armies to wage it. It could make 
treaties, but not so as to regulate commerce--perhaps the most 
frequent and important aim of treaties. Each State had the determining 
of its own scale of duties on imports; the power of coining money, and 
of emitting paper-money at pleasure: conflicting revenue-laws, 
therefore, and a disordered currency, made "confusion worse 
confounded." The public debt, incurred by the revolution, was unpaid. 
More than three hundred millions of continental paper money were 
unredeemed; and {184} having depreciated to the value of one dollar 
for every hundred, had ceased to circulate. Public credit was nearly 
at an end: private credit, by the frequent violation of contracts, was 
at an equally low ebb: the administration of civil justice was 
suspended, sometimes by the wilful delinquency of the courts, 
sometimes by state-laws, restraining their proceedings. Commerce, 
Agriculture, Manufactures--industry of every kind,--were crippled. 
"Laws suspending the collection of debts; insolvent laws; instalment 
laws; tender laws; and other expedients of a like nature, which, every 
reflecting man knew would only aggravate the evils, were familiarly 
adopted, or openly and boldly vindicated. Popular leaders, as well as 
men of desperate fortunes, availed themselves (as is usual on such 
occasions) of this agitating state of things to inflame the public 
mind, and to bring into public odium those wiser statesmen, who 
labored to support the public faith, and to preserve the inviolability 
of private contracts." To strengthen the arm of the general 
government, and invest it with larger powers over the commerce, the 
money, and the foreign and mutual relations of the States--was 
believed by most people to be the only remedy for these intolerable 
evils. Mr. Marshall concurred with Gen. Washington, Mr. Madison, and 
the majority of their countrymen, in approving of this remedy; and as 
a member of the State Legislature, advocated the call of a Convention, 
to revise the Articles of Confederation. Whether they should be so 
altered, as to increase materially the powers of the Federal 
Government--was a question which in most of the State Legislatures 
elicited strenuous debates; and no where more, than in the Legislature 
of Virginia. The men of this day have little idea, how strong were the 
gusts of discussion at that momentous period. "It is scarcely 
possible," says Judge Story, "to conceive the zeal, and even 
animosity, with which the opposing opinions were maintained." The 
dissolution or continuance of the Union, was freely discussed: one 
party boldly advocating the former, as necessary to prevent the 
destruction of State-sovereignty; the other party pleading for UNION, 
as not only the sole cure for the immeasurable ills which were then 
afflicting the land, but as indispensable to the preservation of 
Liberty itself, in the several States. And _Union_, it was alleged, 
could not be preserved but by a more vigorous central government.

Mr. Marshall, not then thirty years old, shared largely in the 
discussions which shook both the Legislative hall, and the popular 
assemblies, of Virginia, on this great question. Mr. Madison, with 
whom he served several years in the House of Delegates, fought "side 
by side, and shoulder to shoulder" with him, through the contest: and 
"the friendship, thus formed between them, was never extinguished. The 
recollection of their co-operation at that period served, when other 
measures had widely separated them from each other, still to keep up a 
lively sense of each other's merits. Nothing, indeed, could be more 
touching to an ingenuous mind, than to hear from their lips, in their 
latter years, expressions of mutual respect and confidence; or to 
witness their earnest testimony to the talents, the virtues, and the 
services of each other."[7]

[Footnote 7: Judge Story.]

It was in these debates, that Mr. Marshall's mind acquired the skill 
in political discussion, which afterwards distinguished him, and which 
would of itself have made him conspicuous as a parliamentarian, had 
not that talent been overshadowed by his renown in a more soberly 
illustrious, though less dazzling career. Here, too, it was, that he 
conceived that deep dread of disunion, and that profound conviction of 
the necessity for closer bonds between the States, which gave the 
coloring to the whole texture of his opinions, upon federal politics 
in after life.

The Convention was at length called; and its product, the present 
Federal Constitution, was submitted for ratification to the States. In 
most of them, Conventions were likewise called, to adopt or reject it. 
Mr. Marshall, though the people of his county were decidedly opposed 
to the new Constitution, and though he avowed on the hustings his 
determination to support it, was elected to the Virginia Convention by 
a considerable majority. In that body, he took an effective, if not a 
leading part. Three able speeches of his, in behalf of the 
Constitution, appear in Mr. Robertson's report of the Debates: 
Speeches, seconding with "masculine logic, the persuasive talents of 
George Nicholas, the animated flow of Governor Randolph, the grave and 
sententious sagacity of Pendleton, the consummate skill and various 
knowledge of Madison."[8] After an earnest and powerful struggle of 25 
days, the Constitution was agreed to, by a majority of but ten 
votes--89 to 79. This result is supposed to have been promoted, by the 
news, received while the Convention sat, that nine states had come to 
a similar decision. The accession of Virginia to that number, already 
large enough to give the instrument validity among the adopting 
states, ensured its complete success; and was hailed by its friends 
with the liveliest joy.

[Footnote 8: Judge Story.]

Judge Story depicts in vivid colors, the happy effects of the 
Government thus established, upon our prosperity: and exults over the 
falsified apprehensions of those who, clinging "with an insane 
attachment" to the former confederation, and "accustomed to have all 
their affections concentrated upon the State governments," saw in the 
new system "but another name for an overwhelming despotism." 
Undoubtedly, the state of things which preceded the change, was as bad 
as, with such a people, it could well be. Undoubtedly, the new 
government did _very_ much, to retrieve our national credit and honor; 
to make us respected abroad, tranquil and prosperous at home. But 
still, not _all_ is due to the Government. A people, animated with the 
spirit of freedom, enlightened enough to see their interests, and 
enterprising enough to pursue them strenuously,--inhabiting, too, a 
country not peopled to the extent of a thousandth part of its immense 
capabilities--would thrive and grow powerful _in spite_ of what almost 
any government could do to impede their onward march. In the body 
politic there is, what physicians ascribe to the body natural, a _vis 
medicatrix Naturæ_, by which the wounds of War, the desolations of 
Pestilence, and all the ills flowing from the blunders of _charlatan_ 
statesmen, are healed and made amends for. Few are so bigoted as not 
to admit, that the self-healing energies of our country have thus at 
some times prevailed over the hurtful tendencies of the {185} measures 
adopted by her rulers. There is nevertheless a force and beauty in 
Judge Story's picture of her happiness, that make it worthy of 
insertion:


"We have lived," says he, "to see all their fears and prophecies of 
evil scattered to the winds. We have witnessed the solid growth and 
prosperity of the whole country, under the auspices of the National 
Government, to an extent never even imagined by its warmest friends. 
We have seen our agriculture pour forth its various products, created 
by a generous, I had almost said, a profuse industry. The miserable 
exports, scarcely amounting in the times, of which I have been 
speaking, in the aggregate, to the sum of one or two hundred thousand 
dollars, now almost reach to forty[9] millions a year in a single 
staple. We have seen our commerce, which scarcely crept along our 
noiseless docks, and stood motionless and withering, while the breezes 
of the ocean moaned through the crevices of our ruined wharves and 
deserted warehouses, spread its white canvass in every clime; and, 
laden with its rich returns, spring buoyant on the waves of the home 
ports; and cloud the very shores with forests of masts, over which the 
stars and stripes are gallantly streaming. We have seen our 
manufactures, awakening from a deathlike lethargy, crowd every street 
of our towns and cities with their busy workmen, and their busier 
machinery; and startling the silence of our wide streams, and deep 
dells, and sequestered valleys. We have seen our wild waterfalls, 
subdued by the power of man, become the mere instruments of his will, 
and, under the guidance of mechanical genius, now driving with 
unerring certainty the flying shuttle, now weaving the mysterious 
threads of the most delicate fabrics, and now pressing the reluctant 
metals into form, as if they were but playthings in the hands of 
giants. We have seen our rivers bear upon their bright waters the 
swelling sails of our coasters, and the sleepless wheels of our 
steamboats in endless progress. Nay, the very tides of the ocean, in 
their regular ebb and flow in our ports, seem now but heralds to 
announce the arrival and departure of our uncounted navigation. We 
have seen all these things; and we can scarcely believe, that there 
were days and nights, nay, months and years, in which our wisest 
patriots and statesmen sat down, in anxious meditation to devise the 
measures which should save the country from impending ruin."

[Footnote 9: The exports of cotton alone, in the year ending Sept. 
30th, 1834, were $49,448,000--_Reviewer_.]


The Constitution being adopted, Mr. Marshall was prevailed on by his 
countrymen, to serve again in the Legislature till 1792; although the 
claims of a growing family and a slender fortune had made him wish, 
and resolve, to quit public life, and devote himself exclusively to 
his profession. He was wanted there by the friends of the new system, 
to defend its administration against the incessant attacks made upon 
it by a powerful and hostile party. This party consisted of those who 
had resisted the change, because they thought the proposed government 
too strong. Now that it was adopted, they naturally sought, by 
construing the grants of power to it with literal strictness, to 
prevent, as far possible, the dangers to Liberty with which they 
deemed it pregnant. Their opponents, on the other hand, having long 
regarded _weakness in the centre_ as the great subject of just 
apprehension, constantly aimed, by an enlarged and liberal (or, as it 
has since been called a _latitudinous_) interpretation of those grants 
of power, to render them in the highest degree counteractive of the 
centrifugal tendency, which they so much dreaded. This controversy 
probably raged most hotly in Virginia. It is hard to forbear a smile 
at the characteristic fact, that "almost every important measure of 
President Washington's administration was discussed in her Legislature 
with great freedom, and no small degree of warmth and acrimony."[10] 
We applaud and honor the stand which Virginia has always taken, as a 
centinel on the watch-tower of popular liberty and state-sovereignty, 
to guard against federal usurpation. It is a duty, allotted to the 
State Legislatures by the enlightened advocates of the Constitution 
who wrote "The Federalist:" a duty which it were well if her sister 
states had performed with something like Virginia's fidelity and zeal. 
But she has indiscreetly suffered this one subject too much to 
monopolize her attention: and we are amongst those who think this a 
main reason, why, with a surface and resources the most propitious of 
all the states to internal improvement, she lags so far behind the 
rest in works of that kind; and why, with a people pre-eminently 
_instinct_ with the spirit of liberty, and enjoying unwonted leisure 
for acquiring knowledge, she has five times as many ignorant sons and 
daughters, as New York or Massachusetts. She ought to have looked well 
to her foreign relations, without losing sight of her domestic 
interests. We hail, with joy, the change which is now taking place in 
this respect. We trust that she and her statesmen, hereafter, when 
_all_ attention is claimed for any one point in the vast field of 
their duties, will adopt the spirit of the reply which Mr. Pope (not 
Homer) puts into Hector's mouth, when he was advised to fix himself as 
a guard at one particular gate of Troy:

  ------"That post shall be my care;
  Nor that alone, but _all_ the works of war."

[Footnote 10: Judge Story.]

From 1792 to 1795, Mr. Marshall devoted himself exclusively and 
successfully to his profession. Washington's Reports, shew him to have 
enjoyed an extensive practice in the Court of Appeals of Virginia. 
During this time, also, he did not withdraw himself from politics so 
entirely, but that he took a prominent part at public meetings, in 
support of Gen. Washington's Proclamation of Neutrality. He advocated 
this measure, orally and in writing: and Resolutions approving it, 
drawn up by him, were adopted by a meeting of the people of Richmond. 
In 1795, when Jay's Treaty was the absorbing theme of bitter 
controversy, Mr. Marshall was again elected to the House of Delegates, 
"not only without his approbation, but against his known wishes." 
Virginia, as usual, was the _Flanders_ of the war. Her popular 
meetings, and her Legislature, rung with angry discussions. Even the 
name of Washington could not screen the treaty from reprobation. It 
was denounced at a meeting in Richmond, at which Chancellor Wythe 
presided, as _insulting, injurious, dangerous, and unconstitutional_: 
but the same citizens, at a subsequent meeting, were prevailed upon by 
a masterly speech of Mr. Marshall, to adopt resolutions of a contrary 
tenor, "by a handsome majority."[11] Lest his _popularity_ might 
suffer, he was urged by his friends not to engage in any Legislative 
debates upon the obnoxious Treaty. He answered, that he would make no 
movement to excite such a debate; but if others did so, he would 
assert his opinions at every hazard. The opposition party soon 
introduced condemnatory resolutions. Among other arguments against the 
treaty, it was alleged, that the executive could not, 
constitutionally, make a commercial treaty; since it would infringe 
the power given to Congress, to _regulate commerce_: and this was 
relied upon as a favorite and an unanswerable position. "The speech of 
Mr. Marshall on this occasion," says Judge {186} Story, "has always 
been represented as one of the noblest efforts of his genius. His vast 
powers of reasoning were displayed with the most gratifying success. 
He demonstrated, not only from the words of the Constitution and the 
_universal practice of nations_,[12] that a commercial treaty was 
within the scope of the constitutional powers of the executive; but 
that this opinion had been maintained and sanctioned by Mr. Jefferson, 
by the Virginia delegation in Congress, and by the leading members of 
the Convention on both sides. The argument was decisive. The 
constitutional ground was abandoned; and the resolutions of the 
assembly were confined to a simple disapprobation of the treaty in 
point of expediency.... The fame of this admirable argument spread 
through the union. Even with his political enemies, it enhanced the 
estimate of his character; and it brought him at once to the notice of 
some of the most eminent statesmen, who then graced the councils of 
the nation."

[Footnote 11: Judge Story.]

[Footnote 12: We confess a little surprise, at seeing, here, any 
deduction of authority to the American Executive "_from the practice 
of other nations_." If we mistake not, a certain famous _Protest_ of a 
certain President, was censured mainly for deducing power to its 
author from that source.--_Reviewer_.]

Being called to Philadelphia in 1796, as counsel in an important case 
before the Supreme Court of the United States, he became personally 
acquainted with many distinguished members of Congress. He expressed 
himself delighted with Messrs. Cabot, Ames, Sedgwick, and Dexter of 
Massachusetts, Wadsworth of Connecticut, and King of New York. To 
these, his great speech on the treaty could not fail to recommend him: 
and (as he says in a letter) "a Virginian, who supported, with any 
sort of reputation, the measures of the government, was such a _rara 
avis_, that I was received by them all with a degree of kindness, 
which I had not anticipated. I was particularly intimate with Mr. 
Ames; and could scarcely gain credit with him, when I assured him, 
that the appropriations [for the treaty] would be seriously opposed in 
Congress." They _were_ opposed; and passed only after a stormy debate 
of several weeks: and passed even then, with a declaration of a right, 
in Congress, to withhold them if it pleased. President Washington 
about this time offered him the post of Attorney General of the United 
States; which he declined, as interfering with his lucrative practice. 
But he continued in the Virginia Legislature. There, federal politics 
occupied the usual share of attention. A resolution being moved, 
expressing confidence in the virtue, patriotism, and wisdom of 
Washington, a member proposed to strike out the word _wisdom_. "In the 
debate," says the Chief Justice himself, "the whole course of the 
Administration was reviewed, and the whole talent of each party 
brought into action. Will it be believed, that the word was retained 
by a very small majority? A very small majority of the Virginia 
Legislature, acknowledged the wisdom of General Washington!"

The appointment of Minister to France, as successor to Mr. Monroe, was 
offered him by the President, and declined. The French Government, 
however, refusing to receive General Pinckney, who was appointed in 
his stead, Messrs. Marshall, Pinckney, and Gerry, were sent by 
President Adams as envoys extraordinary to that country. The Directory 
refused to negotiate. But though the direct object of the embassy was 
thus foiled, much was effected in showing France to be in the wrong, 
by the official papers which the envoys addressed to her minister of 
foreign relations--the since famous Talleyrand: "Models of skilful 
reasoning, clear illustration, accurate detail, and urbane and 
dignified moderation."[13] "They have always been attributed to Mr. 
Marshall. They bear internal marks of it. We have since become 
familiar with his simple and masculine style,--his direct, connected, 
and demonstrative reasoning--the infrequency of his resort to 
illustrations, and the pertinency and truth of the few which he 
uses--the absence of all violent assertion--the impersonal form of his 
positions, and especially with the candor, as much the character of 
the man as of his writings, with which he allows to the opposing 
argument its fair strength, without attempting to elude it, or escape 
from it, by a subtlety. Every line that he has written, bears the 
stamp of sincerity; and if his arguments fail to produce conviction, 
they never raise a doubt, nor the shadow of a doubt, that they proceed 
from it.

[Footnote 13: Judge Story.]

"The impression made, by the despatches of the American ministers was 
immediate and extensive. Mr. Marshall arrived in New York on the 17th 
of June, 1798. His entrance into this city on the 19th, had the eclat 
of a triumph. The military corps escorted him from Frankford to the 
city, where the citizens crowded his lodgings to testify their 
veneration and gratitude. Public addresses were made to him, breathing 
sentiments of the liveliest affection and respect. A public dinner was 
given to him by members of both houses of Congress 'as an evidence of 
affection for his person, and of their grateful approbation of the 
patriotic firmness with which he sustained the dignity of his country 
during his important mission;' and the country at large responded with 
one voice to the sentiment pronounced at this celebration, 'Millions 
for defence, but not a cent for tribute.'"[14]

[Footnote 14: Mr. Binney.]

Once more, he resumed his practice of the Law, with renewed 
determination to leave it no more. He was, however, so urgently 
entreated by General Washington (who sent for him to Mount Vernon for 
the purpose) to become a candidate for Congress, that he did so; and 
was elected, in 1799, after a severe contest. Whilst a candidate, 
President Adams offered him a seat upon the Bench of the Supreme 
Court; but he declined it. He had not been three weeks in Congress, 
when, by a fortune as striking as it was mournful, it became his lot 
to announce to the House, the death of Washington. Never could such an 
event have been told in language more impressive or more appropriate.

"Mr. Speaker--The melancholy event, which was yesterday announced with 
doubt, has been rendered but too certain. Our Washington is no more. 
The hero, the patriot, and the sage of America; the man on whom in 
times of danger every eye was turned, and all hopes were placed, lives 
now, only in his own great actions, and in the hearts of an 
affectionate and afflicted people."

Having briefly alluded to the achievements and services of the 
deceased, he concluded by offering suitable resolutions, for honoring 
"the memory of the {187} man, first in war, first in peace, and first 
in the hearts of his countrymen." The resolutions had been drawn by 
General Henry Lee, whom a temporary absence hindered from presenting 
them. With characteristic modesty, Mr. Marshall, in the account of 
this transaction given by him as biographer of Washington, omits all 
mention of his own name; saying only, that "_a member_ rose in his 
place," &c. That House of Representatives abounded in talents of the 
first order for debate: and none were more conspicuous than those of 
John Marshall. Indeed, where the law or constitution was to be 
discussed, "he was confessedly the first man in the House. When he 
discussed them, he exhausted them: nothing more remained to be said; 
and the impression of his argument effaced that of every one else."... 
"Upon such topics, however dark to others, his mind could by its own 
clear light

  ------'sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day.'"[15]

[Footnote 15: Mr. Binney.]

His speech upon the case of Jonathan Robbins, was a striking example. 
This man, a subject of Great Britain, had committed a murder on board 
a British frigate, and then fled to the United States. Being demanded 
by the British Government, President Adams caused him to be 
surrendered, under a clause in Jay's treaty. The act was furiously 
assailed by the opposition: and a resolution of censure was introduced 
into the House of Representatives by Mr. Livingston. The speech of Mr. 
Marshall on this occasion was perhaps one of the most masterly ever 
delivered in Congress. "It has all the merits, and nearly all the 
weight of a judicial sentence."[16] "It may be said of that speech, as 
was said of Lord Mansfield's celebrated Answer to the Prussian 
Memorial, it was _Reponse sans replique_--an answer so irresistible, 
that it admitted of no reply. It silenced opposition; and settled 
then, and forever, the points of national law, upon which the 
controversy hinged."[17]

[Footnote 16: Ib.]

[Footnote 17: Judge Story.]

