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.


{405}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, JUNE, 1836.  NO. VII.

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




RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION[1]

[Footnote 1: Some months ago a number of the “Richmond Enquirer,” 
containing an argument in favor of the mandatory right of a State 
Legislature to instruct a Senator of the United States, was forwarded 
to the author of this article. That argument was supported by the 
alleged opinions of Messrs. King, Jay and Hamilton, as expressed in 
the Convention of New York—and we think this reply well deserves 
publication. It is from the pen of a ripe scholar and a profound 
jurist.]


The receipt of your letter afforded me much pleasure, not only on 
account of the interesting subject it treats of, but as a gratifying 
evidence of your remembrance of me. I fear, however, that you will 
have reason to repent of your kindness, as I shall presume upon it to 
task your patience with some observations in defence of my old federal 
notions upon your doctrine of instructions. I will endeavor to show 
that the extracts made in the Enquirer from the speeches of Messrs. 
King, Jay and Hamilton, in the New York Convention, do not sustain 
(even if we are to take the report of them to be verbally correct) the 
doctrine or right as it is contended for in Virginia. I understand 
that doctrine to be, that the instructions of a State Legislature to a 
Senator of the United States, are an authoritative, constitutional, 
lawful _command_, which he is bound implicitly to obey, and which he 
cannot disobey without a violation of his official duty as a Senator, 
imposing upon him the obligation to resign his place if he cannot, or 
will not, conform to the will of his Legislature. I confess that this 
doctrine appears to me to be absolutely incompatible with the cardinal 
principles of our Constitution, as a representative government; to 
break up the foundations which were intended to give it strength and 
stability, and to impart to it a consistent, uniform and harmonious 
action; and, virtually, to bring us back to a simple, turbulent 
democracy, the worst of all governments—or rather, no government at 
all. I do not mean to enter upon the broad ground of argument of this 
question, with which you are so well acquainted, but to examine, as 
briefly as I can, but probably not so much so as your patience would 
require, the _federal_ authorities which the writer in the Enquirer 
believes he has brought to the support of his opinions.

I cannot put out of the discussion, although I will not insist upon, 
the objection to the authority of the reports of the speeches alluded 
to, especially when it turns upon a question of extreme accuracy in 
the use of certain precise words and phrases, any departure from which 
would materially affect the sense of the speaker. We see daily in the 
reports of congressional debates, the most important mistakes or 
misrepresentations, unintentionally made, not of expressions merely, 
but of the very substance and meaning of the speakers; sometimes 
reporting the very reverse of what they actually said. I have occasion 
to know the carelessness with which these reports are frequently made, 
and, indeed, the impossibility of making them with accuracy. What a 
man _writes_ he must abide by, in its fair and legitimate meaning; but 
what another writes for him, however honest in the intention, cannot 
be so strictly imputed to him. There is also an objection to 
_extracts_, even truly recited, inasmuch as they are often qualified 
or modified by other parts of the writing or speech. As I have not, 
immediately at hand, the debates of the New York Convention, I am 
unable, just now, to see how far this may have been the case in the 
speeches from which the quotations are made. I must, therefore, at 
present, be content to take them as they are given in the Enquirer, 
and even then it appears to me that they are far from covering the 
Virginia doctrine of instructions. Let us see. Mr. King is represented 
to have said, that “the Senators will have a _powerful check_ in those 
_who wish for their seats_.” This is most true—and in fact it is to 
this struggle for place that we owe much of the zeal for doctrines 
calculated to create vacancies. Mr. King proceeds—“And the State 
Legislatures, if they find their delegates erring, can and will 
_instruct them_. Will this be no check?” The two checks proposed, in 
the same sentence and put upon the same footing, are the vigilance of 
those who want the places of the Senators, and the instructions which 
the State Legislatures can and will give to them. They are said to be, 
as they truly are, _powerful checks_, operating with a strong 
influence on the will and discretion of the Senator, but not as 
subjecting him, _as a matter of duty_, either to the reproaches of his 
rivals or the opinions of the Legislature. To do this, a check must be 
something more than powerful; it must be irresistible, or, at least, 
attended by some means of carrying it out to submission—some penalty 
or remedy for disobedience. I consider the term _instruct_, as here 
used, to mean no more than counsel, advise, recommend—because Mr. King 
does not intimate that any right or power is vested in the Legislature 
to compel obedience to their instructions, or to punish a refractory 
Senator as an official delinquent. It is left to his option to obey or 
not, which is altogether inconsistent with every idea of a _right to 
command_. Such a right is at once met and nullified by a right to 
refuse. They are equal and contrary rights. As we are upon a question 
of verbal criticism, and it is so treated in the Enquirer, we may look 
for information to our dictionaries. To instruct, in its primitive or 
most appropriate meaning, is simply to _teach_—and instruction is the 
act of _teaching_, or _information_. It is true that Johnson gives, as 
a more remote meaning, “to inform authoritatively.” Certainly, the 
Legislature may instruct, may teach, may inform a Senator, and 
whenever they do so it will be with no small degree of authority from 
the relation in which they stand to each other; but the great question 
is, not whether this would be an impertinent or improper interference 
on the part of the Legislature, but whether the Senator is bound, by 
his official oath or duty, implicitly to obey such instructions; 
whether he violates a duty he ought to observe, or usurps a power 
which does not belong to him, if he declines to submit to these 
directions, if he cannot receive the lesson thus taught, or adopt the 
information thus imparted to him. Does {406} the spirit of our 
Constitution (for clearly in terms it does not) intend to make a 
Senator of the _United States_ a mere passive instrument or agent in 
the hands of a _State Legislature_. Is he required by any legal or 
moral duty or obligation, to surrender into the hands of any man or 
body of men, his honest judgment and conscientious convictions of 
right? To act on _their_ dictation and _his own_ responsibility; 
responsible to his country for the consequences of his vote, and to 
his own conscience and his God for the disregard of his oath of 
office, which bound him to support that Constitution which his 
instructions may call upon him to violate, _as he conscientiously 
believes_. It will be a miserable apology for him to say, that he has 
done this because he was so ordered by a body of men, who may have 
thought or cared very little about it, and may hold a different 
opinion the next year without remorse or responsibility. But if he 
cannot obey, must he save his conscience by resigning his seat? This 
is the most unsound and untenable of all the grounds assumed in this 
discussion. If it is the _official duty_ of the Senator to do and 
perform the will of his constituents, or rather of those who gave him 
his office, then he violates or evades that duty by resigning; and he 
may, in this way, not only abandon his duty, but as effectually defeat 
the will and intention of his Legislature as by actually voting 
against it. To return to Mr. King—how does he propose or expect that 
this check of legislative instructions is to act upon the Senator? 
What is the nature of the obligation he considers to rest upon the 
Senator to obey them? He does not pretend that there is any power in 
the Legislature to enforce their instructions or cause them to be 
respected. He does not suggest that disobedience is a violation of 
duty on the part of the Senator, or the assumption of any right that 
does not practically and constitutionally belong to him; that he falls 
under any just odium or reproach, if after an honest and respectful 
consideration of the instructions, he shall believe it to be his duty 
to disregard them. Mr. King does not, by the most remote implication, 
intimate, that a State Legislature may, through the medium of 
instructions, directly or indirectly, put a limitation on the _term of 
service_ of a Senator, which they will do if it is his duty to resign 
whenever they shall choose to require of him to do what, as an honest 
man, a good citizen, and faithful officer, he cannot do. If 
instructions have the authority contended for, there is no exception; 
it is a perfect right or it is no right. The Senator cannot withdraw 
himself from it, however imperious the requisition may be, or however 
iniquitous the design in making it. The Senator has a discretion to 
judge of it in all cases or in no case. He may take counsel of his own 
conscience and judgment in every call upon him—or in none. The check 
that Mr. King promises from the State Legislatures upon their 
Senators, is nothing more than the natural influence they will have 
upon the minds and conduct of the Senators, and this, in my 
apprehension, is more likely to be too much than too little. What does 
Mr. K. say will be the consequence of a refusal on the part of a 
Senator to obey? Not that he is corrupt—or unfaithful—or ought to 
resign—but simply that they will be “_hardy men_.” Assuredly they will 
be so; I wish we had more of these hardy men, for certainly there are 
occasions on which public men, holding the destinies of their country 
in their hands, ought to be hardy, and must be so in opposition to the 
apparent and immediate, but transient, will of the people; and it is 
such hardy men who have deserved and received the gratitude and thanks 
of the people they saved by opposing them. The brightest names on the 
pages of history are those of such hardy men. The same answer meets 
the commentary on the word “dictating”—used, or said to be used, by 
Mr. King.

I would here make a remark upon this report of Mr. King's speech, 
which shows how carelessly the report was made, or how loose Mr. King 
was in his choice of words. In the beginning of the passage quoted, he 
refers to the _State Legislatures_, as the bodies who are to check, by 
their instructions, the wanderings of the Senators. In the conclusion 
he is made to say—“When they (the Senators) hear the voice of the 
_people_ dictating to them their duty,” &c. Now, it can hardly be 
pretended that the _Legislature_ and the _people_ are identically the 
same; or that a vote of the Legislature by a majority of one—or by any 
majority, can always be said to be the voice of the people. It is as 
probable that they may misrepresent the people, as that the Senators 
should misrepresent them. It is not uncommon for the people to 
repudiate the acts of their Legislature. It was understood to be so in 
Virginia, on the late question on the conduct of her Senators. The 
solemn and deliberate opinion upon any subject, of the body from which 
an officer derives his appointment, will always be received with great 
respect, as coming from a high source and with much authority, but the 
Senator, acting on the responsibility he owes to the _whole country_, 
must take into his view of the case the effect of his instructions 
upon the whole; he must not shut his eyes from examining the occasion 
which produced the instructions—the circumstances attending them—the 
means by which they were obtained—the errors, or passions, or 
prejudices which may have influenced and deceived those who voted for 
them; in short, he must carefully and conscientiously examine the 
whole ground, and finally decide for himself on the double 
responsibility he owes to his _own State_ and to the _United States_; 
to those who appointed him to office and to himself, and his own 
character. There is no doubt that this examination will be made with a 
disposition sufficiently inclined to conform himself to the wishes of 
his constituents.

Mr. Jay expressed himself with more discrimination and caution than 
Mr. King; and no inference can be drawn from what he says, that there 
is any right or power in a State Legislature to demand obedience or 
resignation from a Senator, to their instructions. He considers their 
instructions to be, what in truth and practice they have always been, 
nothing more than advice or information coming from a high source and 
entitled to great respect. He says, “the Senate is to be composed of 
men appointed by the State Legislatures. They will certainly choose 
those who are most distinguished for their general knowledge. I 
_presume_ they will also instruct them.”

In these reported debates, _Hamilton_ is represented to have said—that 
“it would be a _standing instruction_ of the larger States to increase 
the representation.” Observe, this is not applied to the _Senators_ 
only, but to the delegates or representatives of the States in {407} 
Congress, in both Houses, and has no reference to any right of 
instruction by the State Legislatures to their Senators; _that_ was 
not the subject of the debate; nor is it intimated _by whom_ or in 
what manner these standing instructions are to be given. The meaning 
of General Hamilton, I think, is obvious, and has no bearing on our 
question. The phrase, _standing instruction_, means that it is so 
clearly the interest of the larger States to increase their 
representation, that their delegates will always consider themselves 
to be bound, to be _instructed_ by that _interest_, by their duty to 
their States, to vote for such increase. They will so _stand 
instructed_, at all times and without any particular direction from 
their States; they will always take it for granted, that it is their 
duty to increase the representation. The very phrase distinguishes it 
from the case of _specific instructions_ made, from time to time, on 
particular measures as they shall arise for deliberation and decision 
in the national legislature. But General Hamilton, as quoted, proceeds 
to say—“The _people_ have it in their power to _instruct_ their 
representatives, and the State Legislatures which appoint their 
Senators may enjoin _it_ (that is the increase of the representation) 
also upon them.” I may here repeat that all this is true; but by no 
means reaches the point to which this right of instruction is now 
carried. The people may instruct, and the legislatures may enjoin, and 
both will always, doubtless, be attended to with a deep respect and a 
powerful influence; but if with all this respect and under this 
influence, the representative or the Senator cannot, in his honest and 
conscientious judgment, submit himself to them, does he violate his 
official duty, and is he bound to relinquish his office? This is the 
question, and no affirmative answer to it, or any thing that implies 
it, can be found in any of the writings or speeches of the gentleman 
alluded to; nor, as I believe, in any of the writings or speeches of 
any of the distinguished men at that time. The doctrine is of a later 
date; it is not coeval with the Constitution, nor with the men who 
formed it. Much reliance is placed, by the writer in the Enquirer, on 
the strict meaning of the word _enjoin_; it is thought to be 
peculiarly imperative. Conceding, for the argument, that this precise 
word was really used by the speaker, it is certain that in speaking, 
and even in writing, this word is not always used in the strict sense 
attributed to it. Cases of common parlance are familiar and of daily 
occurrence, in which it is used only to mean a strong, emphatic 
recommendation or advice—or a forcible expression of a wish, and not 
an absolute right to command. If, however, we turn to the dictionary, 
Johnson tells us that to enjoin is “to direct—to order—to prescribe; 
it is more authoritative than direct, and _less imperious than 
command_.” Not one of his illustrations or examples employ it in the 
strong sense of power now contended for.

  “To satisfy the good old man,
   I would bend under any heavy weight
   That he'll _enjoin_ me to.”

Here the submission or obedience is altogether voluntary; with no 
right or power in the “good old man” to require or compel it. Again,

  “Monks and philosophers, and such as do continually _enjoin_
         themselves.”

The extracts from the speeches in the New York Convention, even if 
accurately reported, and strictly construed, do not seem to me to 
maintain the present Virginia doctrine of instructions. Allow me to 
repeat it, for it is _that_, and not something which may approach it, 
which is our subject of difference and argument. It is—whether a 
Senator of the United States is under any moral or constitutional 
obligation—whether he is bound as a faithful and true officer, or as a 
good citizen of the _Republic of the United States_, to obey the 
instructions of the Legislature of _his State_, when they require him 
to do an act which in his deliberate judgment and conscientious 
conviction, is contrary to his duty to his country, to all the States, 
and to _his own State_; to the Constitution, under and by which he 
holds his office and his power, and to the oath he has taken to 
support that Constitution? This is the question truly stated—can the 
power or authority of a changing, irresponsible body, which directs 
one thing this year (as we have repeatedly seen) and another the next, 
or, if it were not this changeling—force him to violate his oath, or 
absolve him from the responsibility, if he do so? If a Senator of 
Virginia or Delaware were to receive instructions to give a vote which 
he truly believed would be a violation of the rights, and injurious to 
the interests, of every other state of the confederacy, as secured to 
them by the Constitution, although it might be of some local advantage 
to Virginia or Delaware, should that Senator, acting as he does as a 
Senator, not for his particular State only, but for the States also 
whose rights he violates, obey such instructions? Can there be a doubt 
of the reply to this question? Will you say he should obey or 
resign—that another may come who will obey? I deny that his duty 
imposes any such alternative upon him. On the contrary, it is 
particularly his duty _not to resign_ for such a reason or such an 
object. It would be to abandon the duty he owes to the Constitution 
and the other States, at the very moment when they need his services 
in their defence; and not only to abandon them, but to surrender his 
post and his power to one who, in his estimation, is so far their 
enemy as to take the post for the very purpose of violating them. It 
would be to desert “the general welfare” which he has sworn to defend 
and promote, in order to give his place and power to one who will 
sacrifice the general welfare to some local and particular interest or 
object. To desert it in such circumstances, may produce the same evils 
and consequences, as if he were to remain and obey his instructions. 
His vote or his absence may turn the question.

As the incidental arguments, not upon the direct question, attributed 
to Messrs. Jay and Hamilton, are now relied upon to support this 
doctrine of instructions, I will cheerfully refer to these great men, 
adding to them the name of Mr. Madison, and endeavor to show, from 
better evidence than reported debates, what were really their opinions 
upon this asserted power of the State Legislatures, and in what manner 
they thought Senators were amenable to their Legislatures for their 
acts and votes in the National Congress. I shall do this, not on the 
authority of reported speeches, but by adverting to what they have 
written and published, as the true spirit and doctrines of the 
Constitution. To be brief, I will give you the summing up of the 
argument in the “_Federalist_,” in favor of the powers of the Senate 
under the Constitution. I refer to the numbers 62 and 63, written by 
Mr. Madison; but, {408} as it is understood, giving the opinions and 
views of the illustrious triumvirate. Their whole argument and 
exposition of the powers, duties, and responsibilities of the 
Senators, are utterly inconsistent with the control upon them now set 
up on the part of the State Legislatures. It is not merely that this 
right of instruction is no where mentioned or alluded to, as one of 
the means by which the Senators are to be kept to their duty, but such 
a right cannot be reconciled with the benefits intended by the 
Constitution to be derived from the permanency of that body—from its 
independence and its elevation above, or protection from, the caprices 
and fluctuations of popular feeling, often improperly called popular 
opinion. Allow me particularly to turn your attention to a few 
passages from Mr. Madison's examination of the “Constitution of the 
Senate.” His second reason for having a Senate, or second branch of 
the Legislative Assembly, is thus stated: “The necessity of a Senate 
is not less indicated by the propensity of all single and numerous 
assemblies to yield to the impulse of sudden and violent passions, and 
to be seduced by factious leaders into intemperate and pernicious 
resolutions.” If this is true of the House of Representatives of the 
United States; if their intemperate and pernicious resolutions are to 
be guarded against and controlled by the more sedate and permanent 
power of the Senate, how much stronger is the reason when applied to 
the Legislatures of the States? Having their narrow views of national 
questions, and their local designs and interests as the first objects 
of their attention, it seems to me to be a strange absurdity to put 
the Senate as a guard and control over the House of Representatives, 
and then to have that Senate under the direction and control of the 
Legislatures of the States—or it may be, on a vital question, under 
the direction of the Legislature of the smallest State in the Union. 
Are there no local impulses and passions to agitate these 
Legislatures? no factious leaders to seduce them into intemperate and 
pernicious resolutions—and to induce them to prefer some little, local 
advantage, to “the general welfare.” To give to the Senate the power, 
the will, and the courage to oppose and control these sudden and 
violent passions in the more popular branch of our national 
legislature, Mr. Madison says, “It ought moreover to possess _great 
firmness_, and consequently ought to hold _its authority_ by a tenure 
of considerable duration.” But what can that firmness avail, how will 
it be shaken, of what possible use will it be, if the Senator is bound 
to follow the dictates of a changing body, subject, emphatically to 
sudden impulses and seductions, at a distance from the scene of his 
deliberations, and deprived of the sources of information which he 
possesses, and acting in a _different sphere of duty_ from that he 
moves in? Firmness in an agent who has no will of his own, no right to 
act but on the dictation of another, would not only be superfluous, 
but a positive evil and disqualification. It would produce struggles 
and perhaps refusal, where his duty was to submit. The more pliable 
the instrument in such a case, the better would it answer the purposes 
it was designed for. To be firm, says Mr. Madison, the Senator must 
_hold his authority_ by a tenure of considerable duration. But how can 
this be, if he is to hold it from year to year as the Legislature of 
his State may change its opinion on the same subject, and require him 
to follow these changes or to resign his place? The tenure of the 
Constitution, as Mr. Madison understood it, is essentially changed by 
this doctrine. These changes of opinions and measures are, in the 
opinion of Mr. Madison, a great and dangerous evil in any government, 
and show “the necessity of some stable institution”—such as our Senate 
was intended to be—but such as it cannot be on this doctrine of 
instructions.

But this great man and enlightened statesman, jealous enough of the 
rights and liberties of the people, does not stop here in explaining 
the uses of the Senate. It is not the passions of Legislatures only 
that are to be guarded against by the conservative power of that body. 
He thinks that it “may be sometimes necessary as a defence _to the 
people_ against _their own temporary errors and delusions_;” he justly 
applauds the _salutary interference_ in critical moments, of some 
respectable and temperate body of citizens, “to check the misguided 
career, and to suspend the blow meditated by _the people against 
themselves_, until reason, justice, and truth can regain their 
authority over the public mind.” He considers the Senate as “an anchor 
against popular fluctuations;” and he certainly never imagined that 
the capstan and cable were in the hands of the State Legislatures, to 
remove the anchor at their pleasure. He truly says, that in all free 
governments, the cool and deliberate sense of the community ought and 
_ultimately_ will prevail; but he did not believe that this cool and 
deliberate sense would be found, on the spur of the occasion, in a 
popular body liable to intemperate and sudden passions and impulses, 
and the seductions of factious leaders. It was to control and check 
such movements, and not to be controlled by them, that the Senate was 
constituted; and to check and suspend them until the deliberate and 
cool sense of the community can be obtained; which, when fairly 
ascertained, will be recognized and respected by the Senate as fully 
and certainly as by the Legislatures of the States. The members of 
these Legislatures have no means of knowing the public sentiments, 
which are not equally open to the Senators; nor are their inducements 
to conform to them more persuasive or strong. Mr. Madison goes so far 
as to say, that as our governments are entirely _representative_, 
there is “a total exclusion of the people in their collective 
capacity, _from any share_ in them.” If then, the will of the people, 
declared by themselves, should not move a Senator from his own 
conviction of his duty, when he believes the act required of him is 
contrary to that duty, and such is the constitutional right and 
obligation of his office, shall he be driven to a violation of that 
duty or a relinquishment of that right, by a second-hand, doubtful, 
equivocal, and, perhaps, false, expression of that will, by and 
through an intermediate body, no better informed of the cool and 
deliberate sense of the community than he is himself—no better 
disposed than he is to satisfy the public sentiment, and not half so 
well informed as he is of the tendency and consequences of the measure 
in question?

To meet the objections to the dangerous power of the Senate, continued 
for so long a period as six years, and to quiet the alarm that had 
been raised on that subject, Mr. Madison states what he supposed to be 
the check or protection provided by the Constitution against their 
usurpations, and which he thought amply sufficient. What is that 
check? Is it any right in the appointing {409} Legislatures to direct 
his conduct and his votes, and to revoke his powers, directly or 
indirectly, if he refuse his obedience? If for any cause, justifiable 
and honest or not so, they wish to deprive him of his office, to annul 
the appointment made by a preceding legislature or by themselves, may 
they do so by giving him instructions at their pleasure, desiring 
nothing but to accomplish their own objects, and in a total disregard 
of his judgment, conscience, and duties, and then say to him, knowing 
that he would not and could not obey their mandate, resign your place, 
and put it at our disposal, that we may gratify some new favorite, or 
promote some design of our own. The next Legislature may choose to 
drive out the new favorite and reinstate the old one; and thus this 
Senate, instead of being an anchor to the State, a stable and 
permanent body to save us from sudden gales and storms, will in 
practice, be floating on the surface, fixed to nothing, and driven to 
and fro by every change of the wind. _Instruction and resignation_ are 
not the means proposed by Mr. Madison to protect us from the 
corruption or tyranny of the Senate. He suggests no interference, in 
any way, on the part of the State Legislatures with their Senators, 
nor any control over them, during their continuance in office; but 
finds all the safety he thought necessary, and all that the 
Constitution gives, in the “_periodical change_ of its members.” In 
addition to this, much reliance, no doubt, was placed, and ought to be 
so, on the expectation, that the State Legislatures would appoint to 
this high and responsible office, only men of known and tried 
character and patriotism, having themselves a deep stake in the 
liberties of their country, and bound by all the ties of integrity and 
honor to a faithful discharge of their trust.

If the Constitution—for that is our _government_, and by that must 
this question be decided—intended to reserve this great controlling 
power to the State Legislatures, over the Legislature of the United 
States, for such it is as now claimed, we should have found some 
provision to this effect, some evidence of this intention, either 
expressed, or by a fair and clear implication, in the instrument 
itself. Nothing of the kind appears. We should have further found some 
form of proceeding to compel a refractory Senator to obey the lawful, 
authoritative mandate of his State Legislature. It is an anomaly in 
any government to give an authority to a man or body of men, without 
any power to enforce it, to carry it out into practice and action, to 
make it effectual. To give a right to command, and to furnish no means 
to compel obedience, no process to punish a disregard to the order, is 
indeed like Glendower's power to _call_ spirits, but not to _make them 
come_. To say that I have a right to order another to do or not to do 
an act, but that it is left to his discretion to obey me or not, is a 
contradiction in terms. It is no right, or at least no more than one 
of those imperfect rights which create no obligation of respect. If I 
give to my agent a command which, by the terms and tenure of his 
agency, by the limitations of his authority, he is bound to obey, and 
he refuses to do so, I may revoke his power, or rather he had no power 
for the act in question; he is not my agent, and cannot bind me beyond 
his lawful authority, or in contradiction to my lawful command. On the 
other hand, _that I am bound by his acts_ is a full and unquestionable 
proof that he has acted _by and within his powers_, and that I had _no 
right_ to give the command which he has disobeyed. There cannot be a 
lawful command, and a lawful disobedience on the same subject. If by 
the terms of the power of attorney, which is the contract between the 
principal and his agent, certain matters are left to the judgment and 
discretion of the attorney, or are within the scope of his 
appointment, without any reservation of control on the part of the 
principal; then no such control exists, and this is most especially 
the case when the rights and interests of other parties are concerned 
in the execution of the power and trust.

Will it be said that the obligation of a Senator to obey the 
instructions of his Legislature, although not found in the 
Constitution, results from the circumstance that he received his 
appointment and power from that body? It is impossible to sustain this 
ground. I recur to the case of a common agent to whom a full and 
general power is given, irrevocable for six years; and, to make the 
case more apposite, in the execution of which power the rights and 
interests of other parties are deeply concerned, so that, in fact, the 
agent is the attorney of those parties as well as of the one from whom 
he receives his appointment. Will any one pretend that an agent so 
constituted and thus becoming the attorney of _all_, with the right 
and power _to bind all_ by his acts, is afterwards to be subject to 
the direction of any one of the parties in any proposed measure 
bearing on the general interest, merely because his immediate 
appointment came from that party? When he is appointed, his powers and 
his duties extend far beyond the source of his authority, and are, 
consequently, placed beyond that control. His responsibility is to 
_all_ for whom he is the agent, and he is false to his trust if he 
surrenders himself to the dictates of any one, or sacrifices the 
general to a particular interest. The President and Senate appoint the 
judges, but it does not result from this that judges are to be under 
the dictation and control of the executive. So of any other officer 
acting within the sphere of his authority. The President by his 
general power may remove him, for that or for any other cause, or for 
no cause, but while he holds the office, he exercises its powers at 
his own discretion, and is not bound to obey the appointing power. In 
a despotism the master holds the bridle and the lash over every slave 
he appoints to _execute his will_, but in a free representative 
government it is the _law_ that is to be executed and obeyed, and the 
officer, in performing his prescribed duties, is independent of every 
power but that of the law. This is indispensable to the harmonious 
action of the whole system.