He was not in Congress when the famous _Sedition Law_ passed: but he 
had the merit of voting to repeal the most obnoxious section of it; in 
opposition to all those, with whom he generally concurred. In May, 
1800, he was appointed Secretary of War: but before his entry upon the 
duties of that office, a rupture occurring between the President and 
Col. Pickering, he was made Secretary of State in lieu of the latter. 
It is honorable both to him and his predecessor, that the delicate 
position in which they stood towards each other, did not interrupt 
their harmony: but they retained, while both lived, a warm and cordial 
friendship. Even during the few months that he held this office, Mr. 
Marshall evinced great ability, in discussing several important 
questions between our country and England. "It is impossible to 
imagine a finer spirit, more fearless, more dignified, more 
conciliatory, more true to his country, than animates his instructions 
to Mr. King,"[18] the American Minister in London. "His despatch of 
September 20th, 1800, is a noble specimen of the first order of State 
papers, and shows the most finished adaptation of parts for the 
station of an American Secretary of State."[19]

[Footnote 18: Mr. Binney.]

[Footnote 19: Ib.]

On the 31st of January, 1801, he was appointed Chief Justice of the 
Supreme Court of the United States: "not only without his own 
solicitation, (for he had in fact recommended another for the office,) 
but by the prompt and spontaneous choice of President Adams, upon his 
own unassisted judgment. The nomination was unanimously confirmed by 
the Senate."[20]

[Footnote 20: Judge Story.]

It is a remarkable, yet not an extraordinary fact, that his induction 
into that high office which he so illustriously filled, is precisely 
the juncture in his life at which, for the purposes of striking 
narrative, his biography ends. That part of his career, the most 
signalized by enduring monuments of his intellectual power, and the 
most adorned by the winning graces of his daily actions, is precisely 
that in which it is hardest to find glaring incidents, that stand 
forth boldly on the page, and rivet the reader's mind. "Peace" indeed, 
as Milton said to Cromwell,--

         "Peace hath her victories
  No less renowned than War;"

and few men have achieved more signal ones, than he who may be said to 
have built up a national Jurisprudence for the Union, by the strength 
of his own genius: but such triumphs ring not in the common ear, and 
glitter not in the common eye. Even History often forgets to chronicle 
them in her bloodstained page: that page, which is too mere a picture 
of crimes and misery--where the peaceful and innocent crowd never 
appear, but give place to the profligate votaries of perverted 
ambition--and which, like tragedy, is languid and distasteful, unless 
enlivened by atrocious deeds, and horrid sufferings.[21] We shall not 
attempt, then, to protract our account of the last thirty-five years 
of Judge Marshall's life. It was spent in the diligent, and upright, 
as well as able discharge of his official duties; sometimes presiding 
in the Supreme Court at Washington, sometimes assisting to hold the 
_Circuit Federal Courts_, in Virginia, and North Carolina. His 
residence was in Richmond, whence it was his frequent custom to walk 
out, a distance of three or four miles, to his farm, in the county of 
Henrico. He also had a farm in his native county, Fauquier; which he 
annually visited, and where he always enjoyed a delightful intercourse 
with numerous relations and friends. Twice, in these thirty-five 
years, he may be said to have mingled in political life, but not in 
party politics.

[Footnote 21: "En effet l'histoire n'est que le tableau des crimes et 
des malheurs: la foule des hommes innocents et paisibles disparait 
toujours sur ces vastes théâtres: les personnages ne sont que des 
ambitieux pervers. Il semble que l'histoire ne plaise que comme la 
tragedie, qui languit si elle n'est animée par les passions, les 
forfaits, et les grandes infortunes."--_L'Ingenu, Ch. 10_.]

In 1828, he was delegated, with others from the city of Richmond, to a 
convention held in Charlottesville, for the purpose of devising a 
proper system of internal improvements, for the State; to be 
recommended to the Legislature: and he took a becoming part in the 
deliberations of that enlightened body.

In 1829, he was chosen to represent the city in the Convention which 
met in October of that year, to revise and amend the State 
Constitution. Here was exhibited a spectacle, one of the most 
affecting in our day, of three men--Madison, Monroe, and 
Marshall,--who having assisted in establishing the liberties and 
creating the government of their country, and having filled her 
highest stations, were now consulting with a later generation, upon 
the means of rendering that government {188} purer, more durable, and 
more productive of happiness. Mr. Monroe was nominated by Mr. Madison 
as President of the Convention; and, having been unanimously chosen, 
was conducted by Mr. Madison and Mr. Marshall to the chair. During the 
three months of the session, Judge Marshall repeatedly engaged in 
debate: displaying still that power of reasoning, with that bland 
courtesy of manner, which had always distinguished him. His voice was 
now become extremely feeble; so that those who sat far off could not 
hear him: no sooner therefore did he rise, than the members would 
press towards him, and strain with outstretched necks and eager ears, 
to catch his words. The basis of representation, and the structure of 
the judiciary, were the subjects upon which he chiefly spoke. The 
difficulties of adjusting the former, so as to satisfy both the east 
and the west--the irritated feelings which began to appear on both 
sides--and the imminent dread which the patriot felt, of a division of 
the state--will not soon be forgotten. It was when a _compromise_ of 
the difference was proposed, that the Chief Justice displayed his 
greatest power. Towards the close of a speech, which was at the time 
regarded as an unrivalled specimen of lucid and conclusive reasoning, 
he said, he "hailed that auspicious appearance, with all the joy with 
which an inhabitant of the polar regions hails the re-appearance of 
the sun, after his long absence of six tedious months." It was of a 
position maintained by him in this speech, and which, an opposing 
orator said, had been _overthrown_ by Mr. ---- of Augusta, that John 
Randolph declared, "The argument of the Chief Justice is unshaken, and 
unanswerable. It is as strong as the fortress of Gibraltar. Sir, the 
fortress of Gibraltar would be as much injured by _battering it with a 
pocket pistol_, as that argument has been affected by the abortive and 
puny assault of the gentleman from Augusta." The great Roanoke 
orator's esteem and admiration for the Chief Justice (although, on 
federal politics, they widely differed) amounted almost to idolatry. 
An amicable contest between them one day, on the floor of the 
Convention, furnished him an occasion for paying to the latter a 
tribute as beautiful, as it was simple and just. The Chief Justice, 
thinking that some remark of his had been understood by Mr. Randolph 
as personally unkind, arose with earnestness to assure him that it was 
not so intended. Mr. R. as earnestly strove to quiet Judge M.'s 
uneasiness, by assuring him that he had not understood the remark as 
offensive. In their eagerness, the one to apologize, and the other to 
show that no apology was necessary, they interrupted each other two or 
three times: at length Mr. R. effectually silenced his friend, by 
saying, "I know the goodness of his heart too well to have supposed it 
possible that he could have intended to give me pain. Sir, I believe, 
that like 'My Uncle Toby,' _he would not even hurt a fly_."

A visiter in Richmond during the Convention, being at the market one 
morning before sunrise, saw the Chief Justice of the United States, in 
the blue-mixed woollen stockings and the plain black suit (far from 
superfine) which he usually wore, striding along between the rows of 
meat and vegetables, catering for his household; and depositing his 
purchases in a basket, carried by a servant. But it was his frequent 
custom to go on this errand, unattended; and nothing was more usual, 
than to see him returning from market at sunrise, with poultry in one 
hand, and a basket of vegetables in the other. So beautifully, by a 
simplicity which pervaded his words, his actions, his whole life, did 
he illustrate the character of a republican citizen and magistrate!

No man more highly relished social, and even convivial enjoyments. He 
was a member of the club, which for 48 summers has met once a 
fortnight near Richmond, to pitch quoits and mingle in relaxing 
conversation: and there was not one more delightedly punctual in his 
attendance at these meetings, or who contributed more to their 
pleasantness: scarcely one, who excelled him in the manly game, from 
which the "Quoit-Club" drew its designation. He would hurl his iron 
ring of two pound's weight, with rarely erring aim, fifty-five or 
sixty feet; and, at some _chef-d'œuvre_ of skill in himself or his 
_partner_, would spring up and clap his hands, with all the 
light-hearted enthusiasm of boyhood. Such is the old age, which 
follows a temperate, an innocent, and a useful life! We extract from 
the American Turf Register of 1829, the following entertaining account 
of this Club.


During a recent visit to Richmond, in Virginia, I was invited to a 
"Barbecue Club," held under the shade of some fine oaks, near 
"Buchanan's Spring," about a mile distant from the town. I there met 
with about thirty of the respectable inhabitants of Richmond, with a 
few guests. The day was a fine one, and the free and social 
intercourse of the members rendered it peculiarly pleasant.

This Club is probably the most ancient one of the sort in the United 
States, having existed upwards of forty years. It originated in a 
meeting, every other Saturday, from the first of May until the month 
of October, of some of the Scotch merchants who were early settlers in 
that town. They agreed each to take out some cold meats for their 
repast, and to provide a due quantity of drinkables, and enjoy 
relaxation in that way after the labors of the week. They occasionally 
invited some others of the inhabitants, who finding the time passed 
pleasantly, proposed in the year 1788 to form a regular club, 
consisting of thirty members, under a written constitution, limiting 
their expenses each day by a sort of sumptuary law which prohibited 
the use of wine and porter.

The Virginians, you know, have always been great _limitarians_ as to 
constitutional matters. Whenever a member died or resigned, (but there 
have been very few resignations,) his place was filled by balloting 
for a new one, who could not be elected without the concurrence of 
two-thirds of the club. It is said that for many years no vacancy 
occurred, and a sort of superstitious sentiment was prevalent, that to 
become a member of the club, was to insure longevity. The Arch 
Destroyer, however, at length appeared in all his strength, and made 
such havoc, that only one of the original members (the venerable Chief 
Justice of the United States,) is now surviving.

The club consists of judges, lawyers, doctors, and merchants, and the 
Governor of the Commonwealth has a general invitation when he enters 
into office. What gave additional interest to this body, some years 
ago, was the constant attendance (as honorary members) of two 
venerable clergymen--one of the Episcopal, and the other of the 
Presbyterian church, who joined in the innocent pastime of the day. 
They were pious and exemplary men, who discerned no sin in harmless 
gaiety. Quoits and backgammon are the only games indulged in, and one 
of the clergymen was for many years "cock of the walk" in throwing the 
_discus_. They are gone to their account, and have left a chasm that 
has not been filled.

Some years ago, an amendment was made to the constitution, which 
admits the use of porter. Great opposition was made to this 
innovation, and the destruction of the club was predicted as the 
consequence. The oppositionists, however, soon became as great 
consumers of malt and hops as their associates, and now they even 
consent to the introduction of wine at the last meeting of every year, 
provided there be "a shot in the locker." The members each advance ten 
dollars to the treasurer at the beginning of the season, and every 
member is entitled to invite any {189} strangers as guests, on paying 
into the general fund one dollar for each; while the caterers of the 
day, consisting of two members in rotation, preside, and have the 
privilege of bringing each a guest (either citizen or non-resident,) 
at free cost. On the day I was present, dinner was ready at half past 
three o'clock, and consisted of excellent meats and fish, well 
prepared and well served, with the vegetables of the season. Your 
veritable gourmand never fails to regale himself on his favorite 
_barbecue_--which is a fine fat pig, called "shoot," cooked on the 
coals, and highly seasoned with cayenne--a dessert of melons and 
fruits follows, and punch, porter and toddy are the table liquors; but 
with the fruits comes on the favorite beverage of the Virginians, mint 
julep, in place of wine. I never witnessed more festivity and good 
humor than prevail at this club. By the constitution, the subject of 
politics is forbidden, and each man strives to make the time pleasant 
to his companions. The members think they can offer no higher 
compliment to a distinguished stranger, than to introduce him to the 
club, and all feel it a duty to contribute to his entertainment. It 
was refreshing to see such a man as Chief Justice Marshall, laying 
aside the reserve of his dignified station, and contending with the 
young men at a game of quoits, with all the emulation of a youth.

Many anecdotes are told of occurrences at these meetings. Such is the 
partiality for the Chief Justice, that it is said the greatest anxiety 
is felt for his success in the game by the bystanders; and on one 
occasion an old Scotch gentleman was called on to decide between his 
quoit and that of another member, who after seemingly careful 
measurement, announced, "Mister _Mareshall_ has it a _leattle_," when 
it was visible to all that the contrary was the fact. A French 
gentleman (Baron Quenet,) was at one time a guest, when the Governor, 
the Chief Justice, and several of the Judges of the High Court of 
Appeals, were engaged with others, _with coats off_, in a 
well-contested game. He asked, "if it was possible that the 
dignitaries of the land could thus intermix with private citizens," 
and when assured of the fact, he observed, with true Gallican 
enthusiasm, that "he had never before seen the real beauty of 
republicanism."


In Judge Marshall's yearly visits to Fauquier, where the proper 
implements of his favorite sport were not to be had, he still 
practised it among his rustic friends, with _flat stones_ for quoits. 
A casual guest at a _barbecue_ in that county--one of those rural 
entertainments so frequent among the country people of Virginia--soon 
after his arrival at the spot, saw an old man emerge from a thicket 
which bordered the neighboring brook, carrying as large a pile of 
these flat stones as he could hold between his right arm and his chin: 
he stepped briskly up to the company, and threw down his load among 
them, exclaiming, "There! Here are quoits enough for us all!" The 
stranger's surprise may be imagined, when he found that this plain and 
cheerful old man was the Chief Justice of the United States! Nor was 
the _bonhommie_, with which he could descend to the level of common 
life, restricted to his intercourse with men and women: he was often a 
pleasing companion even to children. One, whose first recollection of 
him referred to his triumphal entry (for such it was) into Richmond, 
on his return from France, and who, as a printer's boy, afterwards for 
several years was carrier of a newspaper to him, describes him as 
"remarkably fond of boys' company--always chatty--and always 
pleasant." The reminiscent, having been transferred to Washington in 
1800, while Mr. M. was Secretary of State, says, "again did the 
pleasing office of serving him with the 'Washington Federalist' 
devolve on me. He resided in a brick building hardly larger than most 
of the kitchens now in use. I found him still the same plain, 
unostentatious John Marshall: always accessible, and always with a 
smile on his countenance when I handed him the 'Federalist.' His 
kindness of manner won my affections; and I became devotedly attached 
to him."

Even from this early period the reminiscent may date the commencement 
of an intercourse and correspondence with the Chief Justice, which 
endured uninterruptedly for many years, until the period of his 
lamented death. The unaffected and childlike simplicity of manner, 
action, and thought which pervaded, as the sunlight pervades the 
atmosphere, every moment of this truly great man's existence, and 
which, indeed, formed, in no little degree, the basis of his 
greatness, sufficed to render the intercourse of which we speak, an 
intercourse of the most kindly, unembarrassed, and intimate nature; 
and one which afforded opportunities for a more particular knowledge 
of the strictly private and familiar habitudes of the man, than has 
fallen to the lot of many who, perhaps, were better entitled to his 
confidence. The reminiscent would here acknowledge, not only with 
gratitude, but with pride, the innumerable, yet unobtrusive acts of 
generous assistance and advice, for which he is indebted to the 
friendship of Chief Justice Marshall.

When, to all these engaging traits of character, we add that his 
charitable benefactions were as large as his mind, and as 
unostentatious as his life; and that in his dealings he was so 
scrupulously just, as always to prefer his own loss to the possibility 
of his wronging another; it can be no wonder, that despite the 
unpopularity of his federo-political opinions, he was the most beloved 
and esteemed of all men in Virginia.

The influence of Judge Marshall upon the decisions of the Supreme 
Court, in cases requiring a determination of the limits set by the 
Constitution to federal power, will be deemed salutary or pernicious, 
according as the mind which contemplates it is biassed towards the one 
or the other school of opinions on that subject--towards the _strict_, 
or towards the _liberal_ (what its opponents term the _licentious_) 
construction. Having been profoundly--perhaps exaggeratedly--impressed 
with a dread of the evils attending a feeble government for the Union, 
he had advocated the new Constitution originally, and maintained the 
_liberal_ interpretation of it afterwards, as indispensable to the 
integrity and wholesome action of our system. Opinions which he had 
thus held for thirteen years, and which had become fixed more and more 
deeply in his mind by his numberless able vindications of them, he 
could not be expected to throw aside when he ascended the Bench. They 
pervaded his decisions there; and such was the influence of his 
gigantic intellect, that, although, as Chief Justice, his vote had no 
more legal authority than that of any other Judge, and although most 
of his associates were deemed, at their appointments, maintainers of 
the _strict construction_,--the Supreme Court took its tone from him; 
and in almost every instance where the controversy turned upon the 
boundaries between _federal_ and _state_ authority, as fixed by the 
Constitution, its determination tended to enlarge the former, and to 
circumscribe the latter. Never, probably, did any judge, who had six 
associates equal to himself in judicial authority, so effectually 
stamp their adjudications with the impress of his own mind. This may 
be read, in the generous pleasure with which the best and ablest[22] 
of those associates dwells upon the {190} inestimable service done to 
the country, in establishing a code of Constitutional Law so perfect, 
that "His proudest epitaph may be written in a single line--Here lies 
the Expounder of the Constitution of the United States." It may be 
read in the glowing page, where Mr. Binney, resolving the glory of the 
Court in having "explained, defended and enforced the Constitution," 
into the merits of its presiding judge, declares himself "lost in 
admiration of the man, and in gratitude to Heaven for his beneficent 
life." It may be read in the many volumes of Reports, where, 
whensoever a question of constitutional law was to be determined, the 
opinion of Judge Marshall is found, almost without exception, to be 
the opinion of the Supreme Court.

[Footnote 22: Judge Story.]

We shall make but one more extract from Mr. Binney's admirable Eulogy.


He was endued by nature with a patience that was never 
surpassed;--patience to hear that which he knew already, that which he 
disapproved, that which questioned himself. When he ceased to hear, it 
was not because his patience was exhausted, but because it ceased to 
be a virtue.

His carriage in the discharge of his judicial business, was faultless. 
Whether the argument was animated or dull, instructive or superficial, 
the regard of his expressive eye was an assurance that nothing that 
ought to affect the cause, was lost by inattention or indifference; 
and the courtesy of his general manner was only so far restrained on 
the Bench, as was necessary for the dignity of office, and for the 
suppression of familiarity.

His industry and powers of labor, when contemplated in connection with 
his social temper, show a facility that does not generally belong to 
parts of such strength. There remain behind him nearly thirty volumes 
of copiously reasoned decisions, greater in difficulty and labor, than 
probably have been made in any other court during the life of a single 
judge! yet he participated in them all; and in those of greatest 
difficulty, his pen has most frequently drawn up the judgment; and in 
the midst of his judicial duties, he composed and published in the 
year 1804, a copious biography of Washington, surpassing in 
authenticity and minute accuracy, any public history with which we are 
acquainted. He found time also to revise it, and to publish a second 
edition, separating the History of the American Colonies from the 
Biography, and to prepare with his own pen an edition of the latter 
for the use of schools. Every part of it is marked with the scrupulous 
veracity of a judicial exposition; and it shows moreover, how deeply 
the writer was imbued with that spirit which will live after all the 
compositions of men shall be forgotten,--the spirit of charity, which 
could indite a history of the Revolution and of parties, in which he 
was a conspicuous actor, without discoloring his pages with the 
slightest infusion of gall. It could not be written with more candor 
an hundred years hence. It has not been challenged for the want of it, 
but in a single instance, and that has been refuted by himself with 
irresistible force of argument, as well as with unexhausted benignity 
of temper.

To qualities such as these, he joined an immoveable firmness befitting 
the office of presiding judge, in the highest tribunal of the country. 
It was not the result of excited feeling, and consequently never rose 
or fell with the emotions of the day. It was the constitution of his 
nature, and sprung from the composure of a mind undisturbed by doubt, 
and of a heart unsusceptible of fear. He thought not of the fleeting 
judgments and commentaries of men; and although he was not indifferent 
to their approbation, it was not the compass by which he was directed, 
nor the haven in which he looked for safety.

His learning was great, and his faculty of applying it of the very 
first order.

But it is not by these qualities that he is so much distinguished from 
the judges of his time. In learning and industry, in patience, 
firmness, and fidelity, he has had his equals. But there is no judge, 
living or dead, whose claims are disparaged by assigning the first 
place in the department of constitutional law to Chief Justice 
Marshall.