I do not know whether the advocates of this doctrine of instructions 
extend it to trials or impeachments before the Senate. If they do not, 
I would ask on what distinct principle do they exempt such cases from 
this legislative right of dictation? The claim is broad and general, 
covering all the powers, duties, and acts of a Senator. Who is 
authorized to make the exceptions? By what known rule are they to be 
made, or do they depend upon an arbitrary will? Is this will or power 
lodged in the State Legislatures? Then they make the exception or not, 
at their pleasure; they may forbear to interfere in one 
impeachment—and they may send in their dictation in another, according 
as, in their discretion, it may or may not be a case calling for their 
interference. Their power over their Senator, to compel him {410} to 
obey or resign, is in their own hands, and they may issue their 
mandate to him to condemn or acquit the accused, or they may leave him 
to his own judgment and conscience as they may deem it to be 
expedient. Such is the state of the case, if the right of 
discrimination, of making exceptions from the general power of 
control, is vested in the Legislatures themselves. Is it then given to 
the other party, that is, to the Senator? Then the power resolves 
itself into an empty name; or rather into just what I say it should 
be, a recommendation entitled to great deference and respect, but with 
no obligation to obedience. If the Senator has an admitted discretion 
to obey or not to obey the instructions of his Legislature, _according 
to the nature of the case in which they are given_, then the right of 
the Legislature to give them is not absolute in any case, but it is 
left to the judgment of the Senator to decide for himself whether the 
case be one in which he can and ought to follow their instructions or 
not. There is no special exception of impeachments, and the right to 
exempt them from this legislative control, if it exist at all, must 
depend upon the nature of the case, and, of consequence, what is the 
nature of a case which entitles it to this exemption must be decided 
by the Legislature or by their Senator. We have seen the effect of 
either alternative. In truth, this power of control must be 
co-extensive with the powers and duties of the Senator, or it is 
nothing.

To give you the strongest case against my argument, I will suppose 
that the Constitution had said—“The State Legislatures may _instruct_ 
their Senators,” and had said no more; would this have created an 
imperious obligation on the Senator implicitly to obey the 
instructions? Would disobedience forfeit his office directly, or 
virtually by making it his _duty_ to resign it? I think not. It would 
have been no more than a constitutional, perhaps a superfluous, 
recognition of the right of the State Legislatures to interfere so far 
and in this way, with the measures of the federal government, to give 
their opinions, their recommendation, their counsel, to their 
Senators; but the Senators would afterwards be at liberty, nay it 
would be their duty, to act and vote according to their own judgment 
and consciences, on the responsibility which they _constitutionally_ 
owe to their constituents, which is found, as Mr. Madison says, _in 
the periodical change_ of the members of the Senate. The Constitution 
knows no other check upon the Senators; no other responsibility to the 
State Legislature, while the Senator acts within and by the admitted 
powers of his office.

But I am wearying you to death. Let me conclude this interminable 
epistle by referring to an authority which no man living holds in 
higher reverence than you do. About a week or ten days before the 
death of that great and pure man, a true and fearless patriot, _Chief 
Justice Marshall_, I called to see him. This question of instructions 
was then in high debate in your papers. I said to him that I thought 
the Virginia doctrine of instructions was inconsistent with all the 
principles of our government, and subversive of the stability of its 
foundations. He replied in these words—“It is so; indeed the Virginia 
doctrines are incompatible not only with the government of the United 
States, but with _any_ government.” These were the last words I heard 
from the lips of _John Marshall_.

H.




PERDICARIS.


_Mr. Editor_,—In introducing the following pieces to your notice, 
permit me to say a few words of the gentleman whose lectures on the 
condition and prospects of his native Greece have occasioned them to 
be offered to you. Perdicaris is a native of Berea in Macedonia, a 
place memorable not only for classic but for sacred associations. He 
left his country while a youth, about the commencement of the Greek 
revolution; and after travelling for some time in Syria and Egypt, was 
brought off by an American vessel of war, from Smyrna, where his 
situation as a Greek was extremely perilous. His education having been 
completed in this country, he engaged as a teacher of the Greek 
language, first at the Mount Pleasant Institution, Amherst, 
Massachusetts, and subsequently at Washington College, Hartford, 
Connecticut. Being now about to return to his native country, he is 
perfecting his acquaintance with the United States and their 
institutions, by travel; while at the same time he aims by lectures 
delivered in the various cities, to excite an interest in the public 
mind in the prospects and condition of his own country. It appears to 
be his most earnest wish, to remove some false ideas with respect to 
his native land, which have been too generally prevalent, and which 
even the tone of Byron's poetry—friend of Greece as he was—has tended 
to confirm. In the accounts of Perdicaris, we discover that his 
country is still worthy of her ancient fame, that she possesses, and 
has possessed for years, numerous and eminent scholars, noble 
institutions of learning, a national poetry of no ordinary merit, an 
active and intelligent population, and a general diffusion of 
enlightened public spirit, of which it is as gratifying as it is 
unexpected, to be informed.

Of the two following pieces, the one is a translation, executed with 
Mr. Perdicaris's assistance, from Christopoulos, who has been styled 
the Modern Anacreon. It has in the original, an amusing and touching 
simplicity, which I have not, I fear, succeeded in preserving. The 
second piece must speak for itself.


FROM THE ROMAIC OF CHRISTOPOULOS.

  Orb of day, thus rising splendid,
    Through the glowing realms of air!
  Be thy course for once suspended,
    For a message to my fair.
  Two of thy bright rays be darted;
    Let them, as the maid they greet,
  Say, her lover, faithful-hearted,
    Worships humbly at her feet.
  He, of late so full of pleasure,
    Tell her, now can scarce draw breath;
  Living parted from his treasure,
    He is like one sick to death.
  Hour by hour, his pain enhancing,
    Brings the final struggle near;
  Death, with stealthy tread advancing,
    Claims the spirit lingering here.
  If he die, let her lament him;
    Let her not forget the dead;
  Let a message kind be sent him,
    To the shores he now must tread.
  If perchance where he is resting
    In the cold and dreamless sleep,    {411}
  She should pass, her steps arresting,
    One soft tear there let her weep.
  These, dear Sun, for me repeating,
    Then pursue thy brilliant way;
  But the words of this sad greeting,
    O forget them not, I pray!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO G. A. PERDICARIS.

  We hail thee, Greek, from that far shore,
  Young Freedom's chosen land of yore!
  There were her first high Pæans poured—
  There proved in fight her virgin sword—
  There fell her eldest-martyr'd brave,
  The heroes of the mount and wave!
  We hail thee! Not a breast that burns
    With but a spark of patriot fire,
  But to thy country's altar turns,
    And listens to thy country's lyre.
  Grecian, forgive the idle thought!
    We deemed old Hellas' spirit fled.
  Yes! when thy brethren bravely fought
    On plains where rest the immortal dead,
  We scarce cast off the unworthy fear,
    Scarce hoped that Greece might yet be free:
  It seemed a boon too bright, too dear
    For our degenerate age to see
    A newly-won Thermopylæ.
  And e'en if Grecian valor burst
    Its chains, we little deemed thy clime
  That generous _intellect_ had nursed
    That shone so bright in elder time.
  But who could catch thy burning words,
    The changes of thy speaking eye,
  And deem that time, or tyrant swords
    Could bid the Grecian spirit die?
  Thanks for the lesson thou hast given!
    It shows, where Freedom once hath dwelt,
  Though every bolt of angry Heaven
    Age after age should there be dealt,
  There is a power they cannot kill;
    The proud, free spirit of the race
  Lives on through woe and bondage still,
    The eternal Genius of the place.
  Yes! Hear the lesson, distant lands,
    Where Goth and Russ with iron rod
  Press down and cramp in servile bands
    The living images of God!
  Hear, Poland! soon shall dawn the day
    Of liberty and peace for thee!
  And thou, where Rhine's blue waters play!
    And thou, once glorious Italy!
  And thou, my country, be thou true!
    The great of former days arise,
  The same bright path again pursue
    That marked their ancient victories.
  Greece is thy rival for renown!
    Arouse thee to the noble strife!
  Thou must not lose thy glory's crown,
    Well won by many a hero's life!
  No! Onward still, ye noble pair,
    Each mindful of the illustrious past,
  The struggle and the triumph share,
    And ever may that triumph last!

B.




MS.S. OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.[1]

[Footnote 1: These pieces, from the pen of Dr. Franklin, have never 
appeared in any edition of his works, and are from the manuscript book 
which contains the Lecture and Essays published in former numbers of 
the Messenger.]


PROPOSALS

That P. S. and A. N. be immediately invited into the Junto.

That all new members be qualified by the four qualifications, and all 
the old ones take it.

That these queries copied at the beginning of a book, be read 
distinctly each meeting, a pause between each while one might fill and 
drink a glass of wine.

That if they cannot all be gone through in one night, we begin the 
next where we left off, only, such as particularly regard the funds to 
be read every night.

That it be not hereafter the duty of any member to bring queries, but 
left to his discretion.

That an old declamation be, without fail, read every night when there 
is no new one.

That Mr. Brientnal's Poem on the Junto be read over once a month, and 
hum'd in consort[2] by as many as can hum it.

[Footnote 2: Concert was thus spelt in the beginning of the last 
century. See many examples in the Tatler, etc.]

That once a month in spring, summer and fall, the Junto meet in the 
afternoon in some proper place across the river for bodily exercise.

That in the aforesaid book be kept minutes thus:

_Friday, June 30, 1732._

Present A, B, C, D, E, F, etc.

Figure denotes the queries answered.

1. H. P. read this maxim, viz. or this experiment, viz. or etc.

5. Lately arrived one —— of such a profession or such a science, etc.

7. X. Y. grew rich by this means, etc.

That these minutes be read once a year at the anniversary.

That all fines due be immediately paid in, and the penal laws for 
queries and declamations abolished, only he who is absent above ten 
times in the year, to pay 10_s._ towards the anniversary 
entertainment.

That the secretary, for keeping the minutes, be allowed one shilling 
per night, to be paid out of the money already in his hands.

That after the queries are begun reading, all discourse foreign to 
them shall be deemed impertinent.

When any thing from reading an author is mentioned, if it exceed a 
line, and the Junto require it, the person shall bring the passage or 
an abstract of it in writing the next night, if he has it not with 
him.

When the books of the library come, every member shall undertake some 
author, that he may not be without observations to communicate.

       *       *       *       *       *

How shall we judge of the goodness of a writing? or what qualities 
should a writing on any subject have, to be good and perfect in its 
kind?

Answer 1. To be good it ought to have a tendency to benefit the reader 
by improving his virtue or his knowledge.

The method should be just, that is, it should proceed regularly from 
things known to things unknown, distinctly and clearly, without 
confusion.

{412} The words used should be the most expressive that the language 
affords, provided they are the most generally understood.

Nothing should be expressed in two words that can as well be expressed 
in one; i.e. no synonymes should be used or very rarely, but the whole 
be as short as possible, consistent with clearness.

The words should be so placed as to be agreeable to the ear in 
reading.

  Summarily,—It should be smooth,
                         clear, and
                         short,

  For the contrary qualities are displeasing.

But taking the query otherwise:

An ill man may write an ill thing well; that is, having an ill design 
he may use the properest style and arguments (considering who are to 
be readers) to attain his ends.

In this sense, that is best wrote which is best adapted for attaining 
the end of the writer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Can a man arrive at perfection in this life, as some believe; or is it 
impossible, as others believe?

Perhaps they differ in the meaning of the word perfection.

I suppose the perfection of any thing to be only the greatest the 
nature of that thing is capable of.

Thus a horse is more perfect than an oyster, yet the oyster may be a 
perfect oyster, as well as the horse a perfect horse.

And an egg is not so perfect as a chicken, nor a chicken as a hen; for 
the hen has more strength than the chicken, and the chicken more life 
than the egg—yet it may be a perfect egg, chicken, and hen.

If they mean a man cannot in this life be so perfect as an angel, it 
is true, for an angel by being incorporeal, is allowed some 
perfections we are at present incapable of, and less liable to some 
imperfections that we are liable to. If they mean a man is not capable 
of being so perfect here as he is capable of being in heaven, that may 
be true likewise.

But that a man is not capable of being so perfect here as he is 
capable of being here, is not sense; it is as if I should say, a 
chicken in the state of a chicken is not capable of being so perfect 
as a chicken is capable of being in that state.

In the above sense there may be a perfect oyster, a perfect horse, a 
perfect ship, why not a perfect man? that is, as perfect as his 
present nature and circumstances admit?

       *       *       *       *       *

_Question_. Wherein consists the happiness of a rational creature?

_Answer_. In having a sound mind and a healthy body, a sufficiency of 
the necessaries and conveniences of life, together with the favor of 
God and the love of mankind.

_Q_. What do you mean by a sound mind?

_A_. A faculty of reasoning justly and truly, in searching after such 
truths as relate to my happiness. Which faculty is the gift of God, 
capable of being improved by experience and instruction into wisdom.

_Q_. What is wisdom?

_A_. The knowledge of what will be best for us on all occasions and 
the best ways of attaining it.

_Q_. Is any man wise at all times and in all things?

_A_. No: but some are much more frequently wise than others.

_Q_. What do you mean by the necessaries of life?

_A_. Having wholesome food and drink wherewith to satisfy hunger and 
thirst, clothing, and a place of habitation fit to secure against the 
inclemencies of the weather.

_Q_. What do you mean by the conveniences of life?

_A_. Such a plenty       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

_Query_.—Whether it is worth a rational man's while to forego the 
pleasure arising from the present luxury of the age in eating and 
drinking and artful cookery, studying to gratify the appetite, for the 
sake of enjoying a healthy old age, a sound mind and a sound body, 
which are the advantages reasonably to be expected from a more simple 
and temperate diet?