For several years past, Judge Marshall had suffered under a most 
excruciating malady. A surgical operation by Dr. Physick of 
Philadelphia, at length procured him relief; but a hurt received in 
travelling, last spring, seems to have caused a return of the former 
complaint, with circumstances of aggravated pain and danger. Having 
revisited Philadelphia, in the hope of again finding a cure, his 
disease there overpowered him; and he died, on the 6th of July, 1835, 
in the 80th year of his age, surrounded by three of his children. His 
eldest son, Thomas, journeying to attend his death bed, had been 
killed by the fall of a chimney in Baltimore, but eight days before.

The love of simplicity and the dislike of ostentation, which had 
marked Chief Justice Marshall's life, displayed itself also in his 
last days. Apprehensive that his remains might be encumbered with the 
vain pomp of a costly monument and a laudatory epitaph, he, only two 
days before his death, directed the common grave of himself and his 
consort, to be indicated by a plain stone, with this simple and modest 
inscription:


"John Marshall, son of Thomas and Mary Marshall, was born on the 24th 
of September, 1755, intermarried with Mary Willis Ambler the 3d of 
January, 1783, departed this life the ---- day of ---- 18--."


All the just renown with which his great name might have been 
emblazoned, simplified into the three circumstances, of _birth_, 
_marriage_, and _death_, which would equally suit the grave-stone of 
the humblest villager!

We cannot better conclude this article than by copying two 
delineations of its subject, sketched by hands which, years before 
him, were mouldering in the grave: sketched, it seems to us, with so 
much elegance and truth, that any extended account of Judge Marshall 
could hardly be deemed complete without them. The first was drawn 
thirty years ago: the other, less than twenty.

"The ..... ....... of the United States," says Mr. Wirt, in _The 
British Spy_, "is, in his person, tall, meager, emaciated: his muscles 
relaxed, and his joints so loosely connected, as not only to 
disqualify him, apparently, for any vigorous exertion of body, but to 
destroy every thing like harmony in his air and movements. Indeed, in 
his whole appearance, and demeanor; dress, attitudes, gesture; 
sitting, standing, or walking; he is as far removed from the idolized 
graces of Lord Chesterfield, as any other gentleman on earth. His head 
and face are small in proportion to his height: his complexion 
swarthy; the muscles of his face, being relaxed, make him appear to be 
fifty years of age, nor can he be much younger: his countenance has a 
faithful expression of great good humor and hilarity; while his black 
eyes--that unerring index--possess an irradiating spirit, which 
proclaims the imperial powers of the mind that sits enthroned within.

"This extraordinary man, without the aid of fancy, without the 
advantages of person, voice, attitude, gesture, or any of the 
ornaments of an orator, deserves to be considered as one of the most 
eloquent men in the world; if eloquence may be said to consist in the 
power of seizing the attention with irresistible force, and never 
permitting it to elude the grasp, until the hearer has received the 
conviction which the speaker intends.

"His voice is dry and hard; his attitude, in his most effective 
orations, was often extremely awkward; while all his gesture proceeded 
from his right arm, and consisted merely in a perpendicular swing of 
it, from about {191} the elevation of his head, to the bar, behind 
which he was accustomed to stand.

"As to fancy, if she hold a seat in his mind at all, his gigantic 
genius tramples with disdain, on all her flower-decked plats and 
blooming parterres. How then, you will ask, how is it possible, that 
such a man can hold the attention of an audience enchained, through a 
speech of even ordinary length? I will tell you.

"He possesses one original, and almost supernatural faculty: the 
faculty of developing a subject by a single glance of his mind, and 
detecting at once, the very point on which every controversy depends. 
No matter, what the question: though ten times more knotty than 'the 
gnarled oak,' the lightning of heaven is not more rapid or more 
resistless, than his astonishing penetration. Nor does the exercise of 
it seem to cost him an effort. On the contrary, it is as easy as 
vision. I am persuaded, that his eyes do not fly over a landscape and 
take in its various objects with more promptitude and facility, than 
his mind embraces and analyzes the most complex subject.

"Possessing while at the bar, this intellectual elevation, which 
enabled him to look down and comprehend the whole ground at once, he 
determined immediately and without difficulty, on which side the 
question might be most advantageously approached and assailed. In a 
bad cause, his art consisted in laying his premises so remotely from 
the point directly in debate, or else in terms so general and so 
specious, that the hearer, seeing no consequence which could be drawn 
from them, was just as willing to admit them as not; but, his premises 
once admitted, the demonstration, however distant, followed as 
certainly, as cogently, as inevitably, as any demonstration in Euclid.

"All his eloquence consists in the apparently deep self-conviction, 
and emphatic earnestness of his manner; the correspondent simplicity 
and energy of his style; the close and logical connexion of his 
thoughts; and the easy gradations by which he opens his lights on the 
attentive minds of his hearers. The audience are never permitted to 
pause for a moment. There is no stopping to weave garlands of flowers, 
to hang in festoons, around a favorite argument. On the contrary, 
every sentence is progressive; every idea sheds new light on the 
subject; the listener is kept perpetually in that sweetly pleasurable 
vibration, with which the mind of man always receives new truths; the 
dawn advances with easy but unremitting pace; the subject opens 
gradually on the view; until, rising, in high relief, in all its 
native colors and proportions, the argument is consummated, by the 
conviction of the delighted hearer."

The following observations on the intellectual character of Judge 
Marshall, are from the pen of FRANCIS W. GILMER--one who, had he not 
been prematurely cut off by the hand of death, would have ranked with 
the foremost men of his age and country.

"His mind is not very richly stored with knowledge; but it is so 
creative, so well organized by nature, or disciplined by early 
education, and constant habits of systematic thinking, that he 
embraces every subject with the clearness and facility of one prepared 
by previous study to comprehend and explain it. So perfect is his 
analysis, that he extracts the whole matter, the kernel of inquiry, 
unbroken, clean, and entire. In this process, such are the instinctive 
neatness and precision of his mind, that no superfluous thought, or 
even word, ever presents itself, and still he says every thing that 
seems appropriate to the subject. This perfect exemption from needless 
incumbrance of matter or ornament, is in some degree the effect of an 
aversion to the labor of thinking. So great a mind, perhaps, like 
large bodies in the physical world, is with difficulty set in motion. 
That this is the case with Mr. Marshall's, is manifest, from his mode 
of entering on an argument, both in conversation and in public debate. 
It is difficult to rouse his faculties: he begins with reluctance, 
hesitation, and vacancy of eye: presently, his articulation becomes 
less broken, his eye more fixed, until, finally, his voice is full, 
clear, and rapid, his manner bold, and his whole face lighted up, with 
the mingled fires of genius and passion: and he pours forth the 
unbroken stream of eloquence, in a current deep, majestic, smooth and 
strong. He reminds one of some great bird, which flounders and 
flounces on the earth for a while, before it acquires _impetus_ to 
sustain its soaring flight."


EMILIA HARRINGTON.

_The Confessions of Emilia Harrington. By Lambert A. Wilmer. 
Baltimore._

This is a duodecimo of about two hundred pages. We have read it with 
that deep interest always excited by works written in a similar 
manner--be the subject matter what it may--works in which the author 
utterly loses sight of himself in his theme, and, for the time, 
identifies his own thoughts and feelings with the thoughts and 
feelings of fictitious existences. Than the power of accomplishing 
this perfect identification, there is no surer mark of genius. It is 
the spell of Defoe. It is the wand of Boccacio. It is the proper 
enchantment of the Arabian Tales--the gramarye of Scott, and the magic 
of the Bard of Avon. Had, therefore, the Emilia Harrington of Mr. 
Wilmer not one other quality to recommend it, we should have been 
satisfied of the author's genius from the simple _verisimilitude_ of 
his narrative. Yet, unhappily, books thus written are not the books by 
which men acquire a contemporaneous reputation. What we said on this 
subject in the last number of the Messenger, may be repeated here 
without impropriety. We spoke of the Robinson Crusoe. "What better 
possible species of fame could the author have desired for that book 
than the species which it has so long enjoyed? It has become a 
household thing in nearly every family in Christendom. Yet never was 
admiration of any work--universal admiration--more indiscriminately or 
more inappropriately bestowed. Not one person in ten--nay, not one 
person in five hundred has, during the perusal of Robinson Crusoe, the 
most remote conception that any particle of genius, or even of common 
talent, has been employed in its creation. Men do not look upon it in 
the light of a literary performance. Defoe has none of their thoughts; 
Robinson all. The powers which have wrought the wonder, have been 
thrown into obscurity by the very stupendousness of the wonder they 
have wrought. We read, and become perfect abstractions in the 
intensity of our interest--we close the book, and are quite satisfied 
we could have written as well ourselves."

Emilia Harrington will render essential services to virtue in the 
unveiling of the deformities of vice. This {192} is a deed of no 
questionable utility. We fully agree with our author that ignorance of 
wrong is not security for the right; and Mr. Wilmer has obviated every 
possible objection to the "Confessions," by a so cautious wording of 
his disclosures as not to startle, in warning, the virtuous. That the 
memoirs are not wholly fictitious is more than probable. There is much 
internal evidence of authenticity in the book itself, and the preface 
seems to hint that a portion at least of the narrative is true--yet 
for the sake of human nature it is to be hoped that _some_ passages 
are overcolored. The _style_ of Mr. Wilmer is not only good in itself, 
but exceedingly well adapted to his subjects. The letter to _Augustus 
Harrington_ is vigorously written, and many long extracts might be 
taken from the book evincing powers of no ordinary kind.

Within a circle of _private_ friends, whom Mr. Wilmer's talents and 
many virtues have attached devotedly to himself, and among whom we are 
very proud in being ranked, his writings have been long properly 
appreciated, and we sincerely hope the days are not far in futurity 
when he will occupy that full station in the _public_ eye to which his 
merits so decidedly entitle him. Our readers must all remember the 
touching lines _To Mira_, in the first number of our second 
volume--lines which called forth the highest encomiums from many whose 
opinions are of value. Their exquisite tenderness of sentiment--their 
vein of deep and _unaffected_ melancholy--and their antique strength, 
and high polish of versification, struck us, upon a first perusal, 
with force, and subsequent readings have not weakened the impression. 
Mr. W. has written many other similar things. Among his longer pieces 
we may particularize _Merlin_, a drama--some portions of which are 
full of the truest poetic fire. His prose tales and other short 
publications are numerous; and as Editor of the Philadelphia Saturday 
Evening Post, he has boldly and skilfully asserted the rights of 
independent criticism, speaking, in all instances--the truth. His 
Satiric Odes in the Post, over the signature of_ Horace in 
Philadelphia_, have attracted great attention, and have been 
deservedly admired.

We copy with true pleasure from the editorial columns of a Baltimore 
contemporary, (for whose opinions we have the highest respect, even 
when they differ from our own,) the following notice of _Emilia 
Harrington_. It will supersede the necessity of any farther comment 
from ourselves.


"This book is one of a class the publication of which is considered by 
many as objectionable. The lifting up of the veil which covers crime; 
crime of the most disgusting and debasing character--is thought by 
moralists of the present day to be an act of questionable utility. 
This opinion has gained strength from the intemperate zeal of too many 
who have thought fit to publish flauntingly to the world the result of 
their startling discoveries while penetrating the haunts of corruption 
and vice, instead of silently moving on in the cause of Christian 
benevolence, and, when called upon for disclosures, giving information 
in such a way as not to startle the virtuous into shrinking, nor cause 
the vicious to raise the hue and cry against them. From the objection 
of ultraism the 'Confessions' are to a great extent free--although in 
some few instances the author has allowed himself a latitude which it 
would have been as well not to have taken.

"Apart from the character of the book, it possesses for us no trifling 
interest. Our thoughts run back continually from its pages to the 
gifted young author, prematurely gray; nor can we conquer a gathering 
sadness of feeling as we contemplate him bending wearily beneath the 
accumulating weight of adverse circumstances--broken in spirit, and 
yet uncomplaining. That the writer of this book possesses talents of 
an order far superior to many of twice his reputation, we have long 
been convinced, and yet he is scarcely known. Ten years ago his 
promise of future success in the walks of literary fame was 
flattering, almost beyond example; but, who can struggle against the 
ills of life--its cares, its privations and disappointments--with the 
added evils which petty jealousy and vindictive malice bring in to 
crush the spirit,--and not, in the very feebleness of humanity, grow 
weak and weary. And thus it seems in a measure to have been with the 
author of this book; he has not now the healthy vigor which once 
marked his production--the playful humor, nor the sparkling wit; and 
why--as continual dropping will wear away the hardest rock, so will 
continued neglect, and disappointment, and care, wear away the mind's 
healthy tone and strength of action. And yet, after all, may we not be 
mistaken in this. Is not the unobtrusive volume before us a strong 
evidence of unfailing powers of mind, which, though aiming at no 
brilliant display, acts with order, conciseness, and a nicely balanced 
energy? It is even so. One great attribute of genius is its power of 
identifying itself with its hero, and never losing sight of all the 
relations which it now holds to the world in its new character; and 
this identity has been well kept up by Mr. Wilmer--so much so, that in 
but few instances do we forget that the writer is other than the 
heroine of the tale."



AMERICAN IN ENGLAND.

_The American in England. By the Author of "A Year in Spain." 2 vols. 
New York. Harper and Brothers._

Lieutenant Slidell's very excellent book, "A Year in Spain," was in 
some danger of being overlooked by his countrymen when a benignant 
star directed Murray's attention to its merits. Fate and Regent Street 
prevailed. Cockney octavos carried the day. A man is nothing if not 
hot-pressed; and the clever young writer who was cut dead in his 
Yankee-land habiliments, met with bows innumerable in the gala dress 
of a London _imprimatur_. The "Year in Spain" well deserved the 
popularity thus inauspiciously attained. It was the work of a man of 
genius; and passing through several editions, prepared the public 
attention for any subsequent production of its author. As regards "The 
American in England," we have not only read it with deep interest from 
beginning to end, but have been at the trouble of seeking out and 
perusing a great variety of critical _dicta_ concerning it. Nearly all 
of these are in its favor, and we are happy in being able to concur 
heartily with the popular voice--if indeed these _dicta_ be its 
echoes.

We have somewhere said--or we should have somewhere said--that the old 
adage about "Truth in a well" (we mean the adage in its modern and 
improper--not in its antique and proper acceptation) should be 
swallowed _cum grano salis_ at times. To be profound is not always to 
be sensible. The depth of an argument is not, necessarily, its 
wisdom--this depth lying where Truth is sought more often than where 
she is found. As the touches of a painting which, to minute 
inspection, are 'confusion worse confounded' will not fail to start 
boldly out to the cursory glance of a connoisseur--or as a star may be 
seen more distinctly in a sidelong survey than in any direct gaze 
however penetrating and {193} intense--so there are, not unfrequently, 
times and methods, in which, and by means of which, a richer 
philosophy may be gathered on the surface of things than can be drawn 
up, even with great labor, _c profundis_. It appears to us that Mr. 
Slidell has written a wiser book than his neighbors merely by not 
disdaining to write a more superficial one.

The work is dedicated to John Duer, Esq. The Preface is a very 
sensible and a sufficiently well-written performance, in which the 
Lieutenant while "begging, at the outset, to be acquitted of any 
injurious prejudices" still pleads guilty to "that ardent patriotism 
which is the common attribute of Americans, a feeling of nationality 
inherited with the laws, the language, and the manners of the country 
from which we derive our origin, and which is sanctioned not less by 
the comparison of the blessings we enjoy with those of other lands, 
than by the promptings of good feeling, and the dictates of good 
taste." It is in the body of the book, however, that we must seek, and 
where we shall most assuredly find, strong indications of a genius not 
the less rich, rare, and altogether estimable for the simplicity of 
its _modus operandi_.

Commencing with his embarkation at New York, our author succeeds, at 
once, in rivetting the attention of his readers by _a succession of 
minute details_. But there is this vast difference between the details 
of Mr. Slidell, and the details of many of his contemporaries. 
They--the many--impressed, apparently, with the belief that mere 
minuteness is sufficient to constitute force, and that to be accurate 
is, of necessity, to be verisimilar--have not hesitated in putting in 
upon their canvass all the _actual_ lines which might be discovered in 
their subject. This Mr. Slidell has known better than to do. He has 
felt that the apparent, not the real, is the province of a 
painter--and that _to give_ (speaking technically) _the idea of any 
desired object, the toning down, or the utter neglect of certain 
portions of that object is absolutely necessary to the proper bringing 
out of other portions--portions by whose sole instrumentality the idea 
of the object is afforded_. With a fine eye then for the picturesque, 
and with that strong sense of propriety which is inseparable from true 
genius, our American has crossed the water, dallied a week in London, 
and given us, as the result of his observations, a few masterly 
sketches, with all the spirit, vigor, raciness and illusion of a 
panorama.

Very rarely have we seen any thing of the kind superior to the 
"American in England." The interest begins with the beginning of the 
book, and abides with us, unabated, to the end. From the scenes in the 
Yankee harbor, to the departure of the traveller from England, his 
arrival in France, and installment among the comforts of the Hotel 
Quillacq, all is terse, nervous, brilliant and original. The review of 
the ship's company, in the initial chapter of the book is exceedingly 
entertaining. The last character thus introduced is so peculiarly 
sketched that we must copy what the author says about him. It will 
serve to exemplify some of our own prior remarks.


"Let me not forget to make honorable mention of the white-headed 
little raggamuffin who was working his passage, and who, in this 
capacity, had the decks to sweep, ropes to haul, chickens and pigs to 
feed, the cow to milk, and the dishes to wash, as well as all other 
jobs to do that belonged to no one in particular. As a proof of good 
will, he had chopped off the tails of a dandy, velvet-collared, blue 
coat, with the cook's axe, the very first day out. This was performed 
at the windlass-bits, in full conclave of the crew, and I suspected at 
the suggestion of a roguish man-of-war's-man, a shipmate of mine. The 
tails were cut just below the pocket flaps, which gave them a sort of 
razee look, and, in conjunction with the velvet collar, made the 
oddest appearance in the world, as he would creep, stern first, out of 
the long-boat after milking the cow. Blow high or blow low, the poor 
boy had no time to be sea-sick. Sometimes he would get adrift in the 
lee scuppers and roll over in the water, keeping fast hold of the 
plates he was carying to the galley."


Some incidents at sea--such as the narrow escape from running down a 
brig, and the imminent danger incurred by an English pilot--are told 
with all the gusto of a seaman. Among other fine passages we may 
particularize an account of British sailors on shore at Portsmouth--of 
a family group on board a steamer--of the appearance of the Kentish 
coast--of the dangers of the Thames--of the Dover coach--of some 
groups in a London coffee-room--of a stand of hackney-coaches--of St. 
James' Park--of a midnight scene in the streets--of the Strand--of 
Temple-Bar--of St. Paul's and the view from the summit--of 
Rothschild--of Barclay and Perkins' Brewery--of the Thames' Tunnel--of 
the Tower--of the Zoological Gardens--of Robert Owen--of the habits of 
retired citizens--and of the rural tastes of Englishmen. A parallel 
between Regent Street and Broadway brings the two thoroughfares with 
singular distinctness to the eye of the mind--and in the way of 
animated and vivid description we can, at this moment, remember 
nothing in the whole range of fact or fiction much superior to the 
Lieutenant's narrative of his midnight entrance into London. Indeed we 
can almost pardon a contemporary for speaking of this picture as 
sublime. A small portion of it we copy--but no just idea of its total 
effect can be thus gathered--an effect depending in a great measure 
upon the gradual manner in which it is brought about.


"I know nothing more exhilirating than to be suddenly ushered in the 
night into a populous quarter of a great city. My recollection readily 
conjures up the impressions made upon me under similar circumstances 
in entering Paris, Madrid, Brussels, Milan, or gay and lively Naples. 
The lower classes, with their good humor, their quaint drollery and 
sprightliness, there offer the most agreeable objects of 
contemplation. Here, however, there was in the corresponding classes 
nothing pleasing, or even picturesque. All seemed in search of food, 
of the means of intemperance, and of gratifying low and brutal 
passions. The idea of amusement had evidently no place. The streets 
swarmed with abandoned women, filthy in their dress, open, brutal, and 
indecent in their advances. In the places of the guitar, the serenade, 
the musical cries of chesnut-women, lemonade-sellers, and watermen, 
the sounds here were harsh and grating: uttered in words ill 
pronounced and nasally prolonged, or in an unintelligible and 
discordant slang which I no longer recognized as belonging to my own 
language. In the place of skilful musicians performing the favorite 
airs of Mozart or Rossini, or the witty colloquies of the sententious 
Punchinello, the poor were invited, in the nasal twang of clamorous 
mountebanks to amuse themselves by a sight of the latest cases of 
seduction, murder, suicide, and hanging, represented in the shadows of 
the camera obscura. The dark masses of dwelling-houses had a confined, 
narrow, gloomy, and lugubrious aspect. They were of brick, without 
window-sills of marble or other colored stone; unpainted, and 
unenlivened by blinds. They were closely shut, and the glimpses of 
cheerfulness and domestic comfort {194} exhibited in our streets were 
here unseen. All the shops were open to the weather: Many of them 
having the whole front removed, and gas-lights blazing and streaming 
like great torches, rather than with the puny and flickering 
illumination seen in ours. The articles were completely exposed to 
view at the side of the street; clothing, provisions, crockery, 
hardware; whatever is necessary to the wants of man. The druggists, 
with their variegated vases, as with us, cast the Iris hues of their 
nauseous mixtures into the street. Sellers of cheap goods exposed them 
in the windows, with their price labelled. The butchers hung out beef, 
pork, sausages, and enormous coarse sheep, in a nearly whole state, 
with sometimes the price affixed to the inferior portions, in order 
that the poor might judge whether the price they had received for 
their day's labor, would compass a meal of meat; or whether they 
should seek a diet more suited to their means, of a neighboring 
potato-merchant: or whether to turn in despair, as many of the most 
wretched seemed to do, to accept the flattering invitation of the 
magnificent gin-palace at the corner. It was the most splendid 
building in the neighborhood; built with some little architectural 
elegance, whose effect was magnified by the unadorned character and 
gloomy air of the surrounding edifices. A beautiful gas-light, in a 
richly ornamented lamp, stood as an inviting beacon, visible in many 
diverging directions. The windows were glazed with costly plate-glass, 
bearing inscribed, in illuminated letters, the words--gin at 
three-pence--generous wines hot-spiced;--and the door surrounded by 
stained panes of rich dye, having rosettes, bunches of grapes, and gay 
devices."


There are some few _niaiseries_ in the work before us, which, although 
insufficient to affect its character as a whole, yet constitute a weak 
point in what otherwise is beautiful, and cause us to regret 
sincerely, the accidents which have admitted them. We may mention, in 
especial, the too frequent introduction of the monosyllable "_how_," 
in such sentences as "they told how"--"it was related how"--"I was 
informed how," &c. Mr. Slidell will find, upon self-scrutiny, that he 
has fallen into this habit through the sin of imitation. The 
Lieutenant, too, suffers his work to savor far too strongly of the 
ship, and lets slip him no opportunity of thrusting upon the public 
attention the fact of his particular vocation--insisting, indeed, upon 
this matter with a pertinacity even ludicrous--a pertinacity which 
will be exemplified in the following passage:


"_Unaccustomed as I had been in the larger vessels, in which I had 
sailed of late_, to be thus unceremoniously boarded _on the hallowed 
region of the quarter-deck_, this seemed to me quite a superfluous 
piece of impertinence. The remains of my sentiment were at once washed 
away, and _not minding a little honest salt-water_, I betook myself 
forthwith to the substantial comfortings of the repast, which I found 
smoking on the cabin table. Dinner was over: tea and conversation had 
followed; the evening was already far advanced, and I began to yield 
to the sleepy sensation _which the familiar roll of the sea inspired_. 
Before turning in I ascended to the companionway to breathe the fresh 
air, and see what progress we were making. _Familiar as I was with the 
sight of ships in every possible situation_, I was much struck with 
the beauty of the scene."


Again. Although the author evinces, in theory, a very laudable 
contempt for that silly vanity so often inducing men to blazon forth 
their intimacy with the distinguished; and although, in the volumes 
now before us, he more than once directs the arrows of his satire at 
the infirmity--still he is found not altogether free from it himself; 
and, in one especial instance, is even awkwardly uneasy, lest we 
should remain ignorant of his acquaintance with Washington Irving. "I 
thought," quoth the Lieutenant, when there was no necessity for 
thinking about any such matter, "I thought of the 'spectral box-coats' 
of my inimitable friend Geoffrey Crayon; and would have given the 
world in that moment of despondency, for one of his quiet unwritten 
jokes, or one friendly pressure of his hand."

Upon Mr. Slidell's mechanical style we cannot bring ourselves to look 
with favor. Indeed while running over, with some astonishment, a few 
of his singularly ill-constructed sentences, we begin to think that 
the sentiments expressed in the conclusion of his Preface are not, as 
we at first suspected, merely the common cant of the _literateur_, and 
that his book is actually, as he represents it to be, "the result of 
an up-hill journey," and "a work which he regards with a feeling of 
aversion." What else than great tedium and utter weariness with his 
labor, could have induced our author to trust such passages as the 
following to the critical eye of the public?


"The absence of intellectual and moral culture, in occupations which 
rendered it unnecessary for those who worked only to administer food 
to themselves and profit or luxury to the class of masters, could only 
account for the absence of forehead, of the ornamental parts of that 
face which was moulded after a divine model."


We perused this sentence more than once before we could fathom its 
meaning. Mr. Slidell wishes to say, that _narrowness of forehead in 
the rabble is owing to want of mental exercise--they being laborers 
not thinkers_. But from the words of our author we are led to conclude 
that some occupations (certainly very strange ones) rendered it 
unnecessary for those who worked, to administer food to 
themselves--that is, to eat. The pronoun "_it_," however, will be 
found, upon examination, to refer to "moral culture." The repetition 
of the word "only" is also disagreeable, and the entire passage is 
overloaded with verbiage. A rigid scrutiny will show that all 
essential portions of the intended idea are embodied in the lines 
Italicised. In the original sentence are _fifty-four_ words--in our 
own _eighteen_--or precisely one third. It follows, that if all the 
Lieutenant's sentences had been abridged in a similar manner--a 
process which would have redounded greatly to their advantage--we 
might have been spared much trouble, and the public much time, 
trouble, and expense--the "American in England" making its appearance 
in a duodecimo of one hundred and ninety-two pages, rather than in two 
octavos of five hundred and seventy-six.

At page 122, vol. I, we have what follows.


"My situation here was uncomfortable enough; if I were softly 
cushioned on one side, this only tended, by the contrast, to increase 
the obduracy of a small iron rod, which served as a parapet to protect 
me from falling off the precipice, over which I hung toppling, and 
against which I was forced with a pressure proportioned to the 
circumstances of my being compressed into a space somewhat narrower 
than myself; the seat having doubtless been contrived to accommodate 
five men, and there being no greater anatomical mistake than to 
suppose there would be more room because four of them were women."


'_If I were_,' in this sentence, is not English--but there are few 
persons who will believe that "_if_" does not in _all_ instances 
require the subjunctive. In the words "_a small iron rod which served 
as a parapet to protect me from falling off the precipice over which I 
hung, and against which I was forced," &c._ let us say nothing of the 
{195} injudicious use of the word _parapet_ as applied to _a small 
iron rod_. Passing over this, it is evident, that the second relative 
pronoun "_which_," has for its antecedent, in strict syntactical 
arrangement, the same noun as the first relative pronoun 
"_which_"--that is to say, it has the word "_precipice_" for its 
antecedent. The sentence would thus imply that Mr. Slidell was forced 
against the precipice. But the actual meaning (at which we arrive by 
guessing) is, that Mr. Slidell was forced against the iron rod. In the 
words "_I was forced with a pressure proportioned to the circumstances 
of my being compressed into a space," &c._ let us again be indulgent, 
and say as little as possible of the tautology in "_pressure_" and 
"_compressed_." But we ask where are the _circumstances_ spoken of? 
There is only _one_ circumstance--the circumstance of being 
compressed. In the conclusion of the passage where the Lieutenant 
speaks of "a seat having doubtless been contrived to accommodate five 
men, and there being no greater anatomical mistake than to suppose 
there would be more room because four of them were women," it is quite 
unnecessary to point out the "bull egregious"--a bull which could have 
been readily avoided by the simple substitute of "_persons_" for 
"_men_."

We must be pardoned for copying yet another sentence. We will do so 
with the single remark that it is one of the most ludicrously 
ill-arranged, and altogether ungainly pieces of composition which it 
has ever been our ill fortune to encounter.


"I was not long in discovering that the different personages scattered 
about the room in such an unsocial and misanthropic manner, instead of 
being collected about the same board, as in France or my own country, 
and, in the spirit of good fellowship and of boon companions, 
relieving each other of their mutual ennuis, though they did not speak 
a word to each other, by which they might hereafter be compromised and 
socially ruined, by discovering that they had made the acquaintance of 
an individual several grades below them in the scale of rank, or haply 
as disagreeably undeceived by the abstraction of a pocket-book, still 
kept up a certain interchange of sentiment, by occasional glances and 
mutual observation."


Such passages as the foregoing may be discovered _passim_ in "The 
American in England." Yet we have heard Mr. Slidell's English called 
equal to the English of Mr. Irving--than which nothing can be more 
improbable. The Lieutenant's book is an excellent book--but then it is 
excellent _in spite of its style_. So great are the triumphs of 
genius!


CONTI.

_Conti the Discarded: with Other Tales and Fancies. By Henry F. 
Chorley. 2 vols. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers._

Mr. Chorley has hitherto written nothing of any great length. His 
name, however, is familiar to all readers of English Annuals, and in 
whatever we have seen from his pen, evidences of a rare genius have 
been perceptible. In Conti, and in the "Other Tales and Fancies" which 
accompany it, these evidences are more distinct, more brilliant, and 
more openly developed. Neither are these pieces wanting in a noble, 
and, to us, a most thrillingly interesting _purpose_. In saying that 
our whole heart is with the author--that the deepest, and we trust, 
the purest emotions are enkindled within us by his chivalric and 
magnanimous _design_--we present but a feeble picture of our 
individual feelings as influenced by the perusal of Conti. We repeat 
it--our whole heart is with the author. When _shall_ the artist assume 
his proper situation in society--in a society of thinking beings? How 
long shall he be enslaved? How long shall mind succumb to the grossest 
materiality? How long shall the veriest vermin of the Earth, who crawl 
around the altar of Mammon, be more esteemed of men than they, the 
gifted ministers to those exalted emotions which link us with the 
mysteries of Heaven? To our own query we may venture a reply. Not 
long. Not long will such rank injustice be committed or permitted. A 
spirit is already abroad at war with it. And in every billow of the 
unceasing sea of Change--and in every breath, however gentle, of the 
wide atmosphere of Revolution encircling us, is that spirit steadily 
yet irresistibly at work.

"Who has not looked," says Mr. Chorley in his Preface, "with painful 
interest on the unreckoned-up account of misunderstanding and 
suspicion which exists between the World and the Artist? Who has not 
grieved to see the former willing to degrade Art into a mere 
plaything--to be enjoyed without respect, and then cast aside--instead 
of receiving her high works as among the most humanizing blessings 
ever vouchsafed to man by a beneficent Creator? Who has not suffered 
shame in observing the Artist bring his own calling into contempt by 
coarsely regarding it as a mere engine of money getting, or holding it 
up to reproach by making it the excuse for such eccentricities or 
grave errors as separate him from the rest of society?"

That genius should not and indeed cannot be bound down to the vulgar 
common-places of existence, is a maxim which, however true, has been 
too often repeated; and there have appeared on earth enough spirits of 
the loftiest and most brilliant order who have worthily taken their 
part in life as useful citizens, affectionate husbands, faithful 
friends, to deprive of their excuse all such as hold, that to despise 
and alienate the world is the inevitable and painfully glorious 
destiny of the highly gifted.

Very few of our readers, it may be, are acquainted with a particular 
class of works which has long exercised a very powerful influence on 
the private habits and character, as well as on the literature of the 
Germans. We speak of the _Art Novels_--the Kunstromanen--books written 
not so much in immediate defence, or in illustration, as in 
personification of individual portions of the Fine Arts--books which, 
in the guise of Romance, labor to the sole end of reasoning men into 
admiration and study of the beautiful, by a tissue of _bizarre_ 
fiction, partly allegorical, and partly metaphysical. In Germany alone 
could so mad--or perhaps so profound--an idea have originated. From 
the statement of Mr. Chorley, we find that his original intention was 
to attempt something in the style of the _Kunstromanen_, with such 
modifications as might seem called for by the peculiar spirit of the 
British national tastes and literature. "It occurred to me, however," 
says he, "that the very speculations and reveries which appeared to 
myself so delicious and significant, might be rejected by the rest of 
the world as fantastic and overstrained." Mr. C. could never have 
persevered in a scheme so radically erroneous for more than a dozen 
pages; and neither the world nor himself will have {196} cause to 
regret that he thought proper to abandon the _Art Novels_, and embody 
his fine powers and lofty design in so stirring and so efficient a 
series of paintings as may be found in the present volumes.

A single passage near the commencement of Conti, will afford to all 
those who feel and think, direct evidence of the extraordinary 
abilities of Mr. Chorley. Madame Zerlini is an Italian _prima donna_, 
who becoming enamored of Colonel Hardwycke, an Englishman, accompanies 
him to England as his mistress, and after living with him for twelve 
years, and bearing him a son, Julius, dies suddenly upon hearing of 
his intention to marry.


"A strange scene greeted his eyes (those of Julius) as he entered the 
spacious hall, which, as its windows fronted the east, was already 
beginning to be dusky with the shadows of twilight. On the lowest step 
of the stairs lay, in violent hysterics, one of the women 
servants--she was raving and weeping, half supported by two others, 
themselves trembling so as to be almost powerless.

"'And here's Master Julius, too!' exclaimed one of the group which 
obstructed his passage, 'and my master gone away--no one knows for how 
long. Lord have mercy upon us!--what are we to do, I wonder?'

"'Don't go up stairs!' shrieked the other, leaving her charge, and 
endeavoring to stop him. 'Don't go up stairs--it is all over!'

"But the boy, whose mind was full of other matters, and who, having 
wandered away in the morning, before the delirium became so violent, 
had no idea of his mother's imminent danger, broke from them without 
catching the meaning of their words, and forced his way up stairs, 
towards the great drawing room, the folding doors of which were 
swinging open.

"He went in. Madame Zerlini was there--flung down upon a sofa, in an 
attitude which, in life, it would have been impossible for her to 
maintain for many moments. Her head was cast back over one of the 
pillows, so far, that her long hair, which had been imperfectly 
fastened, had disengaged itself by its own weight, and was now 
sweeping heavily downward, with a crushed wreath of passion flowers 
and myrtles half buried among it. Every thing about her told how 
fiercely the spirit had passed. Her robe of scarlet muslin was 
entirely torn off on one shoulder, and disclosed its exquisitely 
rounded proportions. Her glittering _negligé_ was unclasped, and one 
end of it clenched firmly in the small left hand, which there was now 
hardly any possibility of unclosing. Her glazed eyes were wide 
open--her mouth set in an unnatural, yet fascinating smile; her cheek 
still flushed with a more delicate, yet intense red than belongs to 
health; and the excited boy, who was rushing hastily into the room, 
with the rapid inquiry, 'Where is Father Vanezzi?' stood as fixed on 
the threshhold, with sudden and conscious horror, as if he had been a 
thing of marble."


It is not our intention to analyze, or even to give a compend of the 
Tale of Conti. Such are not the means by which any idea of its 
singular power can be afforded. We will content ourselves with saying 
that, in its prevailing tone, it bears no little resemblance to that 
purest, and most enthralling of fictions, the Bride of Lammermuir; and 
we have once before expressed our opinion of this, the master novel of 
Scott. It is not too much to say that no modern composition, and 
perhaps no composition whatever, with the single exception of 
Cervantes' Destruction of Numantia, approaches so nearly to the proper 
character of the dramas of Æschylus, as the magic tale of which 
Ravenswood is the hero. We are not aware of being sustained by any 
authority in this opinion--yet we do not believe it the less 
intrinsically correct.

The other pieces in the volumes of Mr. Chorley are, _Margaret Sterne_, 
or _The Organist's Journey_--an _Essay on the Popular Love of 
Music_--_Rossini's Otello_--_The Imaginative Instrumental Writers, 
Haydn, Beethoven, &c._--_The Village Beauty's Wedding_--_Handel's 
Messiah_--and _A few words upon National Music_--all of which papers 
evince literary powers of a high order, an intimate acquaintance with 
the science of music, and a lofty and passionate devotion to its 
interests.


NOBLE DEEDS OF WOMAN.

_Noble Deeds of Woman. 2 vols. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and 
Blanchard._

These are two neat little volumes devoted to a theme of rich interest. 
From the Preface, or rather from the date and place of date of the 
Preface, we may form a guess that the work was originally published in 
London, and that the present edition is merely a reprint. There is 
nothing in the title-page or in the body of the book indicative of its 
derivation. But be the "Noble Deeds of Woman" English or American, we 
recommend them heartily to public attention.

The content-table is thus subdivided: Maternal Affection--Filial 
Affection--Sisterly Affection--Conjugal 
Affection--Humanity--Integrity--Benevolence--Fortitude. Under each of 
these separate heads are collected numerous anecdotes in the manner of 
the Brothers Percy. Of course it will be impossible to speak of them 
as a whole. Some are a little _passés_--for the most part they are 
piquant and well selected--a few are exceedingly entertaining and 
_recherchés_. From page 139, vol. i, we select one or two paragraphs 
which will be sure to find favor with all our readers. We rejoice in 
so excellent an opportunity of transferring to our columns a document 
well deserving preservation.


During the late war between the Turks and the Greeks, some American 
ladies, touched by the hardships and sufferings of the latter people, 
presented them with a ship containing money, and various articles of 
wearing apparel, wrought by their own hands; an offering which, under 
their forlorn situation, must have been highly acceptable to the 
unfortunate Greeks.

The letter of Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut, to the Ladies' 
Greek Committee of that place, to accompany the contributions prepared 
for the Archipelago, was as follows:

"United States of America, March 12, 1828. The ladies of Hartford, in 
Connecticut, to the ladies of Greece.

"Sisters and Friends,--From the years of childhood your native clime 
has been the theme of our admiration: together with our brothers and 
our husbands we early learned to love the country of Homer, Aristides, 
of Solon, and of Socrates. That enthusiasm which the glory of ancient 
Greece enkindled in our bosoms, has preserved a fervent friendship for 
her descendants. We have beheld with deep sympathy the horrors of 
Turkish domination, and the struggle so long and nobly sustained by 
them for existence and for liberty.

"The communications of Dr. Howe, since his return from your land, have 
made us more intimately acquainted with your personal sufferings. He 
has presented many of you to us in his vivid descriptions, as seeking 
refuge in caves, and, under the branches of olive trees, listening for 
the footsteps of the destroyer, and mourning over your dearest ones 
slain in battle.

"Sisters and friends, our hearts bleed for you. Deprived of your 
protectors by the fortune of war, and continually in fear of evils 
worse than death, our prayers are with you, in all your wanderings, 
your wants and your griefs. In this vessel (which may God send in 
safety to your shores) you will receive a portion of that bounty 
wherewith He hath blessed us. The poor among us have given according 
to their ability, and our little children {197} have cheerfully aided, 
that some of you and your children might have bread to eat, and 
raiment to put on. Could you but behold the faces of our little ones 
brighten, and their eyes sparkle with joy, while they give up their 
holidays, that they might work with their needles for Greece; could 
you see those females who earn a subsistence by labor, gladly casting 
their mite into our treasury, and taking hours from their repose that 
an additional garment might be furnished for you; could you witness 
the active spirit that pervades all classes of our community, it would 
cheer for a moment the darkness and misery of your lot.

"We are inhabitants of a part of one of the smallest of the United 
States, and our donations must therefore, of necessity, be more 
limited than those from the larger and more wealthy cities; yet such 
as we have, we give in the name of our dear Saviour, with our 
blessings and our prayers.