Whether those meats and drinks are not the best that contain 
everything in their natural tastes, nor have any thing added by art so 
pleasing as to induce us to eat or drink when we are not athirst or 
hungry, or after thirst and hunger are satisfied; water, for instance, 
for drink, and bread, or the like, for meat?

Is there any difference between knowledge and prudence?

If there is any, which of the two is most eligible?

Is it justifiable to put private men to death for the sake of the 
public safety or tranquillity, who have committed no crime? As in case 
of the plague to stop infection, or as in the case of the Welshmen 
here executed.

If the sovereign power attempts to deprive a subject of his right, 
(or, what is the same thing, of what he thinks his right,) is it 
justifiable in him to resist if he is able?

What general conduct of life is most suitable for men in such 
circumstances as most of the members of the Junto are? or of the many 
schemes of living which are in our power to pursue, which will be most 
probably conducive to our happiness?

Which is the best to make a friend of, a wise and good man that is 
poor, or a rich man that is neither wise nor good?

Which of the two is the greatest loss to a country, if they both die?

Which of the two is happiest in life?

Does it not, in a general way, require great study and intense 
application for a poor man to become rich and powerful, if he would do 
it without the forfeiture of his honesty?

Does it not require as much pains, study and application, to become 
truly wise and strictly good and virtuous, as to become rich?

Can a man of common capacity pursue both views with success at the 
same time?

If not, which of the two is it best for him to make his whole 
application to?

       *       *       *       *       *

The great secret of succeeding in conversation, is to admire little, 
to hear much, always to distrust our own reason, and sometimes that of 
our friends; never to pretend to wit, but to make that of others 
appear as much as possibly we can; to hearken to what is said and to 
answer to the purpose.

  Ut jam nunc dicat jam nunc debentia dici.


{413}


LOSING AND WINNING.

_By the author of the “Cottage in the Glen,” “Sensibility,”_ &c.

  Think not, the husband gained, that all is done;
  The prize of happiness must still be won;
  And, oft, the careless find it to their cost,
  The lover in the husband may be lost;
  The graces might, alone, his heart allure—
  They and the virtues, meeting, must secure.
                                           _Lord Lyttleton_.

                     Can I not win his love?
  Is not his heart of “penetrable stuff?”
  Will not submission, meekness, patience, truth,
  Win his esteem?—a sole desire to please,
  Conquer indifference?—they must—they will!
  Aid me, kind heaven—I'll try!
                                           _Anon._


It was a bright and beautiful autumnal evening. The earth was clad in 
a garb of the richest and brightest hues; and the clear cerulean of 
the heavens, gave place, near the setting sun, to a glowing ‘saffron 
color,’ over which was hung a most magnificent drapery of crimson 
clouds. Farther towards both the north and south, was suspended here 
and there a sable curtain, fringed with gold, folded as but one hand 
could fold them. They seemed fitting drapery to shroud the feet of 
Him, who “maketh the clouds his chariot, who rideth upon the wings of 
the wind.”

Such was the evening on which Edward Cunningham conducted his fair 
bride into the mansion prepared for her reception. But had both earth 
and heaven been decked with ten-fold splendor, their beauty and 
magnificence would have been lost on him; for his thoughts, his 
affections, his whole being were centered in the graceful creature 
that leaned on his arm, and whom he again and again welcomed to her 
new abode—her future home. He forgot that he still moved in a world 
that was groaning under the pressure of unnumbered evils; forgot that 
earthly joy is oft-times but a dream, a fantasy, that vanishes like 
the shadow of a summer cloud, that flits across the landscape, or, as 
the morning vapor before the rising sun; forgot that all on this side 
heaven, is fleeting, and changeable, and false. In his bride, the 
object of his fondest love, he felt that he possessed a treasure whose 
smile would be unclouded sunshine to his soul; whose society would 
make another Eden bloom for him. It was but six short months since he 
first saw her who was now his wife; and for nearly that entire period 
he had been in ‘the delirium of love,’ intent only on securing her as 
his own. He had attained his object, and life seemed spread before 
him, a paradise of delight, blooming with roses, unaccompanied by 
thorns.

Joy and sorrow, in this world, dwell side by side. In a stately 
mansion, two doors only from the one that had just received the joyful 
bridegroom and happy bride, dwelt one who had been four weeks a wife. 
On that same bright evening she was sitting in the solitude of her 
richly furnished chamber, her elbows resting on a table, her hands 
supporting her head, while a letter lay spread before her, on which 
her eyes, blinded by tears, were rivetted. The letter was from her 
husband. He had been from home nearly three weeks, in which time she 
had heard from him but once, and then only by a brief verbal message. 
The letter that lay before her had just arrived; it was the first she 
had ever received from her husband, and ran thus:—


_Mrs. Westbury_—Thinking you might possibly expect to see me at home 
this week, I write to inform you that business will detain me in New 
York some time longer.

  Yours, &c.
    FREDERIC WESTBURY.


For a long time the gentle, the feeling Julia, indulged her tears and 
her grief without restraint. Again, and again, she read the laconic 
epistle before her, to ascertain what more might be made of it than at 
first met the eye. But nothing could be clothed in plainer language, 
or be more easily understood. It was as brief, and as much to the 
point as those interesting letters which debtors sometimes receive 
from their creditors, through the agency of an attorney. “Did ever 
youthful bride,” thought she, “receive from her husband such a letter 
as this? He _strives_ to show me the complete indifference and 
coldness of his heart toward me. O, why did I accept his hand, which 
was rather his father's offering than his own? Why did I not listen to 
my reason, rather than to my fond and foolish heart, and resist the 
kind old man's reasonings and pleadings? Why did I believe him when he 
told me I should win his son's affections? Did I not know that his 
heart was given to another? Dear old man, he fondly believed his 
Frederic's affections could not long be withheld from one whom he 
himself loved so tenderly—and how eagerly I drank in his assurances! 
Amid all the sorrow that I felt, while kneeling by his dying bed, how 
did my heart swell with undefinable pleasure, as he laid his hand, 
already chilled by death, upon my head, gave me his parting blessing, 
and said that his son would love me! Mistaken assurance! ah, why did I 
fondly trust it? Were I now free!—free!—would I then have the knot 
untied that makes me his for life? Not for a world like this! No, he 
is mine and I am his; by the laws of God and man, _we are one_. He 
_must_ sometimes be at home; and an occasional hour in his society, 
will be a dearer bliss than aught this world can bestow beside. His 
father's blessing is still warm at my heart! I still feel his hand on 
my head! Let me act as he trusted I should act, and all may yet be 
well! Duties are mine—and thine, heavenly Father, are results. 
Overlook my infirmities, forgive all that needs forgiveness, sustain 
my weakness, and guide me by thine unerring wisdom.” She fell on her 
knees to continue her supplications, and pour out her full soul before 
her Father in heaven; and when she arose, her heart, if not happy, was 
calm; her brow, if not cheerful, was serene.

Frederic Westbury was an only child. He never enjoyed the advantages 
of maternal instruction, impressed on the heart by maternal 
tenderness—for his mother died before he was three years old, and all 
recollection of her had faded from his memory. Judge Westbury was one 
of the most amiable, one of the best of men; but with regard to the 
management of his son, he was too much like the venerable Israelitish 
priest. His son, like other sons, often did that which was wrong, ‘and 
he restrained him not.’ He was neither negligent in teaching, nor in 
warning; but instruction and discipline did not, as they ever should 
do, go hand-in-hand; and for want of this discipline, Frederic grew up 
with passions uncontrolled—with a will unsubdued. He received a 
finished education, and his mind, which was of a high order, was 
richly stored with knowledge. His pride of character was great, and he 
looked down with contempt on all that was dishonorable or vicious. He 
had a chivalrous generosity, and a frankness of {414} disposition that 
led him to detest concealment or deceit. He loved or hated with his 
whole soul. In person he was elegant; his countenance was marked with 
high intellect and strong feeling; and he had the bearing of a prince. 
Such was Frederic Westbury at the age of four-and-twenty.

About a year before his marriage, Frederic became acquainted with 
Maria Eldon, a young lady of great beauty of person, and fascination 
of manner, who at once enslaved his affections. But against Miss 
Eldon, Judge Westbury had conceived a prejudice, and for once in his 
life was _obstinate_ in refusing to indulge his son in the wish of his 
heart. He foresaw, or thought he did so, the utter ruin of that son's 
happiness, should he so ally himself. He had selected a wife for his 
son, a daughter-in-law for himself, more to his own taste. Julia 
Horton was possessed of all that he thought valuable or fascinating in 
woman. Possibly Frederic might have thought so too, had he known her, 
ere his heart was in possession of another; but being pointed out to 
him as the one to whom he must transfer his affections, he looked on 
her with aversion as the chief obstacle to the realization of his 
wishes. Julia was born, and had been educated, in a place remote from 
Judge Westbury's residence; but from her infancy he had seen her from 
time to time, as business led him into that part of the country in 
which her parents resided. In her childhood she entwined herself 
around the heart of the Judge; and from that period he had looked on 
her as the future wife of his son. His views and wishes, however, were 
strictly confined to his own breast, until, to his dismay, he found 
that his son's affections were entangled. This discovery was no sooner 
made than he wrote a pressing letter to Julia, who was now an orphan, 
to come and make him a visit of a few weeks. The reason he gave for 
inviting her was, that his health was rapidly declining, (which was 
indeed too true,) and he felt that her society would be a solace to 
his heart. Julia came; she saw Frederic; heard his enlightened 
conversation; observed his polished manners; remarked the lofty tone 
of his feelings; and giving the reins to her fancy, without consulting 
reason or prudence, she loved him. Too late for her security, but too 
soon for her peace, she learned that he loved another. Dreading lest 
she should betray her folly to the object of her unsought affection, 
she wished immediately to return to her native place. But to this 
Judge Westbury would not listen. He soon discovered the state of her 
feelings, and it gave him unmingled satisfaction. It augured well for 
the success of his dearest earthly hope; and as his strength was 
rapidly declining, consumption having fastened her deadly fangs upon 
him, to hasten him to the grave, he gave his whole mind to the 
accomplishment of his design. At first his son listened to the subject 
with undisguised impatience; but his feelings softened as he saw his 
father sinking to the tomb; and, in an unguarded hour, he promised him 
that he would make Julia his wife. Judge Westbury next exerted himself 
to obtain a promise from Julia that she would accept the hand of his 
son; and he rested not until they had mutually plighted their faith at 
his bed-side. To Frederic this was a moment of unmingled misery. He 
saw that his father was dying, and felt himself constrained to promise 
his hand to one woman, while his heart was in possession of another.

Julia's emotions were of the most conflicting character. To be the 
plighted bride of the man she loved, made her heart throb with joy, 
and her faith in his father's assurance that she would win his 
affections, sustained her hope, that his prediction would be verified. 
Yet when she marked the countenance of her future husband, her heart 
sank within her. She could not flatter herself into the belief, that 
its unmingled gloom arose solely from grief at the approaching death 
of his father. She felt that he was making a sacrifice of his fondest 
wishes at the shrine of filial duty.

Judge Westbury died; and with almost his parting breath, he pronounced 
a blessing upon Julia as his daughter—the wife of his son—most 
solemnly repeating his conviction that she would soon secure the heart 
of her husband!

Immediately on the decease of her friend and father, Julia returned 
home, and in three months Frederic followed her to fulfil his promise. 
He was wretched, and would have given a world, had he possessed it, to 
be free from his engagement. But that could never be. His word had 
been given to his father, and must be religiously redeemed. “I will 
make her my wife,” thought he; “I promised my father that I would. 
Thank heaven, I never promised him that I would love her!” Repugnant 
as such an union was to his feelings, he was really impatient to have 
it completed; for as his idea of his duty and obligation went not 
beyond the bare act of making her his wife, he felt that, that once 
done, he should be comparatively a free man.

“I am come,” said he to Julia, “to fulfil my engagement. Will you name 
a day for the ceremony?”

His countenance was so gloomy, his manners so cold—so utterly 
destitute of tenderness or kindly feeling, that something like terror 
seized Julia's heart; and without making any reply, she burst into 
tears.

“Why these tears, Miss Horton?” said he. “Our mutual promise was given 
to my father; it is fit we redeem it.”

“No particular time was specified,” said Julia timidly, and with a 
faltering voice. “Is so much haste necessary?”

“My father wished that no unnecessary delay should be made,” said 
Frederic, “and I can see no reason why we should not as well be 
married now, as at any future period. If you consult my wishes, you 
will name an early day.”

The day was fixed, and at length arrived, presenting the singular 
anomaly of a man eagerly hastening to the altar, to utter vows from 
which his heart recoiled, and a woman going to it with trembling and 
reluctance, though about to be united to him who possessed her 
undivided affections.

The wedding ceremony over, Mr. Westbury immediately took his bride to 
his elegantly furnished house; threw it open for a week, to receive 
bridal visits; and then gladly obeyed a summons to New York, to attend 
to some affairs of importance. On leaving home, he felt as if released 
from bondage. A sense of propriety had constrained him to pay some 
little attention to his bride, and to receive the congratulations of 
his friends with an air of satisfaction, at least; while those very 
congratulations congealed his heart, by bringing to mind the ties he 
had formed with one he could not love, to the impossibility of his 
forming them with the one whom he idolized. When he had been absent 
about ten days, {415} he availed himself of an opportunity to send a 
verbal message to his wife, informing her that he was well, and should 
probably be at home in the course of two weeks; but when that period 
was drawing toward a close, his business was not completed, and as 
home was the last place he wished to visit, he resolved to protract 
his absence, so long as he had a reasonable excuse. “I must write, and 
inform her of the change in my plan,” thought he, “decency demands it, 
yet how can I write? My dear Julia!—my dear wife! No such thing—she is 
not dear to me!