"We know the value of sympathy--how it arms the heart to endure--how 
it plucks the sting from sorrow--therefore we have written these few 
lines to assure you, that in the remoter parts of our country, as well 
as in her high places, you are remembered with pity and with 
affection.

"Sisters and friends, we extend across the ocean our hands to you in 
the fellowship of Christ. We pray that His Cross and the banner of 
your land may rise together over the Crescent and the Minaret--that 
your sons may hail the freedom of ancient Greece restored, and build 
again the waste places which the oppressor hath trodden down; and that 
you, admitted once more to the felicities of home, may gather from 
past perils and adversities a brighter wreath for the kingdom of 
Heaven.

"LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY,

"Secretary of the Greek Committee of Hartford, Connecticut."



BULWER'S RIENZI.

_Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes. By the Author of "Eugene Aram," 
"Last Days of Pompeii," &c. &c. Two Volumes in one. Philadelphia: 
Republished by E. L. Carey and A. Hart._

We have long learned to reverence the fine intellect of Bulwer. We 
take up any production of his pen with a positive certainty that, in 
reading it, the wildest passions of our nature, the most profound of 
our thoughts, the brightest visions of our fancy, and the most 
ennobling and lofty of our aspirations will, in due turn, be enkindled 
within us. We feel sure of rising from the perusal a wiser if not a 
better man. In no instance are we deceived. From the brief Tale--from 
the "Monos and Daimonos" of the author--to his most ponderous and 
labored novels--all is richly, and glowingly intellectual--all is 
energetic, or astute, or brilliant, or profound. There _may_ be men 
now living who possess the power of Bulwer--but it is quite evident 
that very few have made that power so palpably manifest. Indeed we 
know of _none_. Viewing him as a novelist--a point of view exceedingly 
unfavorable (if we hold to the common acceptation of "the novel") for 
a proper contemplation of his genius--he is unsurpassed by any writer 
living or dead. Why should we hesitate to say this, feeling, as we do, 
thoroughly persuaded of its truth. Scott has excelled him in _many_ 
points, and "The Bride of Lammormuir" is a better book than any 
individual work by the author of Pelham--"Ivanhoe" is, perhaps, equal 
to any. Descending to particulars, D'Israeli has a more brilliant, a 
more lofty, and a more delicate (we do not say a _wilder_) 
imagination. Lady Dacre has written Ellen Wareham, a more forcible 
tale of Passion. In some species of wit Theodore Hook rivals, and in 
broad humor our own Paulding surpasses him. The writer of "Godolphin" 
equals him in energy. Banim is a better sketcher of character. Hope is 
a richer colorist. Captain Trelawney is as original--Moore is as 
fanciful, and Horace Smith is as learned. But who is there uniting in 
one person the imagination, the passion, the humor, the energy, the 
knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, the 
fancy and the learning of Edward Lytton Bulwer? In a vivid wit--in 
profundity and a Gothic massiveness of thought--in style--in a calm 
certainty and definitiveness of purpose--in industry--and above all in 
the power of controlling and regulating by volition his illimitable 
faculties of mind, he is unequalled--he is unapproached.

As Rienzi is the last, so it is the best novel of Bulwer. In the 
Preface we are informed that the work was commenced two years ago at 
Rome, but abandoned upon the author's removing to Naples, for the 
"Last days of Pompeii"--a subject requiring, more than Rienzi, the 
advantage of a personal residence within reach of the scenes 
described. The idea of the present work, however, was never dismissed 
from the writer's mind, and soon after the publication of "Pompeii" he 
resumed his original undertaking. We are told that having had occasion 
to look into the original authorities whence are derived all the 
accounts of modern historians touching Rienzi, Mr. B. was induced to 
believe that no just picture of the Life or Times of that most 
remarkable man was at present in the hands of the people. Under this 
impression the novelist had at first meditated a work of History 
rather than of Fiction. We doubt, however, whether the spirit of the 
author's intention is not better fulfilled as it is. He has adhered 
with scrupulous fidelity to all the main events in the _public_ life 
of his hero; and by means of the relief afforded through the 
personages of pure romance which form the filling in of the picture, 
he has been enabled more fully to develop the _private_ character of 
the noble Roman. The reader may indeed be startled at the vast 
difference between the Rienzi of Mr. Bulwer, and the Rienzi of 
Sismondi, of Gibbon, and of Miss Mitford. But by neither of the two 
latter are we disposed to swear--and of Sismondi's impartiality we can 
at no moment be certain. Mr. B., moreover, very justly observes that 
as, in the work before us, all the _acts_ are given from which is 
derived his interpretation of the principal agent, the public, having 
sufficient data for its own judgment, may fashion an opinion for 
itself.

Generally, the true chronology of Rienzi's life is preserved. In 
regard to the story--or that chain of fictitious incident usually 
binding up together the constituent parts of a Romance--there is very 
little of it in the book. This follows necessarily from the character 
of the composition--which is essentially Epic rather than Dramatic. 
The author's apology seems to us therefore supererogative when he says 
that a work which takes for its subject the crimes and errors of a 
nation and which ventures to seek the actual and the real in the 
highest stage of action or passion can rarely adopt with advantage the 
melo-dramatic effects produced by a vulgar mystery. In his pictures of 
the Roman populace, and in those of the Roman nobles of the fourteenth 
century--pictures full at all times of an enthralling interest--Mr. B. 
professes to have followed literally the descriptions left to us.

Miss Mitford's Rienzi will of course be remembered in reading that of 
Bulwer. There is however but one point of coincidence--a love-intrigue 
between a relative of the hero and one of the party of the nobles. 
This, it will be recollected, forms the basis of the plot of Miss 
{198} M. In the Rienzi of Bulwer, it is an Episode not affecting in 
any manner either the story itself, or the destinies of the Tribune.

It is by no means our intention to give an analysis of the volume 
before us. Every person who reads at all will read Rienzi, and indeed 
the book is already in the hands of many millions of people. Any 
thing, therefore, like our usual custom of a digest of the narrative 
would be superfluous. The principal characters who figure in the novel 
are Rienzi himself--his brother, whose slaughter by a noble at the 
commencement of the story, is the immediate cause of Rienzi's change 
of temper and consequent exaltation--Adrian di Castello, a young noble 
of the family of Colonna but attached to the cause of the 
people--Martino di Porto the chief of the house of the Orsini--Stephen 
Colonna, the chief of the house of the Colonna--Walter de Montreal, a 
gentleman of Provence, a knight of St. John, and one of the formidable 
freebooters who at the head of large "Companies" invaded states and 
pillaged towns at the period of Rienzi's Revolution--Pandulfo di Guido 
a student, whom, under the appellation of Pandolficcio di Guido, 
Gibbon styles "the most virtuous citizen of Rome"--Cecco del Vecchio a 
smith--Giles D'Albornoz of the royal race of Arragon--Petrarch the 
poet, and the friend of Rienzi--Angelo Villani--Irene, the sister of 
the Tribune and betrothed to Adrian di Castello--Nina, Rienzi's 
wife--and Adeline, the mistress of Walter de Montreal.

But as was said before, we should err radically if we regard Rienzi 
altogether in the light of Romance. Undoubtedly as such--as a fiction, 
and coming under the title of a novel, it is a glorious, a wonderful 
conception, and not the less wonderfully and gloriously carried out. 
What else could we say of a book over which the mind so delightedly 
lingers in perusal? In its delineations of passion and character--in 
the fine blending and contrasting of its incidents--in the rich and 
brilliant tints of its feudal paintings--in a pervading air of 
chivalry, and grace, and sentiment--in all that can throw a charm over 
the pages of Romance, the last novel of Bulwer is equal, if not 
superior, to any of his former productions. Still we should look at 
the work in a different point of view. It is History. We hesitate not 
to say that it is History in its truest--in its only true, proper, and 
philosophical garb. Sismondi's works--were not. There is no greater 
error than dignifying with the name of History a tissue of dates and 
details, though the dates be ordinarily correct, and the details 
indisputably true. Not even with the aid of acute comment will such a 
tissue satisfy our individual notions of History. To the effect let us 
look--to the impression rather than to the seal. And how very seldom 
is any definite impression left upon the mind of the historical 
reader! How few bear away--even from the pages of Gibbon--Rome and the 
Romans. Vastly different was the genius of Niebuhr--than whom no man 
possessed a more discriminative understanding of the uses and the 
purposes of the pen of the historiographer. But we digress. Bearing in 
mind that "to contemplate"--_ιςορειν_[1]--should and must be allowed a 
more noble and a more expansive acceptation than has been usually 
given it, we shall often discover in Fiction the essential spirit and 
vitality of Historic Truth--while Truth itself, in many a dull and 
lumbering Archive, shall be found guilty of all the inefficiency of 
Fiction.

[Footnote 1: History, from _ιςορειν_, to contemplate, seems, among the 
Greeks, to have embraced not only the knowledge of past events, but 
also Mythology, Esopian, and Milesian fables, _Romance_, Tragedy and 
Comedy. But our business is with things, not words.]

Rienzi, then, is History. But there are other aspects in which it may 
be regarded with advantage. Let us survey it as a profound and lucid 
exposition of the _morale_ of Government--of the Philosophies of Rule 
and Misrule--of the absolute incompatibility of Freedom and 
Ignorance--Tyranny in the few and Virtue in the many. Let us consider 
it as something akin to direct evidence that a people is not a mob, 
nor a mob a people, nor a mob's idol the idol of a people--that in a 
nation's self is the only security for a nation--and that it is 
absolutely necessary to model upon the _character_ of the governed, 
the machinery, whether simple or complex, of the governmental 
legislation.

It is proper--we are persuaded--that Rienzi should be held up in these 
many different points of view, if we desire fully to appreciate its 
own merits and the talents of Mr. Bulwer. But regard it as we will, it 
is an extraordinary work--and one which leaves nothing farther to 
accomplish in its own particular region. It is vastly superior to the 
"Last Days of Pompeii"--more rich--more glowing, and more vigorous. 
With all and more than all the distinguishing merits of its noble 
predecessor, it has none of its _chilliness_--none of that platitude 
which (it would not be difficult to say why) is the inevitable result 
of every attempt at infusing warmth among the marble wildernesses, and 
vitality into the statue-like existences, of the too-distantly 
antique.

We will conclude our notice of Rienzi with an Extract. We choose it 
not with any view of commending it above others--for the book has many 
equally good and some better--but to give our readers--such of them as 
have not yet seen the novel, an opportunity of comparing the passage 
with some similar things in Boccaccio. We may as well say that in all 
which constitutes good writing the Englishman is infinitely the 
superior. What we select is Chapter V, of the sixth Book. Irene, the 
betrothed of the noble Roman Adrian di Castello, being in Florence 
during the time of the Great Plague, is sought by her lover at the 
peril of his life. Overpowered by a fever he meets with Irene--but his 
delirium prevents a recognition. She conveys him to one of the 
deserted mansions, and officiates as his nurse. Having thrown aside 
her mantle, under the impression that it retained the infection of the 
Pestilence, it is found and worn by another.


THE ERROR.

For three days, the three fatal days, did Adrian remain bereft of 
strength and sense. But he was not smitten by the scourge which his 
devoted and generous nurse had anticipated. It was a fierce and 
dangerous fever, brought on by the great fatigue, restlessness, and 
terrible agitation he had undergone.

No professional mediciner could be found to attend him but a good 
friar, better perhaps skilled in the healing art than many who claimed 
its monopoly, visited him daily. And in the long and frequent absences 
to which his other and numerous duties compelled the monk, there was 
one ever at hand to smooth the pillow, to wipe the brow, to listen to 
the moan, to watch the sleep. And even in that dismal office, when, in 
the frenzy of the sufferer, her name, coupled with terms of passionate 
endearment, broke from his lips, a thrill of {199} strange pleasure 
crossed the heart of the betrothed, which she chid as if it were a 
crime. But even the most unearthly love is selfish in the rapture of 
being loved! Words cannot tell, heart cannot divine, the mingled 
emotions that broke over her when, in some of those incoherent 
ravings, she dimly understood that _for her_ the city had been sought, 
the death dared, the danger incurred. And as then bending passionately 
to kiss that burning brow, her tears fell fast over the idol of her 
youth, the fountains from which they gushed were those, fathomless and 
countless, which a life could not weep away. Not an impulse of the 
human and the woman heart that was not stirred; the adoring gratitude, 
the meek wonder thus to _be_ loved, while deeming it so simple a merit 
thus _to_ love;--as if all sacrifice _in_ her were a thing of 
course,--_to_ her, a virtue nature could not paragon, worlds could not 
repay! And there he lay, the victim to his own fearless faith, 
helpless--dependent upon her--a thing between life and death, to 
thank, to serve--to be proud of, yet to protect--to compassionate, yet 
revere--the saver, to be saved! Never seemed one object to demand at 
once from a single heart so many and so profound emotions; the 
romantic enthusiasm of the girl!--the fond idolatry of the bride--the 
watchful providence of the mother over her child.

And strange to say, with all the excitement of that lonely watch, 
scarcely stirring from his side, taking food only that her strength 
might not fail her,--unable to close her eyes--though, from the same 
cause, she would fain have taken rest, when slumber fell upon her 
charge--with all such wear and tear of frame and heart, she seemed 
wonderfully supported. And the holy man marvelled, in each visit, to 
see the cheek of the nurse still fresh, and her eye still bright. In 
her own superstition she thought and felt that Heaven gifted her with 
a preternatural power to be true to so sacred a charge: and in this 
fancy she did not wholly err;--for Heaven _did_ gift her with that 
diviner power, when it planted in so soft a heart the enduring might 
and energy of Affection! The friar had visited the sick man, late on 
the third night, and administered to him a strong sedative--"This 
night," said he to Irene, "will be the crisis--should he awaken, as I 
trust he may, with a returning consciousness, and a calm pulse, he 
will live--if not, young daughter, prepare for the worst. But should 
you note any turn in the disease, that may excite alarm, or require my 
attendance, this scroll will inform you where I am if God spare me 
still, at each hour of the night and morning."

The monk retired and Irene resumed her watch.

The sleep of Adrian was at first broken and interrupted--his features, 
his exclamations, his gestures, all evinced great agony whether mental 
or bodily--it seemed, as perhaps it was, a fierce and doubtful 
struggle between life and death for the conquest of the sleeper. 
Patient, silent, breathing but by long-drawn gasps, Irene sate at the 
bed-head. The lamp was removed to the further end of the chamber, and 
its ray, shaded by the draperies, did not suffice to give to her gaze 
more than the outline of the countenance she watched. In that awful 
suspense, all the thoughts that hitherto had stirred her mind lay 
hushed and mute. She was only sensible to that unutterable fear which 
few of us have been happy enough not to know. That crushing weight 
under which we can scarcely breathe or move, the avalanche over us, 
freezing and suspended, which we cannot escape from, with which, every 
moment, we may be buried and overwhelmed. The whole destiny of life 
was in the chances of that single night! It was just as Adrian at last 
seemed to glide into a deeper and serener slumber, that the bells of 
the death-cart broke with their boding knell the palpable silence of 
the streets. Now hushed, now revived, as the cart stopped for its 
gloomy passengers, and coming nearer and nearer after every pause. At 
length she heard the heavy wheels stop under the very casement, and a 
voice deep and muffled calling aloud "Bring out the dead!" She rose, 
and with a noiseless step, passed to secure the door, when the dull 
lamp gleamed upon the dark and shrouded forms of the Becchini.

"You have not marked the door, nor set out the body," said one 
gruffly, "but this is the _third night_! He is ready for us!"

"Hush, he sleeps--away, quick, it is not the Plague that seized him."

"Not the Plague," growled the Becchino in a disappointed tone, "I 
thought no other illness dared encroach upon the rights of the 
gavocciolo!"

"Go, here's money, leave us."

And the grisly carrier sullenly withdrew. The cart moved on, the bell 
renewed its summons, till slowly and faintly the dreadful larum died 
in the distance.

Shading the lamp with her hand, Irene stole to the bed-side, fearful 
that the sound and the intrusion had disturbed the slumberer. But his 
face was still locked, as in a vice, with that iron sleep. He stirred 
not--his breath scarcely passed his lips--she felt his pulse, as the 
wand lay on the coverlid--there was a slight heat--she was 
contented--removed the light, and, retiring to a corner of the room, 
placed the little cross suspended round her neck upon the table, and 
prayed--in her intense suffering--to Him who had known death, and 
who--Son of Heaven though he was, and Sovereign of the Seraphim--had 
also prayed, in his earthly travail, that the cup might pass away.

The morning broke, not, as in the north, slowly and through shadow, 
but with the sudden glory with which in those climates Day leaps upon 
earth--like a giant from his sleep. A sudden smile--a burnished 
glow--and night had vanished. Adrian still slept; not a muscle seemed 
to have stirred; the sleep was even heavier than before; the silence 
became a burthen upon the air. Now, in that exceeding torpor so like 
unto death, the solitary watcher became alarmed and terrified. Time 
passed--morning glided to noon--still not a sound nor motion. The sun 
was mid-way in heaven--the friar came not. And now again touching 
Adrian's pulse, she felt no flutter--she gazed on him, appalled and 
confounded; surely nought living could be so still and pale. "Was it 
indeed sleep, might it not be ----." She turned away, sick and frozen; 
her tongue clove to her lips. Why did the father tarry--she would go 
to him--she would learn the worst--she could forbear no longer. She 
glanced over the scroll the monk had left her: "From sunrise," it 
said, "I shall be at the Convent of the Dominicans. Death has stricken 
many of the brethren." The Convent was at some distance, but she knew 
the spot, and fear would wing her steps. She gave one wistful look at 
the sleeper, and rushed from the house. "I shall see thee again 
presently," she murmured. Alas! what hope can calculate beyond the 
moment. And who shall claim the tenure of "_The Again!_"

It was not many minutes after Irene had left the room, ere, with a 
long sigh, Adrian opened his eyes--an altered and another man; the 
fever was gone, the reviving pulse beat low indeed, but calm. His mind 
was once more master of his body, and, though weak and feeble, the 
danger was past, and life and intellect regained.

"I have slept long," he muttered--"and oh such dreams--and methought I 
saw Irene, but could not speak to her; and while I attempted to grasp 
her, her face changed, her form dilated, and I was in the clutch of 
the foul grave-digger. It is late--the sun is high--I must be up and 
stirring. Irene is in Lombardy. No, no; that was a lie, a wicked 
lie--she is at Florence--I must renew my search."

As this duty came to his remembrance, he rose from the bed--he was 
amazed at his own debility; at first he could not stand without 
support from the wall--by degrees, however, he so far regained the 
mastery of his limbs, as to walk, though with effort and pain. A 
ravening hunger preyed upon him; he found some scanty and light food 
in the chamber, which he devoured eagerly. And with scarce less 
eagerness laved his {200} enfeebled form and haggard face with the 
water that stood at hand. He now felt refreshed and invigorated, and 
began to indue his garments, which he found thrown on a heap beside 
the bed. He gazed with surprise and a kind of self-compassion upon his 
emaciated hands and shrunken limbs, and began now to comprehend that 
he must have had some severe but unconscious illness. "Alone too," 
thought he, "no one near to tend me! Nature my only nurse! But alas! 
alas! how long a time may thus have been wasted, and my adored 
Irene----quick, quick, not a moment more will I lose."

He soon found himself in the open street; the air revived him; and 
that morning, the first known for weeks, had sprung up the blessed 
breeze. He wandered on very slowly and feebly till he came to a broad 
square, from which, in the vista, might be seen one of the principal 
gates of Florence, and the fig-trees and olive-groves beyond. It was 
then that a pilgrim of tall stature approached towards him as from the 
gate; his hood was thrown back, and gave to view a countenance of 
great but sad command; a face, in whose high features, massive brow, 
and proud, unshrinking gaze, shaded by an expression of melancholy 
more stern than soft, Nature seemed to have written majesty, and Fate 
disaster. As in that silent and dreary place, these two, the only 
tenants of the street, now encountered, Adrian stopped abruptly, and 
said in a startled and doubting voice: "Do I dream still, or do I 
behold Rienzi?"

The pilgrim paused also, as he heard the name, and gazing long on the 
attenuated features of the young lord, said: "I am he that was Rienzi! 
and you, pale shadow, is it in this grave of Italy that I meet with 
the gay and high Colonna? Alas, young friend," he added in a more 
relaxed and kindly voice, "hath the Plague not spared the flower of 
the Roman nobles? Come, I, the cruel and the harsh tribune, _I_ will 
be thy nurse: he who might have been my brother, shall yet claim from 
me a brother's care."

With these words, he wound his arm tenderly round Adrian; and the 
young noble, touched by his compassion, and agitated by the surprize, 
leant upon Rienzi's breast in silence.

"Poor youth," resumed the Tribune, for so since rather fallen than 
deposed he may yet be called, "I ever loved the young; (my brother 
died young!) and you more than most. What fatality brought thee 
hither?"

"Irene!" replied Adrian falteringly.

"Is it so, really? Art thou a Colonna, and yet prize the fallen? The 
same duty has brought me also to the City of Death. From the farthest 
south--over the mountains of the robber--through the fastnesses of my 
foes--through towns in which the herald proclaimed in my ear the price 
of my head--I have passed hither, on foot and alone, safe under the 
wings of the Almighty One. Young man, thou shouldst have left this 
task to one who bears a wizard's life, and whom Heaven and Earth yet 
reserve for an appointed end!"

The Tribune said this in a deep and inward voice; and in his raised 
eye and solemn brow might be seen how much his reverses had deepened 
his fanaticism, and added even to the sanguineness of his hopes.

"But," asked Adrian, withdrawing gently from Rienzi's arm, "thou 
knowest, then, where Irene is to be found, let us go together. Lose 
not a moment in this talk--time is of inestimable value, and a moment 
in this city is often but the border to eternity."

"Right," said Rienzi, awakening to his object. "But fear not; I _have 
dreamt_ that I shall save her, the gem and darling of my house. Fear 
not--_I_ have no fear."

"Know you where to seek," said Adrian, impatiently; "the convent holds 
far other guests."

"Ha! so said my dream!"

"Talk not now of dreams," said the lover, "but if you have no other 
guide, let us part at once in quest of her; I will take yonder street, 
you take the opposite, and at sunset let us meet in the same spot."

"Rash man," said the Tribune, with great solemnity, "scoff not at the 
visions which Heaven makes a parable to its Chosen. Thou seekest 
counsel of thy human wisdom; I, less presumptuous, follow the hand of 
the mysterious Providence, moving even now before my gaze as a pillar 
of light, through the wilderness of dread. Ay, meet we here at sunset, 
and prove whose guide is the most unerring. If my dream tell me true, 
I shall see my sister living, ere the sun reach yonder hill, and by a 
church dedicated to St. Mark."

The grave earnestness with which Rienzi spoke, impressed Adrian with a 
hope his reason would not acknowledge. He saw him depart with that 
proud and stately step to which his sweeping garments gave a yet more 
imposing dignity, and then passed up the street to the right hand. He 
had not got half way when he felt himself pulled by the mantle. He 
turned and saw the shapeless mask of a Becchino.

"I feared you were sped, and that another had cheated me of my 
office," said the grave-digger, "seeing that you returned not to the 
old prince's palace. You don't know me from the rest of us, I see, but 
I am the one you told to seek----"

"Irene!"

"Yes, Irene di Gabrini, you promised ample reward."

"You shall have it."

"Follow me."

The Becchino strode on, and soon arrived at a mansion. He knocked 
twice at the porter's entrance; an old woman cautiously opened the 
door. "Fear not, good aunt," said the grave-digger, "this is the young 
lord I spoke to thee of. Thou sayest thou hadst two ladies in the 
palace, who alone survived of all the lodgers, and their names were 
Bianca di Medici, and--what was the other?"

"Irene di Gabrini, a Roman lady. But I told thee this was the fourth 
day they left the house, terrified by the deaths within it."

"Thou didst so--and was there any thing remarkable in the dress of the 
Signora di Gabrini?"

"Yes, I have told thee, a blue mantle, such as I have rarely seen, 
wrought with silver."

"Was the broidery that of stars, silver stars," exclaimed Adrian, 
"with a sun in the centre."

"It was!"

"Alas! alas! the arms of the Tribune's family! I remember how I 
praised the mantle the first day she wore it--the day on which we were 
betrothed!" And the lover at once conjectured the secret sentiment 
which had induced Irene to retain so carefully a robe so endeared by 
association.

"You know no more of your lodgers?"

"Nothing."

"And is this all you have learnt, knave?" cried Adrian.

"Patience. I must bring you from proof to proof, and link to link, in 
order to win my reward. Follow, Signor."

The Becchino then passing through the several lanes and streets, 
arrived at another house of less magnificent size and architecture. 
Again he tapped thrice at the parlor door, and this time came forth a 
man withered, old, and palsied, whom death seemed to disdain to 
strike.

"Signor Astuccio," said the Becchino, "pardon me; but I told thee I 
might trouble thee again. This is the gentleman who wants to know, 
what is often best unknown--but that's not my affair. Did a 
lady--young and beautiful--with dark hair, and of a slender form, 
enter this house, stricken with the first symptom of the plague, three 
days since?"

"Ay, thou knowest that well enough--and thou knowest still 
better--that she has departed these two days; it was quick work with 
her, quicker than with most!"

"Did she wear any thing remarkable?"

"Yes, troublesome man, a blue cloak with stars of silver."

{201} "Couldst thou guess aught of her previous circumstances?"

"No, save that she raved much about the nunnery of Santa Maria dei 
Pazza, and bravos, and sacrilege."

"Are you satisfied, Signor?" asked the grave-digger, with an air of 
triumph, turning to Adrian. "But no, I will satisfy thee better, if 
thou hast courage. Wilt thou follow?"

"I comprehend thee; lead on. Courage! what is there on earth now to 
fear?"

Muttering to himself--"Ay, leave me alone. I have a head worth 
something; I ask no gentleman to go by my word; I will make his own 
eyes the judge of what my trouble is worth." The grave-digger now led 
the way through one of the gates a little out of the city. And here 
under a shed sat six of his ghastly and ill-omened brethren, with 
spades and pick-axes at their feet.

His guide now turned round to Adrian, whose face was set and resolute 
in despair.

"Fair Signor," said he, with some touch of lingering compassion, 
"wouldst thou really convince thine own eyes and heart; the sight may 
appal, the contagion may destroy thee,--if, indeed, as it seems to me, 
Death has not already written '_mine_' upon thee."

"Raven of bode and woe," answered Adrian, "seest thou not that all I 
shrink from is thy voice and aspect? Show me her I seek, living or 
dead."

"I will show her to you, then," said the Becchino, sullenly, "such as 
two nights since she was committed to my charge. Line and lineament 
may already be swept away, for the Plague hath a rapid besom; but I 
have left that upon her by which you will know the Becchino is no 
liar. Bring hither the torches, comrades, and lift the door. Never 
stare; it's the gentleman's whim, and he'll pay it well."

Turning to the right, while Adrian mechanically followed his 
conductors,--a spectacle whose dire philosophy crushes as with a wheel 
all the pride of mortal man--the spectacle of that vault in which 
earth hides all that on earth flourished, rejoiced, exulted--awaited 
his eye!

The Becchino lifted a ponderous grate, lowered their torches (scarcely 
needed, for through the aperture rushed, with a hideous glare, the 
light of the burning sun,) and motioned to Adrian to advance. He stood 
upon the summit of the abyss and gazed below.

       *       *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *

It was a large, deep and circular space, like the bottom of an 
exhausted well. In niches cut into the walls of earth around, lay, 
duly confined, those who had been the earliest victims of the plague, 
when the Becchino's market was not yet glutted, and priest followed, 
and friend mourned, the dead. But on the floor below, _there_ was the 
loathsome horror! Huddled and matted together,--some naked, some in 
shrouds already black and rotten,--lay the later guests, the unshriven 
and unblest! The torches, the sun, streamed broad and red over 
corruption in all its stages, from the pale blue tint and swollen 
shape, to the moistened undistinguishable mass, or the riddled bones, 
where yet clung, in strips and tatters, the black and mangled flesh. 
In many the face remained almost perfect, while the rest of the body 
was but bone; the long hair, the human face, surmounting the grisly 
skeleton. There, was the infant, still on the mother's breast; there, 
was the lover stretched across the dainty limbs of his adored! The 
rats (for they clustered in numbers to that feast,) disturbed, not 
scared, sate up from their horrid meal as the light glimmered over 
them, and thousands of them lay round, stark and dead, poisoned by 
that they fed on! There, too, the wild satire of the grave-diggers had 
cast, though stripped of their gold and jewels, the emblems that spoke 
of departed rank;--the broken wand of the Councillor; the General's 
baton; the Priestly Mitre! The foul and livid exhalations gathered 
like flesh itself, fungous and putrid, upon the walls, and the----

       *       *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *

But who shall detail the ineffable and unimaginable horrors that 
reigned over the Palace where the Great King received the prisoners 
whom the sword of the Pestilence had subdued.

But through all that crowded court--crowded with beauty and with 
birth, with the strength of the young and the honors of the old, and 
the valor of the brave, and the wisdom of the learned, and the wit of 
the scorner, and the piety of the faithful--one only figure attracted 
Adrian's eye. Apart from the rest, a late comer--the long locks 
streaming far and dark over arm and breast--lay a female, the face 
turned partially aside, the little seen not recognisable even by the 
mother of the dead,--but wrapped round in that fatal mantle, on which, 
though blackened and tarnished, was yet visible the starry heraldry 
assumed by those who claimed the name of the proud Tribune of Rome. 
Adrian saw no more--he fell back in the arms of the grave diggers: 
when he recovered, he was still without the gates of 
Florence--reclined upon a green mound--his guide stood beside 
him--holding his steed by the bridle as it grazed patiently on the 
neglected grass. The other brethren of the axe had resumed their seat 
under the shed.

"So you have revived; ah! I thought it was only the effluvia; few 
stand it as we do. And so, as your search is over, deeming you would 
not be quitting Florence if you have any sense left to you, I went for 
your good horse. I have fed him since your departure from the palace. 
Indeed I fancied he would be my perquisite, but there are plenty as 
good. Come, young Sir, mount. I feel a pity for you, I know not why, 
except that you are the only one I have met for weeks who seem to care 
for another more than for yourself. I hope you are satisfied now that 
I showed some brains, eh! in your service, and as I have kept my 
promise, you'll keep yours."

"Friend," said Adrian, "here is gold enough to make thee rich; here 
too is a jewel that merchants will tell thee princes might vie to 
purchase. Thou seemest honest, despite thy calling, or thou mightest 
have robbed and murdered me long since. Do me one favor more."

"By my poor mother's soul, yes."

"Take yon--yon clay from that fearful place. Inter it in some quiet 
and remote spot--apart--alone! You promise me--you swear it--it is 
well. And now help me on my horse."

"Farewell Italy, and if I die not with this stroke, may I die as 
befits at once honor and despair--with trumpet and banner round me--in 
a well-fought field against a worthy foe!--save a knightly death 
nothing is left to live for!"


Here, in many incidents of extraordinary force--in the call of the 
Becchini on the third night--in the most agonizing circumstance of 
Irene's abandonment of Adrian--in the bodily weakness and mental 
prostration of that young nobleman--in the desolation of the 
streets--in the meeting with Rienzi--in the colossal dignity of the 
words, "I am he that was Rienzi!"--in the affectionate attention of 
the fallen hero--and lastly, in the appalling horror of the vault and 
its details--may be seen and will be felt much, but not all, of the 
exceeding power of the "_Last of the Tribunes_."


ROGET'S PHYSIOLOGY.

_Animal and Vegetable Physiology, considered with reference to Natural 
Theology. By Peter Mark Roget, M.D. Secretary to the Royal Society, 
&c. &c. 2 vols, large octavo. Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea, 
and Blanchard._

As we have no doubt that the great majority of our readers are 
acquainted with the circumstances attending {202} the publication of 
the Bridgewater Treatises, we shall content ourselves with a very 
brief statement of those circumstances, by way of introduction to some 
few observations respecting this, the fifth of the Series.

Francis Henry, Earl of Bridgewater, who died some time in the 
beginning of the year 1829, directed certain Trustees mentioned in his 
Will, to invest eight thousand pounds sterling in the public funds, 
which eight thousand pounds, with the interest accruing, was to be 
under the control of the President, for the time being, of the Royal 
Society of London. The money thus invested, was to be paid by the 
President to such person _or persons_ as he, the President, should 
appoint to "write, print and publish, one thousand copies of a work, 
_On the Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifested in the 
Creation; illustrating such work by all reasonable arguments, as, for 
instance, the variety and formation of God's creatures, in the animal, 
vegetable, and mineral kingdoms; the effect of digestion, and thereby 
of conversion; the construction of the hand of man, and an infinite 
variety of other arguments; as also by discoveries ancient and modern, 
in arts, sciences, and the whole extent of literature_." The profits 
of the works were to be paid to the authors.

Davies Gilbert, Esq. being President of the Royal Society, advised 
with the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, and "_a 
nobleman immediately connected with the deceased_," in regard to the 
best mode of carrying into effect the design of the testator. It was 
finally resolved to divide the eight thousand pounds among eight 
gentlemen, who were to compose eight Treatises as follows. Thomas 
Chalmers, D.D. Professor of Divinity in the University of Edinburgh, 
was to write on "The Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifested 
in the Adaptation of External Nature to the Moral and Intellectual 
Constitution of Man,"--John Kidd, M.D. F. R. S. Regius Professor of 
Medicine in the University of Oxford, on "The Adaptation of External 
Nature to the Physical Condition of Man,"--William Whewell, M.A. F. R. 
S. Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, on "Astronomy and General 
Physics considered with reference to Natural Theology,"--Sir Charles 
Bell, K. G. H. F. R. S. L. and E. on "The Hand: its Mechanism and 
Vital Endowments as Evincing Design,"--Peter Mark Roget, M.D. Fellow 
of and Secretary to the Royal Society, on "Animal and Vegetable 
Physiology,"--William Buckland, D.D. F. R. S. Professor of Geology in 
the University of Oxford, on "Geology and Mineralogy,"--William Kirby, 
M.A. F. R. S., on "The History, Habits, and Instincts of Animals"--and 
William Prout, M.D. F. R. S., on "Chemistry, Meteorology, and the 
Function of Digestion, considered with Reference to Natural Theology."

However excellent and praiseworthy the intention of the Earl of 
Bridgewater, and however liberal the sum bequeathed, there can be 
little doubt that in the wording of his bequest, in the encumbering of 
the work so nobly proposed with a _specification of the arguments to 
be employed in its execution_, he has offered a very serious 
impediment to the fulfilment of the spirit of his design. It is 
perhaps, too, a matter of regret, that the introduction of the words 
"person or persons" in the paragraph touching the contemplated 
publication, should have left it optional with the President of the 
Royal Society to divide the eight thousand pounds among so many. We 
are sorry that the eight treatises were determined upon for several 
reasons. First, we do not believe any such arrangement to have been 
contemplated by the testator--his words "write, print, and publish one 
thousand copies of _a work_," &c., inducing the opinion that one 
single book or treatise was intended: and we the rather hold to this 
belief, as it might easily be proved (we will speak farther of this 
hereafter,) that the whole argument set forth in the words of the 
Testament, and indeed the whole arguments of the whole eight Treatises 
now published, might have been readily discussed in one connected work 
of no greater bulk than the _Physiology_ whose title forms the heading 
of this article. In the second place--the bequest of the eight 
thousand pounds, which _en masse_, is magnificent, and which might 
thus have operated as a sufficient inducement for some one competent 
person to devote a _sufficiency of time_ to the steady and gradual 
completion of a noble and extraordinary work--this bequest, we say, is 
somewhat of a common-place affair when we regard it in its 
subdivision. Thirdly, one thousand pounds is but little for the labor 
necessary in a work like any one of the Treatises, and we are mistaken 
if the "profits of the sales" meet in any degree either the merits or 
the expectations of the respective authors. If they do, however, it is 
a matter altogether foreign to and apart from the liberality of the 
testator--a liberality whose proper development should have been 
scrupulously borne in view by the Trustee. Fourthly--the result of the 
combination of a number of intellects is seldom in any case--never in 
a case like the present--equal to the sum of the results of the same 
intellects laboring individually--the difference, generally, being in 
precise ratio with the number of the intellects engaged. It follows 
that each writer of a Bridgewater Treatise has been employed at a 
disadvantage. Lastly--an accurate examination of the nature and 
argument of each Treatise as allotted, will convince one _a priori_ 
that the whole must, in any attempt at a full discussion, unavoidably 
run one into the other--this indeed in so very great a degree that 
each Treatise respectively would embody a vast quantity of matter, 
(handled in a style necessarily similar) to be found in each and all 
of the remaining seven Treatises. Here again is not only labor wasted 
by the writers--but, by the readers of the works, much time and 
trouble unprofitably thrown away. We say that this might have been 
proved _a priori_ by an inspection of the arguments of the Treatises. 
It has been fully proved, _a posteriori_, by the fact: and this fact 
will go far in establishing what we asserted in our first reason for 
disapproving of the subdivision--to wit: that the whole argument of 
the whole eight Treatises might have been readily discussed in one 
connected work of no greater bulk than the _Physiology_ now before us.

We cannot bring ourselves to think Dr. Roget's book the _best_ of the 
Bridgewater series, although we have heard it so called. Indeed in the 
very singular and too partial arrangement of the subjects, it would 
have been really a matter for wonder if Dr. Whewell had not written 
the _best_, and Sir Charles Bell the worst of the Treatises. The 
talents of Dr. Roget, however, are a sufficient guarantee that he has 
furnished no ordinary work. We are grieved to learn from the Preface 
that his progress has been greatly impeded by "long protracted 
anxieties and afflictions, and by the almost overwhelming pressure of 
domestic calamity."

{203} The chief difficulty of the Physiologist in handling a subject 
of so vast and almost interminable extent as the science to which his 
labors have been devoted--a science comprehending all the animal and 
vegetable beings in existence--has evidently been the difficulty of 
selection from an exuberance of materials. He has excluded from the 
Treatise--(it was necessary to exclude a great deal)--"all those 
particulars of the natural history both of animals and plants, and all 
description of those structures, of which the relation to final causes 
cannot be distinctly traced." In a word, he has admitted such facts 
alone as afford palpable evidence of Almighty design. He has also 
abstained from entering into historical accounts of the progress of 
discovery--the present state of Physiological science being his only 
aim. The work is illustrated by nearly 500 wood cuts by Mr. Byfield, 
and references in the Index to passages in the volumes where terms of 
mere technical science have been explained. Appended are also a 
catalogue of the engravings, and a tabular view of the classification 
of animals adopted by Cuvier in his "_Regne Animal_" with examples 
included. This Table is reprinted from that in the author's 
"Introductory Lecture on Human and Comparative Physiology," published 
in 1826. Such alterations, however, have been introduced as were 
requisite to make the Table correspond with Cuvier's second edition.


CAREY'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

We have been delighted with the perusal of this book, and consider it 
one of the most instructive as well as one of the most amusing of 
autobiographies. The ruling feature of the work is candor--a candor of 
the rarest and noblest description. The author has not scrupled, or 
even hesitated, in a single instance to declare, without 
prevarication, the truth and the whole truth, however little 
redounding to his own credit. Nor in the details so frankly laid 
before the eye of the public, are the many--very many other excellent 
qualities less manifest, which have exalted the autobiographer to so 
enviable a station in the opinions of his fellow-citizens. In the 
whole private and public course of Mr. Mathew Carey, from that 
chivalrous Essay against Duelling, of which he has rendered so amusing 
an account in the commencement of his "Life," to the more important 
yet equally Quixottic publication of the Olive Branch, the strictest 
scrutiny can detect nothing derogatory to the character of "the 
noblest work of God, an honest man." His energy, his high-mindedness, 
and his indomitable perseverance, will force themselves upon the most 
casual observer. It is not surprising that, with qualifications so 
well adapted for success in life, Mr. C. should have been enabled 
finally to set at defiance the innumerable obstacles which obstructed 
his path. Indeed, although few men have labored under greater 
incidental disadvantages, very few have been better prepared to 
overcome them by both moral and physical constitution.