  ‘Ce cœur au moins, difficile à domter,
   Ne peut aimer ni par ordre d'un père,
   Ni par raison.’

She is my wife—she is Mrs. Westbury—she is mistress of my house, and 
must share my fortune—let that suffice her! It must have been for 
these that she married me. A name! a fortune! an elegant 
establishment! Mean! ambitious! heartless! Thou, Maria—bright, 
beautiful, and tender—thou wouldest have married me for myself! Alas, 
I am undone! O, my father!” Under the influence of feelings like 
these, he wrote the laconic epistle which cost his bride so many 
bitter tears.

It was at the close of about two weeks from this, that Julia was 
sitting one evening in her parlor, dividing the time betwixt her work 
and a book, when the door-bell rang, and a minute after the parlor 
door opened, and Mr. Westbury entered. With sparkling eyes and glowing 
cheeks, she sprang forward, her hand half extended to meet his—but his 
ceremonious bow, and cold “good evening Mrs. Westbury,” recalled her 
recollection; and scarcely able to reply to his civility, she sank 
back on her chair. She thought she was prepared to see him cold and 
distant—thought she expected it—but she had deceived herself. 
Notwithstanding all her bitter ruminations on her husband's 
indifference toward her, there had been a little under current of 
hope, playing at the bottom of her heart, and telling her he might 
return more cordial than he went. His cold salutation, and colder eye, 
sent her to her seat, disappointed, sick at heart, and nearly 
fainting. In a minute, however, she recovered her self-possession, and 
made those inquiries concerning his health and journey, that propriety 
dictated. In spite of himself, she succeeded in some degree in drawing 
him out. She was gentle, modest, and unobtrusive—and good sense and 
propriety were conspicuous in all she said. Beside, she looked very 
pretty. Her figure, though rather below the medium size, was very 
fine, her hand and foot of unrivalled beauty. She was dressed with 
great simplicity, but good taste was betrayed in every thing about her 
person. She wore her dress, too, with a peculiar grace, equally remote 
from precision and negligence. Her features were regular, and her 
complexion delicate; but the greatest attraction of her face, was the 
facility and truth with which it expressed every feeling of the heart. 
When Mr. Westbury first entered the parlor, an observer might have 
pronounced her beautiful; but the bright glow of transient joy that 
then kindled her cheek, had faded away, and left her pale—so pale, 
that Mr. Westbury inquired, even with some little appearance of 
interest, “whether her health was as good as usual?” Her voice, which 
was always soft and melodious, was even softer and sweeter than usual, 
as she answered “that it was.” Mr. Westbury at length went so far as 
to make some inquiries relative to her occupations during his absence, 
whether she had called on the new bride, Mrs. Cunningham, and other 
questions of similar consequence. For the time he forgot Maria Eldon; 
was half unconscious that Julia was his wife—and viewing her only as a 
companion, he passed an hour or two very comfortably.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day when Mr. Westbury came in to dinner, Julia handed him a card 
of compliments from Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, who were about giving a 
splendid party.

“I have returned no answer,” said Julia, “not knowing whether you 
would wish to accept the invitation or not.”

“For yourself, you can do as you please, Mrs. Westbury—but I shall 
certainly attend it.”

“I am quite indifferent about the party,” said Julia, “as such scenes 
afford me little pleasure; but should be pleased to do as you think 
proper—as you think best.” Her voice trembled a little, as she spoke; 
for she had not yet become sufficiently accustomed to Mr. Westbury's 
_brusque_ manner toward herself, to hear it with perfect firmness. “I 
should think it very suitable that you pay Mr. and Mrs. Brooks this 
attention,” Mr. Westbury replied.

Nothing more was said on the subject, and Julia returned an answer 
agreeable to the wishes of her husband.

The evening to visit Mrs. Brooks at length arrived, and Julia repaired 
to her chamber to dress for the occasion. To render herself pleasing 
in the eyes of her husband was the sole wish of her heart, but how to 
do this was the question. She would have given the world to know his 
taste, his favorite colors, and other trifles of the like nature—but 
of these she was completely ignorant, and must therefore be guided by 
her own fancy. “Simplicity,” thought she—“simplicity is the surest 
way; for it never disgusts—never offends, if it does not captivate.” 
Accordingly, she arrayed herself in a plain white satin—and over her 
shoulders was thrown a white blond mantle, with an azure border, while 
a girdle of the same hue encircled her waist. Her toilet completed, 
Julia descended to the parlor, her shawl and calash in her hand. Mr. 
Westbury was waiting for her, and just casting his eyes over her 
person, he said—“If you are ready, Mrs. Westbury, we will go 
immediately, as it is now late.” Most of the guests were already 
assembled when they arrived at the mansion opened for their reception, 
and it was not quite easy to get access to the lady of the house, to 
make their compliments. This important duty, however, was at length 
happily accomplished, and Mr. Westbury's next effort was to obtain a 
seat for his wife. She would have preferred retaining his arm, at 
least for a while, as few persons present were known to her, and she 
felt somewhat embarrassed and confused; but she durst not say so, as, 
from her husband's manner, she saw that he wished to be free from such 
attendance. In such matters the heart of a delicate and sensitive 
woman seldom deceives her. Is it that her instincts are superior to 
those of men?

Julia had been seated but a short time before Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham 
approached her, and entered into a lively conversation. This was a 
great relief to Julia, who could have wept at her solitary and 
neglected situation, alone, in the midst of a crowd. Mrs. Cunningham 
{416} was in fine spirits, and her husband appeared the happiest of 
the happy. Not that he appeared particularly to enjoy society—but his 
blooming wife was by his side, and his eyes rested on her with looks 
of the tenderest love—while the sound of her voice seemed constantly 
to awaken a thrill of pleasure in his heart. After conversing with 
Julia awhile, Mrs. Cunningham said—

“Do you prefer sitting to walking, Mrs. Westbury? Pray take my arm, 
and move about with us a little—it looks so dull for a person to sit 
through a party.”

Julia gladly accepted the offer, and was soon drawn away from herself, 
in listening to the lively rattle of her companion, who, although only 
a resident of a few weeks in the city, seemed already acquainted with 
all the gentlemen, and half the ladies present. An hour had been 
passed in this manner, and in partaking of the various refreshments 
that were provided—to which Julia did little honor, though this was of 
no consequence, as Mrs. Cunningham amply made up all her deficiencies 
of this kind—when the sound of music in another room attracted their 
attention. Julia was extremely fond of music, and as their present 
situation, amid the confusion of tongues, was very unfavorable for its 
enjoyment, Mr. Cunningham proposed that they should endeavor to make 
their way to the music room. After considerable detention, they 
succeeded in accomplishing their object, so far at least as to get 
fairly within the door. Considering the number of persons present, and 
how few there are that do not prefer the music of their own tongues to 
any other melody, the room was remarkably still—a compliment deserved 
by the young lady who sat to the piano, who played and sang with great 
skill and feeling. Julia's attention was soon attracted to her 
husband, who was standing on the opposite side of the room, leaning 
against the wall, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes resting 
on the performer with an expression of warm admiration, while a deep 
shade of melancholy was cast over his features. Julia's heart beat 
tumultuously. “Is it the music,” thought she, “or the musician that 
thus rivets his attention? Would I knew who it is that plays and sings 
so sweetly!” She did not remain long in doubt. The song finished, all 
voices were warm in its praise.

“How delightfully Miss Eldon plays! and with what feeling she sings!” 
exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham. “I never listened to a sweeter voice!”

The blood rushed to Julia's head, and back again to her heart, like a 
torrent; a vertigo seized her; and all the objects before her, were, 
for a moment, an indistinct, whirling mass. But she did not faint; she 
did not even betray her feelings, though she took the first 
opportunity to leave the room, and obtain a seat. For a long time she 
was unconscious of all that was passing around her; she could not even 
think—she only felt. Her husband's voice was the first thing that 
aroused her attention. He was standing near her with another 
gentleman; but it was evident that neither of them were aware of her 
proximity.

“Mrs. Brooks looks uncommonly well to-night,” said Mr. Westbury's 
companion; “her dress is peculiarly becoming.”

“It would be,” said Mr. Westbury, “were it not for those blue 
ribbands; but I can think no lady looks well who has any of that 
odious color about her.”

“It is one of the most beautiful and delicate colors in the world,” 
said the other gentleman. “I wonder at your taste.”

“It does finely in its place,” said Mr. Westbury—“that is—in the 
heavens above our heads—but never about the person of a lady.”

Julia wished her mantle and her girdle in Africa—“Yet why?” thought 
she. “I dare say he is ignorant that I have any of the color he so 
much dislikes, about me! His heart belongs to another, and he cares 
not—minds not, how she is clad whom he calls wife.”

Mr. Westbury and his friend now moved to another part of the room, and 
it was as much as Julia could do, to answer with propriety the few 
remarks that a passing acquaintance now and then made to her. At 
length the company began to disperse, and presently Julia saw Mr. 
Westbury leading Miss Eldon from the room. His head was inclined 
toward her; a bright hectic spot was on his cheek, and he was speaking 
to her in the softest tone, as they passed near where Julia was 
sitting. Miss Eldon's eyes were raised to his face, while her 
countenance wore a mingled expression of pain and pleasure. Julia had 
just time enough to remark all this, ere they left the room. “O, that 
I were away!” thought she—“that I were at home!—that I were—in my 
grave!” She sat perfectly still—perfectly unconscious of all that was 
going forward, until Mr. Westbury came to her, inquiring “whether she 
meant to be the last to take leave?” Julia mechanically arose, 
mechanically made her parting compliments to Mrs. Brooks—and scarcely 
knew any thing till she arrived at her own door. Just touching her 
husband's hand, she sprung from the carriage, and flew to her chamber. 
For a while she walked the floor in an agony of feeling. The 
constraint under which she had labored, served but to increase the 
violence of her emotion, now that she was free to indulge it. “O, why 
did I attend this party?” at length thought she—“O, what have I not 
suffered!” After a while, however, her reason began to operate. “What 
have I seen, that I ought not to have expected?” she asked herself. 
“What have I learned that I knew not before? except,” she added, “a 
trifling fact concerning my husband's taste.” Julia thought long and 
deeply; her spirits became calm; she renewed former resolutions; 
looked to heaven for wisdom to guide, and strength to sustain her—and 
casting aside the mantle, which would henceforth be useless to her, 
she instinctively threw a shawl over her shoulders to conceal the 
unlucky girdle, and, though the hour was late, descended to the 
parlor. Mr. Westbury was sitting by a table, leaning his head on his 
hand. It was not easy for Julia to address him on any subject not too 
exciting to her feelings—and still more difficult perfectly to command 
her voice, that its tones might be those of ease and cheerfulness; yet 
she succeeded in doing both. The question she asked, led Mr. Westbury 
to look up, and he was struck by the death-like paleness on her cheek. 
Julia could by an effort control her voice; she could in a degree 
subdue her feelings; but she could not command the expression of her 
countenance—could not bid the blood visit or recede from her cheeks at 
her will. She knew not, indeed, that at this time she was pale; her 
own face was the last thing in her mind. Mr. Westbury had no sooner 
answered her question, than he added—“You had better retire, Mrs. 
Westbury. You look as if the fatigues of the evening had been too much 
for you.”

{417} “_Fatigues_ of the evening!—_Agonies_ rather,” thought Julia; 
but thanking him for his “kind” advice, she immediately retreated to 
her chamber.

Until this evening, Mr. Westbury had scarcely seen Miss Eldon since 
his marriage. He had avoided seeing her, being conscious that she 
retained her full power over his heart; and his sense of rectitude 
forbade his indulging a passion for one woman, while the husband of 
another. Miss Eldon suspected this, and felt piqued at his power over 
himself. Her heart fluttered with satisfaction when she saw him enter 
Mrs. Brooks's drawing-room; and she resolved to ascertain whether her 
influence over his affections were diminished. She was mortified and 
chagrined, that even here he kept aloof from her, giving her only a 
passing bow, as he walked to another part of the room. It was with 
unusual pleasure that she complied with a request to sit to the piano, 
for she well knew the power of music—_of her own music_ over his 
heart. Never before had she touched the keys with so much interest. 
She did her best—that best was pre-eminently good—and she soon found 
that she had fixed the attention of him whom alone she cared to 
please. After singing one or two modern songs, she began one that she 
had learned at Mr. Westbury's request, at the period when he used to 
visit her almost daily. It was Burns's “Ye banks and braes o' bonnie 
Doon,” and was with him a great favorite. When Miss Eldon came to the 
lines—

  “Thou mind'st me of departed joys,
   Departed, never to return”—

she raised her eyes to his face, and in an instant he forgot every 
thing but herself. “Her happiness is sacrificed as well as my own,” 
thought he; and leaning his head against the wall of the room, he gave 
himself up, for the time, to love and melancholy. The song concluded, 
however, he regained some control over his feelings, and still kept at 
a distance from her; nay—conquered himself, so far as to repair to the 
drawing-room, to escape from her dangerous vicinity. He saw her not 
again until she was equipped for her departure. Then she contrived to 
get near him, and threw so much sweetness and melancholy into her 
voice, as she said “good night, Mr. Westbury,” that he was instantly 
disarmed—and drawing her arm within his, conducted her from the room.

“How,” said he, in a low and tremulous tone, “how, Maria, could you 
sing _that song_, to harrow up my feelings? Time was, when to be near 
thee—to listen to thee, was my felicity; but now, duty forbids that I 
indulge in the dangerous delight.”