There is much in these Memoirs of Mr. Carey, which will bring to the 
mind of the reader Benjamin Franklin, his shrewdness, his 
difficulties, and his indefatigability. It is therefore almost 
unnecessary to add, that apart from its other merits, the 
Autobiography now before us has all the value so unequivocally due to 
_good example_. Its perusal cannot well fail of having a salutary 
effect upon those who struggle with adversity--of imparting a salutary 
strength to all who grow feeble under the pressure of the innumerable 
harassing cares which encumber and weigh so ponderously upon the "man 
of the world." It may, indeed, if rightly considered, have a still 
more beneficial influence. It may incite to good deeds. It may induce 
a love of our fellow-men, in many bosoms hitherto self-hardened 
against the urgent demands of philanthropy. What so likely to bring 
about a kindly spirit in any human heart as the contemplation of a 
kindly spirit in others?

It is perhaps already known to many that Mr. Carey was born in Dublin 
in 1760. His hatred of oppression, which broke out, as early as his 
seventeenth year, in the "Essay against Duelling," to which we have 
already alluded, and which, in 1779, rendered him obnoxious to the 
British Government, and forced him into a temporary exile, at length, 
in 1784, made it necessary for him to abandon his country altogether, 
and seek an asylum in America. He arrived in Philadelphia, greatly 
embarrassed in his pecuniary circumstances; and an incident by means 
of which he obtained relief, has proved of so deep interest to 
ourselves, that we cannot but think it may prove equally so to our 
readers. We copy the following from page 10 of the Autobiography.


Behold me now landed in Philadelphia, with about a dozen guineas in my 
pocket, without relation, or friend, and even without an acquaintance, 
except my _compagnons de voyage_, of whom very few were eligible 
associates.

While I was contemplating a removal into the country, where I could 
have boarded at about a dollar or a dollar and a quarter a week, 
intending to wait the arrival of my funds, a most extraordinary and 
unlooked-for circumstance occurred, which changed my purpose, gave a 
new direction to my views, and, in some degree, colored the course of 
my future life. It reflects great credit on the Marquess de La 
Fayette, who was then at Mount Vernon, to take leave of Gen. 
Washington. A young gentleman of the name of Wallace, a fellow 
passenger of mine, had brought letters of recommendation to the 
General; and having gone to his seat to deliver them, fell into the 
Marquess's company, and in the course of conversation, the affairs of 
Ireland came on the tapis. The Marquess, who had, in the Philadelphia 
papers, seen an account of my adventures with the Parliament, and the 
persecution I had undergone, inquired of Wallace, what had become of 
the poor persecuted Dublin printer? He replied, "he came passenger 
with me, and is now in Philadelphia," stating the boarding house where 
I had pitched my tent. On the arrival of the Marquess in this city, he 
sent me a billet, requesting to see me at his lodgings, whither I 
went. He received me with great kindness; condoled with me on the 
persecution I had undergone; inquired into my prospects;--and having 
told him that I proposed, on receipt of my funds, to set up a 
newspaper, he approved the idea, and promised to recommend me to his 
friends, Robert Morris, Thomas Fitzsimons, &c. &c. After half an 
hour's conversation, we parted. Next morning, while I was at 
breakfast, a letter from him was handed me, which, to my very great 
surprise, contained four one hundred dollar notes of the Bank of North 
America. This was the more extraordinary and liberal, as not a word 
had passed between us on the subject of giving or receiving, borrowing 
or lending money. And a remarkable feature in the affair was, that the 
letter did not contain a word of reference to the enclosure.

In the course of the day I went to his lodgings, and found that he 
had, an hour or two previously, departed for Princeton, where Congress 
then sat, having been in some measure driven from Philadelphia, by a 
mutiny {204} among the soldiers, who were clamorous for their pay, and 
had kept them in a state of siege for three hours in the State House. 
I wrote to him to New York, whither, I understood, he had gone from 
Princeton, expressive of my gratitude in the strongest terms, and 
received a very kind and friendly answer.

I cannot pass over this noble trait in the character of the 
illustrious Marquess, without urging it strongly on the overgrown 
wealthy of our country, as an example worthy of imitation. Here was a 
foreign nobleman, who had devoted years of the prime of his life, and 
greatly impaired his fortune, in the service of a country, separated 
by thousands of miles distance from his native land. After these 
mighty sacrifices, he meets, by an extraordinary accident, with a poor 
persecuted young man, destitute of friends and protectors--his heart 
expands towards him--he freely gives him means of making a living 
without the most remote expectation of return, or of ever again seeing 
the object of his bounty. He withdraws from the city to avoid the 
expression of the gratitude of the beneficiary. I have more than once 
assumed, and I now repeat, that I doubt whether in the whole life of 
this (I had almost said) unparalleled man, there is to be found any 
thing, which, all the circumstances of the case considered, more 
highly elevates his character.[1]

[Footnote 1: It is due to myself to state, that though this was in 
every sense of the word a gift, I regarded it as a loan, payable to 
the Marquess's countrymen, according to the exalted sentiment of Dr. 
Franklin, who, when he presented a bill for ten pounds to the Rev. Mr. 
Nixon, an Irish Clergyman, (who was in distress in Paris, and wanted 
to migrate to America,) told him to pay the sum to any Americans whom 
he might find in distress, and thus "_let good offices go round_." I 
fully paid the debt to Frenchmen in distress--consigned one or two 
hogsheads of tobacco to the Marquess, (I believe it was two, but am 
uncertain,) and, moreover, when in 1824, he reached this country, with 
shattered fortunes, sent him to New York, a check for the full sum of 
four hundred dollars, which he retained till he reached Philadelphia, 
and was very reluctant to use, and finally consented only at my 
earnest instance.]


The annexed little anecdote, which Mr. Carey justly considers an 
instance of the truest pathos, we must be pardoned for inserting as an 
appropriate _pendant_ to the above.


To an importunate mendicant, whom I had sometimes relieved, I said one 
day, on giving him a trifle--"_Do not let me see you again for a long 
time._" He conformed to the direction, and refrained from applying for 
about seven months. At length he ventured to bring and hand me a 
billet, of which I annex a copy verbatim et literatim.

"Sir--You desired me, last time you relieved me, not to call _for a 
long time_. It was a few days after Easter. To a wretch in distress 
'_it is a very long time_.'

  Yours gratefully,

  Nov. 14.           R. W."


At page 21, is an account of a publication, some of whose predictions 
were certainly imbued with a rare spirit of prophecy.


In October 1786, I commenced, in partnership with T. Siddons, Charles 
Cist, C. Talbot, W. Spotswood, and J. Trenchard, the Columbian 
Magazine. In the first number, I wrote four pieces, "The Life of 
General Greene," "The Shipwreck, a Lamentable Story, Founded on Fact," 
"A Philosophical Dream," and "Hard Times, a Fragment."

The Philosophical Dream was an anticipation of the state of the 
country in the year 1850, on the plan of Mercier's celebrated work, 
"The Year 2500." Some of the predictions, which at that period must 
have been regarded as farcical, have been wonderfully fulfilled, and 
others are likely to be realized previous to the arrival of the year 
1850. I annex a few of them, which may serve to amuse the reader.

"_Pittsburg, Jan. 15, 1850_. The canal which is making from the river 
Ohio, to the Susquehanna, and thence to the Delaware, will be of 
immense advantage to the United States. If the same progress continues 
to be made hereafter as has been for some time past, it will be 
completed in less than two years."

This was probably the first suggestion of the grand project of uniting 
the waters of the Delaware with those of the Ohio. It preceded by four 
years the project of the financier, Robert Morris, and his friends, to 
unite the Delaware with the Schuylkill and the Susquehanna, which was 
broached in 1790.

"_Pittsburg, Jan. 15_. Delegates from the thirtieth new state, laid 
off a few months since by order of Congress, lately arrived at 
Columbia; and on producing their credentials, were received into the 
Federal Council.

"_Charleston, April 15_. No less than 10,000 blacks have been 
transported from this state and Virginia, during the last two years, 
to Africa, where they have formed a settlement near the mouth of the 
river Goree. Very few blacks remain in this country now: and we 
sincerely hope that in a few years every vestige of the infamous 
traffic carried on by our ancestors in the human species, will be done 
away.

"_Richmond, April 30_. By authentic advices from Kentucky, we are 
informed,--that 'no less than 150 vessels have been built on the river 
Ohio, during the last year, and sent down that river and the 
Mississippi, laden with valuable produce, which has been carried to 
the West Indies, where the vessels and their cargoes have been 
disposed of to great advantage.'

"_Boston, April 30_. At length the canal across the Isthmus of Darien 
is completed. It is about sixty miles long. First-rate vessels of war 
can with ease sail through. Two vessels belonging to this port, two to 
Philadelphia, and one to New York, sailed through on the 20th of 
January last, bound for Canton, in China.

"_Columbia, May 1_. Extract from the Journals of Congress.--'Ordered 
that there be twenty professors in the University of Columbia, in this 
city; viz. of Divinity, of Church History, of Hebrew, of Greek, of 
Humanity, of Logic, of Moral Philosophy, of Natural Philosophy, of 
Mathematics, of Civil History, of Natural History, of Common and Civil 
Law, of the Law of Nature and Nations, of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, 
of Botany, of Materia Medica, of Physic, of Chemistry, of Anatomy, and 
of Midwifery.'"

_Philadelphia, Oct. 1, 1786_.


There is much characteristic simplicity in Mr. Carey's manner of 
telling the anecdote annexed.


In travelling from New York to Philadelphia, some years since, the 
slenderness of my knowledge of the French led me into a most egregious 
error, and excited the displeasure of a splendid French lady who was 
in the stage. She had lived a long time in New York, and yet spoke the 
English language very imperfectly. I told her she ought to speak 
English constantly, when she was in company with English or Americans: 
that this was the only way in which she could acquire it. "Monsieur," 
says she, "_j'ai honte_," I am ashamed; literally, "I have shame." 
Reiterating her own word, I replied, "_Madame, je croyais que les 
dames Françoises n' avaient pas de honte_"--whereas I ought to have 
said, as I really meant, "_mauvaise honte_." She was exasperated, and 
told me indignantly that the French ladies had as much "_shame_" 
(meaning modesty) as the Americans; and that there was more immorality 
practised in New York than in Marseilles, of which she was a native, 
or in Martinique, where she had long resided. It was in vain that I 
repeatedly pledged my honor that I had not meant to affront her; that 
I was led into error solely by repeating her own word. It was equally 
in vain that I appealed to some of the passengers who understood 
French, who testified that the mistake was perfectly natural, and was 
justified by the imperfection of my knowledge of her language. Nothing 
could pacify her, and after several vain attempts, I relinquished the 
hope of soothing her feelings, and she scarcely spoke another word 
during the rest of the journey.





{205} AUTOGRAPHY.


Our friend and particular acquaintance, Joseph Miller, Esq. (who, by 
the way, signs his name, we think, Joseph A. Miller, or Joseph B. 
Miller, or at least Joseph C. Miller) paid us a visit a few days ago. 
His behavior was excessively odd. Walking into our _sanctum_ without 
saying a word, he seated himself with a dogged air in our own 
exclusive arm-chair, and surveyed us, for some minutes, in silence, 
and in a very suspicious manner, over the rim of his spectacles. There 
was evidently something in the wind. "What _can_ the man want?" 
thought we, without saying so.

"I will tell you," said Joseph Miller, Esq.--that is to say, Joseph D. 
Miller, Joseph E. Miller, or possibly Joseph F. Miller, Esq. "I will 
tell you," said he. Now, it is a positive fact that we had not so much 
as attempted to open any of our mouths.

"I will tell you," said he, reading our thoughts.

"Ah, thank you!" we replied, slightly smiling, and feeling excessively 
uncomfortable--"thank you!--we should like to know."

"I believe," resumed he--resumed Joseph G. Miller--"I believe you are 
not altogether unacquainted with our family."

"Why, _not_ altogether, certainly--pray, sir, proceed."

"It is one of the oldest families in ---- in ----"

"In Great Britain," we interposed, seeing him at a loss.

"In the United States," said Mr. Miller--that is, Joseph H. Miller, 
Esq.

"In the United States!--why, sir, you are joking surely: we thought 
the Miller family were particularly British--The Jest-Book you 
know ----"

"You are in error," interrupted he--interrupted Joseph I. Miller--"we 
are British, but not particularly British. You should know that the 
Miller family are indigenous every where, and have little connection 
with either time or place. This is a riddle which you may be able to 
read hereafter. At present let it pass, and listen to me. You know I 
have many peculiar notions and opinions--many particularly bright 
fancies which, by the way, the rabble have thought proper to call 
whims, oddities, and eccentricities. But, sir, they are not. You have 
heard of my passion for autographs?"

"We have."

"Well, sir, to be brief. Have you, or have you not, seen a certain 
rascally piece of business in the London Athenæum?"

"Very possible," we replied.

"And, pray sir, what do you think of it?"

"Think of what?"

"No, sir, not of _what_," said he--said Joseph K. Miller, Esq. getting 
very angry, "not of _what_ at all; but of that absurd, nefarious, and 
superfluous piece of autographical rascality therein--that is to say 
in the London Athenæum--deliberately, falsely, and maliciously 
fathered upon me, and laid to my charge--to the charge of _me_, I say, 
Joseph L. Miller." Here, Mr. M. arose, and, unbuttoning his coat in a 
great rage, took from his breast pocket a bundle of MSS. and laid them 
emphatically upon the table.

"Ah ha!" said we, getting particularly nervous, "we begin to 
understand you. We comprehend. Sit down! You, Joseph M.--that is to 
say, Joseph N. Miller--have had--that is to say, ought to have had, 
eh?--and the London Athenæum is--that is to say, it is not, 
&c.--and--and--and--oh, precisely!"

"My _dear_ sir," said Mr. Miller, affectionately, "you are a fool--a 
confounded fool. Hold your tongue! _This_ is the state of the case. I, 
Joseph O. Miller, being smitten, as all the world knows, with a 
passion for autographs, am supposed, in that detestable article to 
which I am alluding, and which appeared some time ago in the London 
Athenæum,--am supposed, I say, to have indited sundry epistles, to 
several and sundry characters of literary notoriety about London, with 
the sinister design, hope, and intention, of thereby eliciting 
autograph replies--the said epistles, presumed to be indited by me, 
each and individually being neither more nor less than one and the 
same thing, and consisting----"

"Yes sir," said we, "and consisting----"

"And consisting," resumed Mr. Joseph P. Miller, "of certain silly 
inquiries respecting the character of certain ----"

"Of certain cooks, scullions, and chambermaids," said we, having now 
some faint recollection of the article alluded to.

"Precisely," said our visiter--"of certain cooks, scullions, 
chambermaids, and boot-blacks."

"And concerning whose character you are supposed to be excessively 
anxious."

"Yes, sir--_I_--excessively anxious!--only think of that!--I, Joseph 
Q. Miller, excessively anxious!"

"Horrible!" we ejaculated.

"Damnable!" said Mr. M.

"But what papers are _these_?" demanded we, taking courage, and eyeing 
the bundle of MSS. which our friend had thrown upon the table.

"Those papers," said Mr. Miller, after a pause, and with considerable 
dignity of manner, "those papers are, to tell you the truth, the 
result of some--of some ingenuity on the part of your humble servant. 
They are autographs--but they are _American_ autographs, and as such 
may be of some little value in your eyes. Pray accept them--they are 
entirely at your service. I beg leave, however, to assure you that I 
have resorted to no petty arts for the consummation of a glorious 
purpose. No man can accuse _me_, sir, _me_, Joseph R. Miller, of 
meanness or of superficiality. My letters have invariably been--have 
been--that is to say, have been every thing they should be. Moreover, 
they have not been what they should not be. I have propounded no 
inquiries about scullions. I wrote not to the sublimated Mr. ----, 
[here we do not feel justified in indicating more fully the name 
mentioned by Mr. M.] touching a chambermaid, nor to Mr. ----, in 
relation to a character. On the contrary, I have adapted my means to 
my ends. I have--I have--in short, sir, I have accomplished many great 
and glorious things, all of which you shall behold in the sequel." We 
bowed, and our visiter continued.

"The autographs here included are, you will perceive, the autographs 
of our principal _literati_. They will prove interesting to the 
public. It would be as well to insert the letters in your Messenger, 
with facsimiles of the signatures. Of my own letters eliciting these 
replies I have unfortunately preserved no copies." Here Mr. M. handed 
us the MSS.

{206} "Mr. Joseph S. Miller"--we began, deeply penetrated by his 
kindness.

"Joseph _T_. Miller, if you please," interrupted he, with an emphasis 
on the T.

"Well, sir," said we--"so be it; Mr. Joseph V. Miller, then, since you 
will have it so, we are highly sensible of your noble, of your 
disinterested generosity. We are ----"

"Say no more," interrupted our friend, with a sigh--"say no more, I 
beseech you. The MSS. are entirely at your service. You have been very 
kind to me, and when I forget a kindness my name is no longer Joseph 
W. Miller."

"Then your name _is_--is positively Joseph W. Miller?"--we inquired 
with some hesitation.

"It is"--he replied, with a toss of the head, which we thought 
slightly supercilious--"It is--Joseph X. Miller. But why do you ask? 
Good day! In a style epistolary and non-epistolary I must bid you 
adieu--that is to say I must depart (and _not_ remain) your obedient 
servant, Joseph Y. Miller."

"Extremely ambiguous!" we thought, as he whipped out of the room--"Mr. 
Miller! Mr. Miller!"--and we hallooed after him at the top of our 
voice. Mr. Miller returned at the call, but most unfortunately we had 
forgotten what we had been so anxious to say.

"Mr. Miller," said we, at length, "shall we not send you a number of 
the Magazine containing your correspondence?"

"Certainly!"--he replied--"drop it in the Post Office."

"But, sir," said we, highly embarrassed,--"to what--to what address 
shall we direct it?"

"Address!" ejaculated he--"you astonish me! Address _me_, sir, if you 
please--Joseph Z. Miller."

The package handed us by Mr. M. we inspected with a great deal of 
pleasure. The letters were neatly arranged and endorsed, and numbered 
from one to twenty-four. We print them _verbatim_, and with facsimiles 
of the signatures, in compliance with our friend's suggestion. The 
dates, throughout, were overscored, and we have been forced, 
accordingly, to leave them blank. The remarks appended to each letter 
are our own.


LETTER I.

_Philadelphia_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I regret that you had the trouble of addressing me twice 
respecting the Review of your publication. The truth is it was only 
yesterday I enjoyed the opportunity of reading it, and bearing public 
testimony to its merits. I think the work might have a wider 
circulation if, in the next edition, it were printed _without_ the 
preface. Of your talents and other merits I have long entertained a 
high opinion.

Respectfully, your faithful servant,

[Illustration: Robert Walsh]

JOSEPH A. MILLER, ESQ.


There is nothing very peculiar in the _physique_ of this letter. The 
hand-writing is bold, large, sprawling, and irregular. It is rather 
rotund than angular, and is by no means illegible. One would suppose 
it written in a violent hurry. The t's are crossed with a sweeping 
scratch of the pen, giving the whole letter an odd appearance if held 
upside-down, or in any position other than the proper one. The whole 
air of the letter is _dictatorial_. The paper is of good but not 
superior quality. The seal is of brown wax mingled with gold, and 
bears a Latin motto, of which only the words _trans_ and _mortuus_ are 
legible.


LETTER II.

_Hartford_, ----.

_My Dear Sir_,--Your letter of the -- ult. with the accompanying 
parcel, reached me in safety, and I thank you for that polite 
attention, which is the more gratifying, as I have hitherto not had 
the pleasure of your acquaintance. The perusal of the pamphlet 
afforded me great delight, and I think it displays so much good sense, 
mingled with so much fine taste, as would render it an acceptable 
present to readers even more fastidious than myself. The purely 
Christian opinions with which the work abounds, will not fail of 
recommending it to all lovers of virtue, and of the truth.