Miss Eldon replied not—but raised her eyes to his face, while she 
repressed a half-drawn sigh. Not another word was uttered until they 
exchanged “adieus” at her carriage door.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two or three weeks passed away without the occurrence of any incident 
calculated to excite peculiar uneasiness in the heart of Julia. True, 
her husband was still the cold, the ceremonious, and occasionally the 
abrupt Mr. Westbury; he passed but little even of his leisure time at 
home; and she had never met his eye when it expressed pleasure, or 
even approbation. But he did not grow more cold—more ceremonious; the 
time he passed at his own fireside, rather increased than 
diminished—and for all this she was thankful. Her efforts to please 
were unceasing. Her house was kept in perfect order, and every thing 
was done in time, and well done. Good taste and good judgment were 
displayed in every arrangement. Her table was always spread with great 
care, and if her husband partook of any dish with peculiar relish, she 
was careful to have it repeated, but at such intervals as to gratify 
rather than cloy the appetite. In her dress she was peculiarly neat 
and simple, carefully avoiding every article of apparel that was 
tinctured with the “odious color.” She had naturally a fine mind, 
which had had the advantage of high cultivation; and without being 
obtrusive, or aiming at display, she strove to be entertaining and 
companionable. Above all, she constantly endeavored to maintain a 
placid, if not a cheerful brow, knowing that nothing is so repulsive 
as a discontented, frowning face. She felt that nothing was 
unimportant that might either please or displease her husband; his 
heart was the prize she was endeavoring to win; and the happiness of 
her life depended on the sentiments he should ultimately entertain 
toward her. Every thing she did was done not only properly, but 
gracefully; and though she never wearied in her efforts, she would 
oftentimes sigh that they were so unsuccessful. She sometimes feared 
that her very anxiety to please, blinded her as to the best manner of 
doing so; and would often repeat with a sigh, after some new, and 
apparently useless effort—

  “Je le servirais mieux, si je l'eusse aimé moins.”

The first thing to disturb the kind of quiet that Julia enjoyed, was 
the prospect of another party. One morning, while at the breakfast 
table, a card was brought in from Mr. and Mrs. Parker, who were to be 
“at home” on Friday evening. After looking at the card, Julia handed 
it to Mr. Westbury in silence.

“It will be proper that we accept the invitation,” said Mr. Westbury.

The remembrance of the agony she endured at the last party she 
attended, caused Julia's voice to tremble a little, as she said—

“Just as you think best—but for my own part, I should seldom attend a 
party for the sake of enjoyment.”

“If Mrs. Westbury thinks it proper to immure herself as if in a 
convent, she can,” said Mr. Westbury; “for myself, I feel that society 
has claims upon me that I wish to discharge.”

“I will go if you think there would be any impropriety in my staying 
away,” said Julia.

“Situated as you are, I think there would,” said Mr. Westbury.

“Situated as I am!” thought Julia; “what does he mean? Does he refer 
to my station in society? or does he fear that the world will think me 
an unhappy wife, that wishes to seclude herself from observation?”

In the course of the morning, Julia called on Mrs. Cunningham, and 
found that lady and her husband discussing the point, whether or not 
they should attend Mrs. Parker's party.

“Are you going, Mrs. Westbury?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.

“Yes—Mr. Westbury thinks we had better do so,” Julia replied.

“Hear that, Edward!” said Mrs. Cunningham. “You perceive that Mr. 
Westbury likes that his wife should enjoy the pleasures of society.”

{418} Mr. Cunningham looked a little hurt, as he said—“my dear Lucy, 
am I not _more than willing_ to indulge you in every thing that will 
add to your happiness? I have only been trying to convince you how 
much more comfortable we should be by our own fireside, than in such a 
crowd as must be encountered at Mrs. Parker's. For myself, the society 
of my wife is my highest enjoyment, and of her conversation I never 
grow weary.”

“Thank you for the compliment, dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham—“and we 
will settle the question at another time.”

One of the first persons Julia distinguished amid the company, as she 
entered Mrs. Parker's drawing-room, was Mrs. Cunningham, who gave her 
a nod, and an exulting smile, as much as to say—“you see I have 
carried the day!” Julia had endeavored to arm herself for this 
evening's trial, should Miss Eldon make one of the company; and 
accordingly she was not surprised, and not much moved, when she saw 
her husband conversing with that young lady. She was too delicate in 
feeling, too refined in manner, to watch them, even long enough to 
catch the expression of Mr. Westbury's face; but resolutely turning 
her eyes another way, she endeavored to enter into conversation with 
the persons near her.

Mr. Westbury had not been in Mrs. Parker's drawing-room half an hour, 
ere Miss Eldon contrived to place herself in such a situation as to 
render it impossible for him to avoid addressing her; and this point 
once gained, to escape from her was impracticable. A strong sense of 
honor alone led him to wish to escape, as to be near her was to him 
the most exquisite happiness; but the greater the delight, the more 
imminent the danger; of this he was sensible, and it was not without 
some resistance that he yielded to her fascination. Could she once 
secure his attention, Miss Eldon well knew how to get at his heart; 
and at those moments when she was sure that no ear heard, and no eye 
observed her but his own, she let an occasional touch of the 
_penserosa_ mingle so naturally with her half subdued sprightliness, 
as to awaken, in all their original strength, those feelings, and 
those regrets, he was striving to subdue. For the time he forgot every 
thing but that they mutually loved, and were mutually unhappy. They 
had been standing together a considerable length of time when they 
were joined by Mr. Cunningham, who abruptly remarked—

“You don't enjoy yourself this evening, Westbury.”

“What makes you think so?” Mr. Westbury inquired.

“You look worn out, just as I feel,” answered Mr. Cunningham. “How 
strange it is,” he added, “that married men will ever suffer 
themselves to be drawn into such crowds!”

“Why not married men, as well as bachelors?” asked Miss Eldon.

“Because they relinquish real happiness and comfort, for a fatiguing 
pleasure—if pleasure it can be called,” answered Cunningham. “One's 
own hearth and one's own wife, is the place, and the society, for 
unalloyed enjoyment. Am I not right, Westbury?”

Miss Eldon turned her eyes on Mr. Westbury, as she waited to hear his 
answer, and an expression, compounded of curiosity, contempt, and 
satisfaction, met his eye. It was the first time he had ever remarked 
an unlovely, an unamiable expression on her countenance. He calmly 
replied to Mr. Cunningham—

“Unquestionably the pleasures of domestic life are the most pure, the 
most rational, that can be enjoyed.”

“O, it is strange,” said Mr. Cunningham, “that any one can willingly 
exchange them for crowded rooms, and pestilential vapors, such as we 
are now inhaling! There is nothing to be gained in such a company as 
this. Take any dozen, or half dozen of them by themselves, and you 
might stand some chance to be entertained and instructed; but bring 
them all together, and each one seems to think it a _duty_ to give 
himself up to frivolity and nonsense. I doubt whether there have been 
a hundred sensible words uttered here to-night, except by yonder 
circle, of which Mrs. Westbury seems to be the centre. There seems to 
be something like rational conversation _there_.”

Mr. Westbury turned his eyes, and saw that Julia was surrounded by the 
_elite_ of the party—who all seemed to be listening with pleased 
attention to a conversation that was evidently carried on between 
herself and Mr. Eveleth, a gentleman who was universally acknowledged 
as one of the first in rank and talent in the city. For a minute Mr. 
Westbury suffered his eyes to rest on Julia. Her cheek was suffused 
with the beautiful carmine tint of modesty, and her eyes were beaming 
with intellectual light—while over her features was spread a slight 
shade of care, as if the heart were not perfectly at ease. “She 
certainly looks very well,” was Mr. Westbury's thought; and his 
feeling was one of gratified pride, that she who was inevitably his 
wife, did not find her proper level amongst the light, the vain, and 
the frivolous.

       *       *       *       *       *

“You have been delightfully attentive to your wife, this evening, my 
dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham to her husband, as soon as they were 
seated in their carriage on their way home.

“I am not sensible of having neglected you, Lucy,” said Mr. 
Cunningham.

“No—I suppose not; nor of having been very attentive to another!”

“I certainly am not. To whom do you allude?”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “that Mr. Westbury is equally 
unconscious of having had his attention engrossed by any particular 
individual.”

“You surely cannot mean that I was particularly attentive to Miss 
Eldon, Lucy?”

“O, how could I mean so?” said Mrs. Cunningham, with a kind of laugh 
that expressed any thing rather than pleasure, or good humor. “I 
really wonder how you came to recollect having seen such a person as 
Miss Eldon to-night!”

“Your remark concerning Westbury brought her to my mind,” said Mr. 
Cunningham.

“How strange!” said his wife, “And how extreme that young lady's 
mortification must have been, that she could not detain two newly 
married gentlemen near her for more than an hour and a half at one 
time! Seriously, Mr. Cunningham, the company must have thought that 
you and Westbury were striving which should do her most homage.”

“And seriously, my dear Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham, taking the hand of 
his wife, which she reluctantly permitted him to detain—“seriously, it 
was merely {419} accidental that I spoke to Miss Eldon this evening. 
There is not a person on earth to whose society and conversation I am 
more completely indifferent—so, take no offence, love, where none was 
meant. There is no one whose conversation can compensate me for the 
loss of yours; and it is one reason why I so much dislike these 
crowds, that, for a time, they necessarily separate us from each 
other.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The following morning, Mrs. Cunningham called on Mrs. Westbury, who, 
at the moment of her arrival happened to be in her chamber—but she 
instantly descended to receive her visitor. When Mrs. Westbury left 
the parlor a short time previous, her husband was there; but he had 
disappeared, and she supposed he had gone out. He was, however, in the 
library, which adjoined the parlor, and the door between the two rooms 
was not quite closed. After the compliments of the morning, Mrs. 
Westbury remarked—

“I was somewhat surprised to see you at Mrs. Parker's last evening.”

“Surprised! why so?”

“You recollect the conversation that took place on the subject, the 
morning I was at your house?”

“O, yes—I remember that Mr. Cunningham was giving a kind of 
dissertation on the superior pleasures of one's own chimney-corner. 
Really, I wish he did not love home quite so well—though I don't 
despair of teaching him, by and by, to love society.”

“Can it be possible that you really regret your husband's attachment 
to home?” asked Mrs. Westbury.

“Yes, certainly—when it interferes with my going out. A man and his 
wife may surely enjoy enough of each other's society, and yet see 
something of the world. At any rate, I shall teach Ned, that I am not 
to be made a recluse for any man!”

“Have you no fears, my dear Mrs. Cunningham,” said Mrs. Westbury, 
“that your want of conformity to your husband's taste, will lessen 
your influence over him?”

“And of what use is this influence,” asked Mrs. Cunningham, “unless it 
be exerted to obtain the enjoyments I love?”

“O, pray beware,” said Mrs. Westbury, with much feeling,—“beware lest 
you sacrifice your happiness for a chimera! Beware how you trifle with 
so invaluable a treasure as the heart of a husband!”

“Pho—pho—how serious you are growing,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Actually 
warning and exhorting at twenty years of age! What a preacher you will 
be, by the time you are forty! But now be honest, and confess that 
you, yourself, would prefer a ball or a party, to sitting alone here 
through a stupid evening with Westbury.”

“Then to speak truth,” said Julia, “I should prefer an evening at home 
to all the parties in the world—balls I never attend, and do not think 
stupidity necessary, even with no other companion than one's own 
husband.”

“Then why do you attend parties if you do not like them?”

“Because Mr. Westbury thinks it proper that I should.”

“And so you go to him, like miss to her papa and mamma to ask him what 
you must do?” said Mrs. Cunningham, laughing. “This is delightful, 
truly! But for my part, I cannot see why I have not as good a right to 
expect Edward to conform to my taste and wishes, as he has to expect 
me to conform to his. And so Westbury makes you go, whether you like 
to or not?”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Westbury. “I never expressed to him my 
aversion to going, not wishing him to feel as if I were making a great 
sacrifice, in complying with his wishes.”

“Well, that is pretty, and dutiful, and delicate,” said Mrs. 
Cunningham, laughing again. “But I don't set up for a _pattern_ wife, 
and if Edward and I get along as well as people in general, I shall be 
satisfied. But to turn to something else. How do you like Miss Eldon?”

“I am not at all acquainted with her,” said Julia.

“You have met her several times,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

“Yes, but have never conversed with her. Her appearance is greatly in 
her favor; I think her very beautiful.”

“She is called so,” said Mrs. Cunningham; “but some how I don't like 
her looks. To tell the plain truth, I can't endure her, she is so 
vain, and artful, and self-complacent.”

“I have not the least acquaintance with her,” repeated Julia; “but it 
were a pity so lovely a face should not be accompanied by an amiable 
heart. Are _you_ much acquainted with her?”

“Not personally. Indeed I never conversed with her for ten minutes in 
my life.”

“Then you may be mistaken in thinking her vain and artful,” said Mrs. 
Westbury.

“O, I've seen enough to satisfy me fully as to that point,” said Mrs. 
Cunningham. “When a young lady exerts herself to engross the attention 
of newly married men, and when she looks so self-satisfied at success, 
I want nothing more. She can have no delicacy of feeling—she must be a 
coquette of the worst kind.”

It was now Mrs. Westbury's turn to change the subject of conversation, 
and simply remarking—“that we should be extremely careful how we judge 
of character hastily”—she asked some question that drove Miss Eldon 
from Mrs. Cunningham's mind. Soon after the visitor departed, and 
Julia returned to her chamber.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the evening when Mr. Westbury came in, he found Julia reading, but 
she immediately laid down her book, and resumed her work. She thought 
it quite as impolite to pursue the solitary pleasure of reading while 
her husband was sitting by, as to have done so with any other 
companion; and she knew no reason why he was not as much entitled to 
civility as a stranger, or common acquaintance. It was not long before 
Mr. Westbury inquired “what book had engaged her attention.” It was 
Dr. Russel's Palestine.

“It is a delightful work,” said Julia. “I have just read an extract 
from Chateaubriand, that I think one of the most elegant passages I 
ever met with.”

“I should like to hear it,” said Mr. Westbury. Julia opened her book, 
and the passage lost none of its beauty by her reading. She read the 
following:—

“When you travel in Judea the heart is at first filled with profound 
melancholy. But when, passing from solitude to solitude, boundless 
space opens before you, this feeling wears off by degrees, and you 
experience a {420} secret awe, which, so far from depressing the soul, 
imparts life, and elevates the genius. Extraordinary appearances 
everywhere proclaim a land teeming with miracles. The burning sun, the 
towering eagle, the barren fig-tree, all the poetry, all the pictures 
of Scripture are here. Every name commemorates a mystery, every grotto 
announces a prediction, every hill re-echoes the accents of a prophet. 
God himself has spoken in these regions, dried up rivers, rent the 
rocks, and opened the grave. The desert still appears mute with 
terror, and you would imagine that it had never presumed to interrupt 
the silence, since it heard the awful voice of the Eternal.”

Julia closed the volume, and Mr. Westbury, after bestowing just praise 
on the extract she had read, took up the work, and proposed to read to 
her if she would like it. She thanked him, and an hour was very 
pleasantly spent in this manner. A little time was occupied in 
remarking on what had been read, when, after a short silence, Mr. 
Westbury inquired of Julia, “whether she saw much of Mrs. Cunningham.”

“Not a great deal,” was Julia's answer.

“She was here this morning?” said Mr. Westbury. “She was,” replied 
Julia.

“Do you intend to be intimate with her?” inquired Mr. Westbury.

“I have no intention about it;” said Julia—“but presume I never shall, 
as I fear our views and tastes will prove very discordant.”

“I am happy to hear you say so,” said Mr. Westbury. “I am not 
prepossessed in her favor, and greatly doubt whether an intimacy with 
her would be salutary. Such a person as I conceive her to be, should 
be nothing more than an acquaintance.”

Nothing more was added on the subject, and Julia wondered, though she 
did not ask, what had given her husband so unfavorable an impression 
of Mrs. Cunningham's character. The truth was, he overheard the 
conversation of the morning, which he would have frankly confessed to 
his wife, but for a kind of delicacy to her feelings, as he had heard 
her remarks as well as those of Mrs. Cunningham. He knew that it was 
not quite honorable to listen to a conversation without the knowledge 
of the parties; but he could not close the library door without 
betraying his proximity; he wished not to see Mrs. Cunningham; he 
therefore remained quiet, and heard their whole colloquy.

A few days after this circumstance occurred, an invitation to another 
party was received. Mr. Westbury looked at the card first, and handing 
it to Julia, said:

“I would have you act your pleasure with regard to accepting this 
invitation.”

“It will be my pleasure,” said Julia, hesitating and coloring a 
little—“it will be my pleasure to consult yours.”

“I have little choice about it,” said Mr. Westbury, “and if you prefer 
declining to accepting it, I would have you do so.”

“Shall you attend it?” asked Julia, while a shade of anxiety passed 
over her features.

“Certainly not unless you do,” Mr. Westbury replied.

“Then,” said Julia, “if it be quite as agreeable to you, I had a 
thousand times rather spend it at home, alone with”—she checked 
herself, colored crimson, and left the sentence unfinished.

The morning after the levee, Mrs. Westbury was favored with another 
call from Mrs. Cunningham.

“Why, on earth were you not at Mrs. B——'s last night?” asked she 
almost as soon as she entered the house. “You can imagine nothing more 
splendid and delightful than every thing was.”

“You were there then?” said Julia.

“Yes, certainly—though I went quite late. Edward was sick of a violent 
head-ache, and I was obliged to see him safely in bed before I could 
go; but nothing would have tempted me to miss it.”

“How is Mr. Cunningham this morning?” Julia inquired.

“Much better—though rather languid, as is usual after such an attack. 
But I came in on an errand this morning, and must despatch business, 
as I am somewhat in haste. Mrs. T—— is to give a splendid party next 
week—by the way, have you received a card yet?”

“I have not,” said Julia.

“Neither have I—but we both shall. I want to prepare a dress for the 
occasion, and came in to look at the one you wore to Mrs. Parker's, as 
I think of having something like it.”

Mrs. Westbury was about to ring the bell, and have the dress brought 
for her visitor's inspection, but Mrs. Cunningham stopt her by saying,

“No, no—do not send for it. Let me go with you to your wardrobe, I may 
see something else that I like.”

Mrs. Westbury complied, and they went up stairs together. Mrs. 
Cunningham was delightfully free in examining the articles exposed to 
her view, and expressed such warm admiration of many of them, such an 
ardent desire to possess the like, that it was rather difficult to 
forbear telling her they were at her service. The blond mantle, with a 
blue border, struck her fancy particularly, and Mrs. Westbury begged 
her to accept it, saying “that she should probably never wear it 
again, as the color was not a favorite with her husband.”

Mrs. Cunningham hastened home, delighted with her acquisition, and 
immediately hastened to the chamber, to which her husband was still 
confined by indisposition, to display to him her prize.

“See what a beautiful little affair that dear Mrs. Westbury has given 
me,” she cried. “How lucky for me that Mr. Westbury don't like blue, 
else I should not have got it, I suppose, though, she could spare 
this, and fifty other things, as well as not. Why, Edward, you don't 
know what a delightful wardrobe she has! Really, you must indulge me a 
little more in this way, I believe.”

“I am sure no one looks better dressed than yourself, Lucy,” said Mr. 
Cunningham, in a languid voice.

“O, I try to make the most of every thing I have,” said Mrs. 
Cunningham; “but really, Edward, Mrs. Westbury has twice as much of 
all sorts of apparel as I have.”

“And her husband has more than four times as much property as I have,” 
answered Mr. Cunningham.

“Supposing he has,” said his wife, “that need make no difference in 
the article of dress. And then her house is so charmingly 
furnished—every part of it! I was in her chamber, just now, and it 
looks elegantly. Every thing in it is of the richest and most 
beautiful kind, I declare I almost envied her so many luxuries.”

{421} “We surely have every thing necessary to comfort, my dear Lucy,” 
said Mr. Cunningham. “Our happiness does not depend on the splendor of 
our furniture, but on our affection for each other. You would be no 
dearer to my heart, in the paraphernalia of a duchess, diamonds and 
all, than you are in your simple morning dress; and I hope you do not 
love me the less, for not being able to furnish my house in the style 
of Mr. Westbury's.”

“O, no—of course not,” said Mrs. Cunningham, in a tone utterly devoid 
of all tenderness or feeling; “but then I should not love you the less 
for having beautiful things, I suppose. And, really, Edward, I think 
one of the best ways in which a husband can show his love to his wife, 
is by gratifying her in dress, furniture, company, and so-forth. 
Talking about love don't amount to much after all!”

“He must ruin himself, then, to show his love,” said Mr. Cunningham, 
throwing his head back on the easy-chair, with a mingled expression of 
mental and bodily pain on his features.

Mrs. Cunningham, however did not look up to mark the expression of his 
countenance, but half-muttered in reply to his remark—

“I never knew a man who was too _stingy_ to dress his wife decently, 
fail to excuse himself on the ground of necessity. How I do detest to 
hear a man talk of _ruin_, if his wife only asks for a new pair of 
shoes!”

Mr. Cunningham was too deeply wounded to attempt a reply; and Mrs. 
Cunningham, having vented something of her discontent in this gentle 
ebullition, flirted out of the chamber, without even casting a glance 
toward her sick, and now afflicted husband.

       *       *       *       *       *

In due time Mrs. T——'s invitation was received, and this it was Mr. 
Westbury's wish that Julia should accept. Without manifesting the 
least reluctance she consented, and Mr. Westbury went so far as to 
thank her for her cheerful compliance with his wishes. This was a very 
slight courtesy, but there was something in Mr. Westbury's voice when 
he spoke, that went straight to Julia's heart, and she left the room 
to conceal the strong emotion excited by so very trivial a cause. “She 
certainly strives to please me, be the motive what it may,” thought 
Mr. Westbury, when left alone—“and though _I cannot love her_, 
honor—nay, gratitude demands that I make her as happy as circumstances 
will allow.” He took a pen, and hastily writing a few lines, enclosed 
a bank note of considerable value, and left the little packet on her 
work-table, that she might see it as soon as she returned. He then 
left the house. When Julia resumed her seat by her table, the packet 
was the first thing that attracted her notice. She hastily opened it, 
and read as follows:—

“As Mrs. Westbury is too delicate and reserved ever to make known a 
want, she may have many which are unthought of by him who is bound to 
supply them. Will she receive the enclosed, not as a gift, but as her 
right? Perhaps a new dress may be wanted for Mrs. T——'s levee; if not, 
the enclosed can meet some of those calls on benevolence, to which 
report says Mrs. Westbury's ear is ever open. And if Mrs. Westbury 
will so far overcome her timid delicacy, as freely to make known her 
wants whenever they occur, she will greatly oblige her husband.”

Julia pondered long on this note. It was ceremonious and cold—cold 
enough!—yet not so _frozen_ as the only letter she had ever received 
from him. Perhaps it was his way of letting her know that he wished 
her to dress more elegantly and expensively. “I will not remain in 
doubt; I will know explicitly,” thought she—and taking a pen in her 
turn, she wrote the following:

“Mr. Westbury is so munificient in supplying every want, that his wife 
has none to make known. If there is any particular dress that would 
gratify Mr. Westbury's taste, Mrs. Westbury would esteem it a great 
favor would he name it, and it would be her delight to furnish herself 
accordingly. She accepts with gratitude, _not as her right_, but as a 
gift, the very liberal sum enclosed in Mr. Westbury's note.”

Julia placed her note on Mr. Westbury's reading-desk in the library, 
and felt an almost feverish impatience to have an answer, either 
verbal or written. For more than an entire day, however, she was 
doomed to remain in suspense, as her husband made no allusion either 
to his note or her own, though the one she laid on his desk 
disappeared on his first visit to the library. But her suspense at 
length terminated. On going to her chamber she observed a little box 
on her dressing-table. On raising it, she discovered a note that was 
placed beneath it. The note ran thus:—

“Mr. Westbury highly approves the elegant simplicity of Mrs. 
Westbury's style of dress, and in consulting her own taste, she will 
undoubtedly gratify his. He has _but once_ seen her wear an unbecoming 
article. The contents of the accompanying box were selected, not for 
their intrinsic value or splendor, but because they correspond so well 
with Mrs. Westbury's style of dress and of beauty. If she will wear 
them to Mrs. T——'s, she will gratify the giver.”

Julia opened the box, and a set of beautiful pearls met her view. “How 
delicate, how kind, and how cold he is!” thought she. “O, how trifling 
the value of these gems, compared to one particle of his love!—Yet for 
his sake I will wear them—not as my adorning—may _that_ ever be the 
ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, but as proof of my desire in all 
things to please him, and meet his approbation.”

Mrs. T——'s rooms were well filled with the elegant and fashionable, on 
the evening on which her house was opened to receive company. But the 
heart of Julia was not in such scenes. The more she saw of fashionable 
life the less she liked it. Emulation, envy, detraction, and 
dissimulation were obtruding themselves on her notice, amid gaiety and 
splendor. Her conscientious scruples as to the propriety of thus 
mixing with the world, increased rather than diminished. “I promised,” 
thought she, while she was surveying the gay assembly—“I promised, in 
all things lawful, to obey my husband—but is this _lawful_ for me? It 
is my duty—it is my _pleasure_ to comply with all his wishes, where 
superior duties do not forbid; but is it allowable for me to try to 
please him _thus_? His heart is the prize at which I aim, but will 
‘the end sanctify the means?’ Can I expect a blessing from above on my 
efforts, while my conscience is not _quite_ clear as to the rectitude 
of the path I pursue? Can I not have moral courage enough to tell him 
my scruples? and dare I not hazard the consequences?” Julia's 
reflections were interrupted by the approach of Mrs. Cunningham.

{422} “How serious you look, Mrs. Westbury,” said she. “Really, you 
and Mr. Cunningham would do well together, for you are both more grave 
in a party than any where else. Mr. Cunningham actually tries my 
patience by his disrelish for society. I do believe he is now quite 
well; yet he made indisposition an excuse for not coming with me 
to-night! But,” said she, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “I 
shall show him that I can be _obstinate_ as well as he! He chooses to 
stay at home—I choose to come out—and if he will not come with me, 
neither will I stay with him. I should rather live in a cottage in the 
country, and have done with it, for there I should have nothing to 
expect but stupidity; but to live in the midst of elegant society, and 
yet be constrained to immure one's self, is intolerable, and I _will 
not_ submit to it!”

Mrs. Westbury had not the pain of replying to a speech from which both 
her heart and her judgment revolted, as Mr. Eveleth at that moment 
addressed her. He soon engaged her in a conversation which was 
continued for an hour, and would have been continued still longer, but 
for a general movement of the company, which separated them. Not long 
after, Mr. Eveleth found himself near Miss Eldon, who was chatting 
with two or three gentlemen. Mr. Westbury was standing hard by, but 
his back was toward them, and Mr. Eveleth did not observe him.

“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Westbury, Miss Eldon?” Mr. Eveleth 
inquired.

“No, not in the least,” said Miss Eldon, “and do not wish to be. She 
looks altogether too _fade_ for me.”

“_Fade!_” said Mr. Eveleth—“I should think that the last word that 
would apply to Mrs. Westbury in any way. She is certainly animated 
both in countenance and manner, and she talks better than any lady I 
ever conversed with. Her thoughts have something of masculine strength 
and range, delightfully modified by feminine grace and delicacy. Her 
manner is perfectly ladylike and gentle.”