I remain yours, with respect and esteem,

[Illustration: L. H. Sigourney]

JOSEPH B. MILLER, ESQ.


Much pains seem to have been taken in the MS. of this epistle. _Black 
lines_ have been used, apparently. Every t is crossed and every i 
dotted with precision. The punctuation is faultless. Yet the 
_tout-ensemble_ of the letter has nothing of formality or undue 
effeminacy. The characters are free, well-sized, and handsomely 
formed, preserving throughout a perfectly uniform and beautiful 
appearance, although generally unconnected with each other. Were one 
to form an estimate of the character of Mrs. Sigourney's compositions 
from the character of her hand writing, the estimate would not be very 
far from the truth. Freedom, dignity, precision, and grace of thought, 
without abrupt or startling transitions, might be attributed to her 
with propriety. The paper is good, the seal small--of green and gold 
wax--and without impression.


{207} LETTER III.

_New York_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have delayed replying to your letter of the -- ult. 
until I could find time to make the necessary inquiries about the 
circumstances to which you allude. I am sorry to inform you that these 
inquiries have been altogether fruitless, and that I am consequently 
unable, at present, to give you the desired information. If, 
hereafter, any thing shall come to light which may aid you in your 
researches, it will give me great pleasure to communicate with you 
upon the subject.

I am, Dear Sir, your friend and servant,

[Illustration: JK Paulding]

JOSEPH C. MILLER, ESQ.


There is much in the hand-writing here like that of Mrs. Sigourney, 
and yet, as a whole, it is very different. In both MSS. perfect 
uniformity and regularity exist, and in both, the character of the 
writing is _formed_--that is to say, _decided_. Both are beautiful, 
and, at a casual glance, both have a somewhat similar _effect_. But 
Mrs. Sigourney's MS. is one of the most legible, and Mr. Paulding's 
one of the most illegible in the world. His small a's, t's and c's are 
all alike, and the _style_ of the characters generally is French. No 
correct notion of Mr. Paulding's literary peculiarities could be 
obtained from an inspection of his MS. It has probably been modified 
by strong adventitious circumstances. The paper is of a very fine 
glossy texture, and of a blue tint, with gilt edges.


LETTER IV.

_Boston_, ----.

It is due from me to advise you that the communication of the -- ult. 
addressed by you to myself involves some error. It is evident that you 
have mistaken me for some other person of the same surname, as I am 
altogether ignorant of the circumstances to which you refer.

I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant,

[Illustration: J. G. Palfrey]

JOSEPH D. MILLER, ESQ.


The hand writing here is of an odd appearance. The capitals and _long_ 
letters extend far above or below the line, and the rest have a 
running and diminutive formation, rendering it difficult to 
distinguish one from another. The words are unusually far apart, and 
but little matter is contained in much space. At first sight the MS. 
appears to be hurried--but a few moments' examination will prove that 
this is not the case. The capital I's might be mistaken for T's. The 
whole has a clean and uniform appearance. The paper is common, and the 
seal (of red wax) is oval in shape--probably a shield--the device 
illegible.


LETTER V.

_St. Mark's Place, New York_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--Your obliging letter of the ---- was received in due 
course of mail, and I am gratified by your good opinion. At the same 
time my numerous engagements will render it out of my power to send 
you any communication for your valuable Magazine, 'The Humdrum,' for 
some months to come at least. Wishing you all success, and with many 
thanks for your attention.

I remain, sir, your humble servant,

[Illustration: J. Fenimore Cooper]

JOSEPH E. MILLER, ESQ.


Mr. Cooper's MS. is bad--very bad. There is no distinctive character 
about it, and it appears to be _unformed_. The writing will probably 
be different in other letters. Upon reference we find this to be the 
fact. In the letter to Mr. Miller, the MS. is of a _petite_ and 
finicky appearance, and looks as if scratched with a steel pen--the 
lines are crooked. The paper is fine, and of a bluish tint. A wafer is 
used.


LETTER VI.

_New York_, ----.

_My Dear Sir_,--I owe you a very humble apology for not answering 
sooner your flattering epistle of the -- ult. The truth is, being from 
home when your letter reached my residence, my reply fell into the 
ever open grave of deferred duties.

As regards the information you desire I regret that it is out of my 
power to aid you. My studies and pursuits {208} have been directed, of 
late years, in so very different a channel, that I am by no means _au 
fait_ on the particular subject you mention. Believe me, with earnest 
wishes for your success,

Very respectfully yours,

[Illustration: CM Sedgwick]

JOSEPH F. MILLER, ESQ.


The penmanship of Miss Sedgwick is excellent. The characters are 
well-sized, distinct, elegantly, but not ostentatiously formed; and, 
with perfect freedom of manner, are still sufficiently feminine. The 
hair strokes of the pen differ little in thickness from the other 
parts of the MS.--which has thus a uniform appearance it might not 
otherwise have. Strong common sense, and a scorn of superfluous 
ornament, one might suppose, from Miss Sedgwick's hand writing, to be 
the characteristics of her literary style. The paper is very good, 
blue in tint, and ruled by machine. The seal of red wax, plain.


LETTER VII.

_New York_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have received your favor of the ----. The report to 
which it alludes was entirely without foundation. I have never had, 
and have not _now_, any intention of editing a Magazine. The 
Bookseller's statement on this subject originated in a 
misunderstanding.

Your Poem on "Things in General," I have not had the pleasure of 
seeing. I have not, however, the least doubt of its--of its--that is 
to say, of its extreme delicacy of sentiment, and highly original 
style of thinking--to say nothing at present of that--of that 
extraordinary and felicitous manner of expression which so 
particularly characterizes all that--that I have seen of your 
writings. I shall endeavor, sir, to procure your Poem, and anticipate 
much pleasure in its perusal.

Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

[Illustration: Fitz-Greene Halleck]

JOSEPH G. MILLER, ESQ.


Mr. Halleck's is a free, mercantile hand, and evinces a love for the 
graceful rather than for the picturesque. There is some _force_, too, 
in its expression. The _tout ensemble_ is pleasing. Mr. H.'s letter is 
probably written _currente calamo_--but without hurry. The paper is 
very good, and bluish--the seal of red wax.


LETTER VIII.

_Alexandria, Red River_, ----, _Louisiana_.

_Dear Sir_,--Your polite letter of the -- is before me, and the view 
which you present of the estimation in which you hold my poor labors 
is every way gratifying. It would afford me great pleasure to send you 
a few trifles for the Hum-drum, which I have no doubt will prove a 
very useful periodical if its design is well carried out--but the 
truth is my time is entirely occupied.

Yours,

[Illustration: Timothy Flint]

JOSEPH H. MILLER, ESQ.


The writing in this letter has a _fidgetty_ appearance, and would seem 
to indicate a mind without settled aims--restless and full of 
activity. Few of the characters are written twice in the same manner, 
and their _direction_ varies continually. Sometimes the words lie 
perpendicularly on the page--then slope to the right--then, with a 
jerk, fly off in an opposite way. The thickness, also, of the MS. is 
changeable--sometimes the letters are very light and fine--sometimes 
excessively heavy. Upon a casual glance at Mr. F.'s epistle, one might 
mistake it for an imitation of a written letter by a child. The paper 
is bad--and wafered.


LETTER IX.

_Philadelphia_, ----.

[Illustration: Miss Leslie's]

compliments to Mr. Miller. She has no knowledge of the person spoken 
of in Mr. Miller's note, and is quite certain there must be some 
mistake in the statement alluded to.

JOSEPH I. MILLER, ESQ.


Several persons of our acquaintance, between whose mental character 
and that of Miss Leslie we have fancied a strong similitude, write a 
hand almost identical with this lady's--yet we are unable to point out 
much in the MS. itself according with the literary peculiarities of 
Miss L. Neatness and finish, without over-effeminacy, are, perhaps, 
the only features of resemblance. We might, also, by straining a 
point, imagine (from the MS.) that Miss L. regards rather _the effect 
of her writings as a whole_ than the polishing of their constituent 
parts. The penmanship is rotund, and the words are always finished 
with an inward twirl. The paper tolerable--and wafered.


{209} LETTER X.

_Boston_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have your favor of the ----. For the present I must 
decline replying to the queries you have propounded. Be pleased to 
accept my thanks for the flattering manner in which you speak of my 
Lecture.

I am, Dear Sir, very faithfully, yours,

[Illustration: Edward Everett.]

JOSEPH K. MILLER, ESQ.


Here is a noble MS. It has an air of deliberate precision about it 
emblematic of the statesman; and a mingled solidity and grace speaking 
the scholar. Nothing can be more legible. The words are at proper 
intervals--the lines also are at proper intervals, and perfectly 
straight. There are no superfluous flourishes. The man who writes thus 
will never grossly err in judgment or otherwise. We may venture to 
say, however, that he will not attain the loftiest pinnacles of 
renown. The paper is excellent--stout yet soft--with gilt edges. The 
seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the initials E. E. and 
surrounded with a scroll, on which are legible only the word _cum_ and 
the letters c. o. r. d. a.


LETTER XI.

_New York_, ----.

_My Dear Sir_,--I must be pardoned for refusing your request touching 
your MS. "Treatise on Pigs." I was obliged, some years ago, to come to 
the resolution not to express opinions of works sent to me. A candid 
opinion of those whose merit seemed to me small, gave offence, and I 
found it the best way to avoid a judgment in any case. I hope this 
will be satisfactory.

I am, my Dear Sir, very respectfully yours,

[Illustration: Washington Irving]

JOSEPH L. MILLER, ESQ.


Mr. Irving's hand writing is common-place. There is nothing indicative 
of genius about it. Neither could any one suspect, from such 
penmanship, a _high finish_ in the author's compositions. This style 
of writing is more frequently met with than any other. It is a very 
usual clerk's hand--scratchy and _tapering_ in appearance, showing 
(strange to say)--an eye deficient in a due sense of the 
_picturesque_. There may be something, however, in the circumstance 
that the epistle to Mr. Miller is evidently written in a desperate 
hurry. Paper very indifferent, and wafered.


LETTER XII.

_Boston_, ----.

_Sir_,--In reply to your note of the ----, in which you demand if I am 
"the author of a certain scurrilous attack upon Joseph M. Miller, in 
the Daily Polyglot of the -- ult." I have to say that I am happy in 
knowing nothing about the attack, the Polyglot, or yourself.

[Illustration: John Neal]

JOSEPH M. MILLER.


Mr. Neal's MS. is exceedingly illegible, and very careless. It is 
necessary to read one half his epistle and guess at the balance. The 
capitals and long letters, like those of Mr. Palfrey, extend far above 
and below the line, while the small letters are generally nothing but 
dots and scratches. Many of the words are run together--so that what 
is actually a sentence is frequently mistaken for a single word. One 
might suppose Mr. Neal's mind (from his penmanship) to be bold, 
excessively active, energetic, and irregular. Paper very common, and 
wafered.


LETTER XIII.

_Baltimore_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have received your note of the -- ult. and its contents 
puzzle me no little. I fear it will be impossible to give a definitive 
reply to an epistle so enigmatically worded. Please write again.

Yours truly,

[Illustration: John P. Kennedy]

JOSEPH N. MILLER, ESQ.


{210} This is our _beau ideal_ of penmanship. Its prevailing character 
is _picturesque_. This appearance is given by terminating every letter 
abruptly, without _tapering_, and by using no perfect angles, and none 
at all which are not spherical. Great uniformity is preserved in the 
whole air of the MS.--with great variety in the constituent parts. 
Every character has the clearness and blackness of a bold wood-cut, 
and appears to be _placed upon the paper_ with singular precision. The 
long letters do not rise or fall in an undue degree above the line. 
From this specimen of his hand writing, we should suppose Mr. Kennedy 
to have the eye of a painter, more especially in regard to the 
picturesque--to have refined tastes generally--to be exquisitely alive 
to the proprieties of life--to possess energy, decision, and great 
talent--to have a penchant also for the _bizarre_. The paper is very 
fine, clear and white, with gilt edges--the seal neat and much in 
keeping with the MS. Just sufficient wax, and no more than sufficient, 
is used for the impression, which is nearly square, with a lion's head 
in full _alto relievo_, surrounded by the motto "_il parle par tout_."


LETTER XIV.

_Philadelphia_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--Enclosed is your letter of the -- ult. addressed to Dr. 
Robert M. Bird, Philadelphia. From the contents of the note it is 
evidently not intended for myself. There is, I believe, a Dr. Robert 
Bird, who resides somewhere in the Northern Liberties--also several 
Robert Birds in different parts of the city.

Very respectfully, your obedient, humble servant,

[Illustration: Robt. M. Bird]

JOSEPH O. MILLER, ESQ.


Dr. Bird's chirography is by no means bad--still it cannot be called 
good. It is very legible and has force. There is some degree of 
nervousness about it. It bears a slight resemblance to the writing of 
Miss Leslie, especially in the curling of the final letters--but is 
more open, and occupies more space. The characters have the air of not 
being able to keep pace with the thought, and an uneasy want of finish 
seems to have been the consequence. A restless and vivid imagination 
might be deduced from this MS. It has no little of the _picturesque_ 
also. The paper good--_wafered and sealed_.


LETTER XV.

_Oak Hill_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have received your polite letter of the ----, and will 
have no objection to aid you in your enterprise by such information as 
I can afford. There are many others, however, who would be much better 
able to assist you in this matter than myself. When I get a little 
leisure you shall hear from me again.

I am, Dear Sir, with respect, your obedient,

[Illustration: J Marshall]

JOSEPH P. MILLER, ESQ.


The hand writing of the Chief Justice is not unlike that of Neal--but 
much better and more legible. The habit of running two words into one 
(a habit which we noticed in Neal) is also observable in the Chief 
Justice. The characters are utterly devoid of ornament or unnecessary 
flourish, and there is a good deal of abruptness about them. They are 
heavy and black, with very little hair stroke. The lines are 
exceedingly crooked, running diagonally across the paper. A wide 
margin is on the left side of the page, with none at all on the right. 
The whole air of the MS. in its utter simplicity, is strikingly 
indicative of the man. The paper is a half sheet of coarse foolscap, 
wafered.


LETTER XVI.

_Baltimore_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have received your letter of the -- ult. in which you 
do me the honor of requesting an autograph. In reply, I have to say, 
that if this scrawl will answer your purpose it is entirely at your 
service.

Yours respectfully,

[Illustration: Wm. Wirt]

JOSEPH Q. MILLER, ESQ.


Mr. Wirt's hand writing has a strong resemblance to that of his friend 
John P. Kennedy--it is by no means, however, as good, and has too much 
_tapering_ about it to be thoroughly picturesque. The writing is 
black, strong, clear, and very neat. It is, upon the whole, little in 
accordance with the character of Mr. W.'s compositions. The lines are 
crooked. The paper bluish and English--wafered.


{211} LETTER XVII.

_Washington_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--In answer to your kind inquiries concerning my health, I 
am happy to inform you that I was never better in my life. I cannot 
conceive in what manner the report to which you allude could have 
originated.

Believe me with the highest respect, your much obliged friend and 
servant,

[Illustration: Joseph Story]

JOSEPH R. MILLER, ESQ.


Judge Story's is a very excellent hand, and has the air of being 
written with great rapidity and ease. It is rotund, and might be 
characterized as a _rolling hand_. The direction of the letters 
occasionally varies from right to left, and from left to right. The 
same peculiarity was observable in Mr. Flint's. Judge Story's MS. is 
decidedly picturesque. The lines are at equal distances, but lie 
diagonally on the page. The paper good, of a bluish tint, and folded 
to form a marginal line. The seal of red wax, and stamped with a 
common compting-house stamp.


LETTER XVIII.

_New York_, ----.

_My Dear Sir_,--I thank you for the hints you have been so kind as to 
give me in relation to my next edition of the "_Voyage_," but as that 
edition has already gone to press, it will be impossible to avail 
myself of your attention until the sixth impression.

Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

[Illustration: J. N. Reynolds]

JOSEPH S. MILLER, ESQ.


We are not partial to Mr. Reynolds' style of chirography. It is a 
common mercantile hand, in which the words taper off from their 
beginning to their end. There is much freedom, but no strength about 
it. The paper good, and wafered.


LETTER XIX.

_Portland_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have no knowledge of your owing me the small sum sent 
in your letter of the ----, and consequently I re-enclose you the 
amount. You will no doubt be able to discover and rectify the mistake.

Very truly yours,

[Illustration: James Brooks]

JOSEPH T. MILLER, ESQ.


Mr. Brooks writes a very good hand, strong, bold, and abrupt--highly 
indicative of the author's peculiar features of mind. These are 
nervous common sense, without tinsel or artificiality, and a straight 
forward directness of conception. The lines are even--and the words at 
proper intervals. The paper good--and wafered.


LETTER XX.

_Washington_, ----.

_Sir_,--I shall be better enabled to answer your letter about "certain 
mysterious occurrences," of which you desire an explanation, when you 
inform me explicitly (and I request you will do this) what _are_ the 
mysterious occurrences to which you allude.

[Illustration: J. Q. Adams]

JOSEPH V. MILLER, ESQ.


The chirography of the Ex-President is legible--but has an odd 
appearance, on account of the _wavering_ of the capitals and long 
letters. The writing is clear, somewhat heavy, and 
_picturesque_--without ornament. Black lines seem to have been used. A 
margin is preserved to the right and left. The proportion of the 
letters is well maintained throughout. The paper common, and wafered.


LETTER XXI.

_Philadelphia_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I have just received your letter of the ----, in which 
you complain of my neglect in not replying to your favors of the ---- 
of the ---- and of the ---- ult. I do assure you, sir, that the 
letters have never come {212} to hand. If you will be so good as to 
repeat their contents, it will give me great pleasure to answer them, 
each and all. The Post Office is in a very bad condition.

Yours respectfully,

[Illustration: Mathew Carey]

JOSEPH W. MILLER, ESQ.


Mr. Carey does not write a legible hand--although in other respects a 
good one. It resembles that of Neal very nearly. Several of the words 
in the letter to Mr. Miller are run together. The i's are seldom 
dotted. The lines are at equal distances, and straight. The paper very 
good--wafered.


LETTER XXII.

_Boston_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been in my 
employ as a coachman, or otherwise. The name is an odd one, and not 
likely to be forgotten. The man must have reference to some other Dr. 
Channing. It would be as well to question him closely.

Respectfully yours,

[Illustration: W. E. Channing]

JOSEPH X. MILLER, ESQ.


Dr. Channing's MS. is very excellent. The letters are bold, 
well-sized, and beautifully formed. They are, perhaps, too closely 
crowded upon one another. One might, with some little acumen, detect 
the high finish of Dr. C.'s style of composition in the character of 
his chirography. Boldness and accuracy are united with elegance in 
both. The paper very good, and wafered.


LETTER XXIII.

_Philadelphia_, ----.

_Dear Sir_,--I must be pardoned for declining to loan the books you 
mention. The fact is, I have lost many volumes in this way--and as you 
are personally unknown to me you will excuse my complying with your 
request.

Yours, &c.

[Illustration: Jos. Hopkinson]

JOSEPH Y. MILLER, ESQ.


This is a very good MS.--forcible, neat, legible, and devoid of 
superfluous ornament. Some of the words are run together. The writing 
slopes considerably. It is too uniform to be picturesque. The lines 
are at equal distances, and a broad margin is on the left of the page. 
The chirography is as good at the conclusion as at the commencement of 
the letter--a rare quality in MSS.--and evincing _indefatigability_ of 
temperament.


LETTER XXIV.

_Washington_, ----.

_Sir_,--Yours of the ---- came duly to hand. I cannot send you what 
you wish. The fact is, I have been so pestered with applications for 
my autograph, that I have made a resolution to grant one in no case 
whatsoever.

Yours, &c.

[Illustration: Wm. Emmons]

JOSEPH Z. MILLER, ESQ.


The writing of the orator is bold, dashing, and chivalrous--the few 
words addressed to Mr. Miller occupying a full page. The lines are at 
unequal distances, and run diagonally across the letter. Each sentence 
is terminated by a long dash--black and heavy. Such an epistle might 
write the Grand Mogul. The paper is what the English call silver 
paper--very beautiful and wafered.