“Every thing she says must sound well,” remarked another gentleman. 
“She has woman's most potent charm, in perfection—a voice whose tones 
are all music.”

“Perhaps it is all just as you say,” said Miss Eldon, “but really, I 
never saw a lady that appeared to me more perfectly insipid, or less 
attractive. I hope”—but the tone of Miss Eldon's voice contradicted 
her words—“I hope her husband sees her with your eyes, rather than 
mine.”

“I do—I will!” thought Mr. Westbury, who had heard all the 
conversation, with a variety of conflicting emotions. “_Fade!_” 
reiterated he, as Miss Eldon uttered the word,—“'Tis false!” He 
glanced his eyes towards Julia, who stood on the opposite side of the 
room, talking with a lady. She was dressed in black, a color that 
finely contrasted with her pearls, which proved to be very becoming. 
Her cheek was a little flushed, and her whole face beaming with 
animation. “_Fade!_ 'tis false!” Mr. Westbury's pride was piqued. 
Julia was Mrs. Westbury—his wife! could he patiently hear her thus 
unjustly spoken of? Was there any thing noble in that mind that could 
thus speak of a rival? How grateful to his feelings were the remarks 
of Mr. Eveleth! How clearly he read the feelings of Miss Eldon in the 
tone of voice in which she uttered her last remark! He waited to hear 
no more, but moving towards a table that was spread with refreshments, 
filled a plate, and carried it to Julia. It was the first attention of 
the kind he had ever paid her, and her face was eloquent indeed, as 
she looked up with a smile, and said “thank you.” He stood by her for 
a few minutes, made some common-place remarks, even took a grape or 
two from her plate, and then turned away. It was one of the happiest 
moments of Julia's life! There was something indescribable in his 
manner, that a delicate and feeling woman could alone have seen or 
appreciated, of which Julia felt the full force.

When the party broke up, Miss Eldon contrived again to secure Mr. 
Westbury's arm. She saw that he purposely avoided her, whether from 
new-born indifference, or principle, she could not determine; but 
having boasted to quite a number of her _confidential friends_ of his 
passion for herself, and the reluctance with which he had complied 
with his father's command to marry Julia, _who had made the most 
indelicate advances_—she resolved, if art or manœuvering could 
accomplish it, to maintain the appearance of power over him. From the 
first she exulted in her conquest of Mr. Westbury's heart. She admired 
his person—his fortune she _loved_; and bitter was her mortification, 
unbounded her displeasure, when his hand was bestowed on another. To 
make it appear that he still loved her; to wring the heart of his 
wife, and detract from her character, were now the main springs of her 
actions whenever she met them. The sight of Julia's pearls, which she 
thought should have been her own, awakened, on this evening, 
peculiarly bitter feelings. The hand—the heart even, of Mr. Westbury 
were trifles, when compared with such beautiful ornaments, except as 
they were the medium through which the latter were to be obtained.

A ten-minutes conversation with her _ci-devant_ lover was all her art 
could accomplish during the evening at Mrs. T——'s, until she secured 
his arm on going out. In the entry they were detained by the crowd at 
the door, and looking round, they saw Mrs. Westbury, together with Mr. 
and Mrs. Eveleth, examining a bust of Gen. Lafayette, which stood on a 
pedestal, near the foot of the staircase. With a smile on her 
beautiful features, which very slightly softened a compound expression 
of scorn and malignity, Miss Eldon said—

“Really, Mrs. Westbury has made a conquest! Mr. Eveleth is devoted in 
his attentions, and enthusiastic in his encomiums! Do you not begin to 
be jealous?”

“Not in the least,” Mr. Westbury replied. “The attentions and 
approbation of such a man as Mr. Eveleth are an honor to any lady; and 
Mrs. Westbury's rigid sense of virtue and propriety will prevent her 
ever receiving improper attentions, should any one be disposed to 
offer them. She has too much delicacy and refinement to court the 
attentions even of her own husband, much less those of the husband of 
another!”

Miss Eldon was stung with mortification, and dropping her head, that 
her face might be concealed by her hood, she said, in a voice 
tremulous from conflicting passions—

“How little did I ever expect to hear Frederic Westbury speak to me in 
a severe tone!”

“Severe! Maria—Miss Eldon? Does common justice to Mrs. Westbury sound 
harshly in your ear?”

“Certainly not—but your tone—your manner are not {423} what they were, 
and I had hoped that no circumstances, no new engagements, would 
prevent your retaining a kindly feeling towards one whom—” she 
hesitated—“One whom I once loved,” said Mr. Westbury, finishing the 
sentence for her. “Yes, you well know that I once loved you.”

“Once?” interrupted Miss Eldon. “But this is man's fidelity!”

“Miss Eldon, you astonish me,” said Mr. Westbury. “I am married; my 
wife commands my respect—nay, my admiration; and duty, honor, every 
thing commands that all former ties, however tender, should be broken. 
Our happiness, our respectability demands that henceforth we be only 
common acquaintance.”

“Be it so—farewell!” said Miss Eldon, with irrepressible bitterness of 
expression, and snatching her hand from beneath his arm, she sprang 
forward and took that of her brother, who had just issued from the 
parlor.

“Is that—can that be Maria Eldon?” thought Mr. Westbury—“the amiable! 
the feeling! the refined Maria! Where has my love, my admiration, my 
passion for her gone? or rather, by what blindness were they at first 
excited? Does she wish to retain—nay, does she claim the heart of the 
husband of another? What perversion of principle is here!”

The crowd at the door was by this time nearly dispersed, and Mr. 
Westbury, advancing to the trio that still remained near the bust, 
drew his wife's arm within his, and bidding Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth “good 
night,” led her to their carriage.

“How have you enjoyed yourself this evening?” Mr. Westbury inquired, 
as soon as the carriage-door was closed, and the coachman had mounted 
his box.

“Quite as well as I ever do scenes of similar character,” Julia 
answered.

“Do you not then relish society?”

“Not very well in such large _masses_,” said Julia. “To my 
apprehension, very large parties counteract the purpose for which 
social feelings were implanted within us.”

“Then you _disapprove_, as well as disrelish, them?” said Mr. 
Westbury.

“I fear they are not quite innocent,” said Julia. “So far as my 
observation has extended, they have little tendency to increase 
benevolence, or any of the finer feelings of the heart. I have often 
feared, that vanity and thirst for admiration, were the causes that 
draw together one half of the crowd; and a vulgar love of luxuries the 
other.”

“Those causes surely do not influence all those who attend large 
assemblies,” said Mr. Westbury. “Such persons as Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, 
for instance, are entirely above them.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Julia. “Still I believe the rule as general as any 
other.”

“Does not the elegant and instructive conversation of such a man as 
Mr. Eveleth reconcile you to the crowd?” Mr. Westbury inquired.

“Certainly not,” said Julia. “How much more highly such conversation 
would be enjoyed—how much greater benefit derived from it, in a small 
circle. Artificial delicacy and refinement—artificial 
feeling—artificial good-nature—artificial friendship, are the usual 
compound that make up large companies. Had Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth spent 
this evening with us, in our quiet parlor, how much greater would have 
been the enjoyment! how much more profitably the time might have been 
occupied!”

“It might,” said Mr. Westbury. “Mr. Eveleth has great colloquial 
powers. His conversation is at once brilliant and instructive. I know 
no gentleman who equals him in this particular.”

“I cannot say quite as much as that,” said Julia, “though he certainly 
converses uncommonly well.”

“Who can you name that is his equal?” asked Mr. Westbury.

Julia hesitated a little, and blushed a great deal, though her blushes 
were unseen, as she said—“In conversational powers, I think my present 
companion is very rarely, if ever excelled. And why,” she added, “such 
gentlemen should mingle in crowds, where their talents are in a great 
measure lost, instead of meeting in select circles, where they could 
find congenial minds—minds, at least, in some degree capable of 
appreciating them, I cannot conceive. But I suppose my ideas of 
rational enjoyment, of elegant society are very singular.” She stopped 
short, fearing she was saying too much, but Mr. Westbury requested her 
to proceed. After a minute's hesitation she said—

“I think the crowded drawing room should be abandoned to those who are 
capable of no higher enjoyment than gossip, nonsense, flirtation, and 
eating oysters, confections and creams; and that people of talent, 
education, principle, and refinement, should associate freely in small 
circles, and with little ceremony. In such kind of intercourse, new 
friendships would be formed and old ones cemented, the mind and heart 
would be improved, and the demons of envy and detraction excluded. 
After an evening spent in such a circle, the monitor within would be 
at peace, and the blessing and protection of Heaven could be sought, 
without a feeling of shame, and self-condemnation.”

“Then your _conscience_ is really at war with large parties?” said Mr. 
Westbury.

“I cannot deny that it is,” Julia answered. “Impelled by 
circumstances, I have striven to think they might _sometimes_ be 
innocently attended, and perhaps they may; but I confess that the 
reproaches of my own conscience are more and more severe, every time I 
repeat the indulgence. Whatever they be to others, I am constrained to 
believe they are not innocent for me.”

Mr. Westbury made no reply, for at that moment the carriage stopped at 
their own door, and the subject was not again resumed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every party was sure to procure for Mrs. Westbury the favor of a call 
from Mrs. Cunningham. On the following morning, at as early an hour as 
etiquette would allow, she made her appearance.

“I could not stay away this morning,” she said, the moment she 
entered. “I am so vexed, and so hurt, that I must have the sympathy of 
some friendly heart; and you are a friend to every one, especially 
when in trouble.”

“What troubles you, Mrs. Cunningham?” Mrs. Westbury inquired.

“You recollect,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “what I said to you last night 
about Mr. Cunningham's indisposition. Well, as soon as I got home, I 
ran up stairs, of course, you know, to see how he was, expecting to 
{424} find him abed and asleep. Judge how I felt, when I found my bed 
as I left it, and no husband in the chamber. I flew down stairs, and 
searched every room for him, but in vain. I then rang for Peggy, and 
asked ‘if she knew where Mr. Cunningham was.’ ‘La, ma'am,’ said she, 
‘I'm sure I don't know. He went out just after you did. He called me 
to give charge about the fires, and said he was going out. I thought 
he had altered his mind and was going to Mrs. T——'s.’ I dismissed the 
girl, and went to my chamber, in an agony, as you may suppose. I 
declare I hardly know what I did or thought for three long hours—for 
it was so long before Mr. Cunningham came home! I don't know what I 
said to him when he came, but he was not the kind, affectionate 
creature, that he ever has been, for he almost harshly told me ‘to 
cease my upbraidings’—_upbraidings!_ think what a word—‘for if I 
sought pleasure where I liked, I must not quarrel with him for doing 
the same!’ My dear Mrs. Westbury, I could not make him tell me where 
he had been, do all I could—and I have horrible surmises. What shall I 
do? I am sick at heart, and almost distracted.”

“Will you follow my advice, my dear Mrs. Cunningham?” said Mrs. 
Westbury, who truly pitied her distress, much as she blamed her.

“O, yes—I will do any thing to feel happier than I now do. Really my 
heart is broken,” and she burst into a passion of tears.

Mrs. Westbury attempted to soothe her, and then said—

“Forgive me, if I wound, when I would only heal. You have been a 
little imprudent, and must retrace your steps by conforming to the 
taste of your husband. He does not like crowds, and you must in part 
relinquish them for his sake.”

“And is not that hard?” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Why should he not 
conform to my taste, as well as I to his? Why must _men_ always have 
their own way?”

“That point it is not worth while to discuss,” said Mrs. Westbury. 
“Your happiness, my friend, is at stake. Can you hesitate an instant 
which to relinquish, those pleasures, which, after all, are so 
unsatisfying, or the approbation, the happiness, perhaps the heart, 
even, of your husband?”

“But why,” persisted Mrs. Cunningham, “need he be so obstinate? You 
see he could go out and stay till two in the morning! It seems as if 
he did it on purpose to torment me,” and she again burst into tears.

“I have not the least doubt,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that would you 
yield to Mr. Cunningham's wishes—would you let him see that you care 
more about pleasing him than yourself, he would cheerfully, and 
_frequently_ perhaps, accommodate himself to your taste. Few men will 
bear being _driven_, and they would be objects of our contempt if they 
would, for authority is divinely delegated to them; but there are 
_very few_ who have not _generosity_ enough to take pleasure in 
gratifying the wife, who evidently strives to meet his wishes, and is 
willing to sacrifice her own pleasures, that she may promote his 
happiness.”

“But I can't see,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “why my happiness is not of 
as much consequence as my husband's. I can't see, why all _sacrifice_ 
should be on my side!”

“Do you not perceive,” said Mrs. Westbury, “_that the sacrifices you 
make, are made to secure your happiness, and not to destroy it_?”

“I don't know,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “I can't bear to have Ned think 
to manage me as he would a little child, and then punish me, as he did 
last night, if I don't do just as he says. I don't think it fair! And 
I don't know as it would be of any avail, should I follow your advice. 
Some men will be _ugly_, do what you will! And why should you 
understand _managing_ the men better than I do? You are two or three 
years younger!”

“I never studied how to _manage_ them,” said Mrs. Westbury; “but I 
have thought a good deal on the best way of securing domestic 
happiness; and reason, observation, and the word of God teach me, that 
would the wife be happy and beloved, she must ‘be in subjection to her 
own husband.’ He may not always be reasonable, but she cannot ‘usurp 
authority,’ without at once warring against Heaven, and her own peace, 
and respectability. Think of it, my dear Mrs. Cunningham, ruminate 
upon it, and in your decision be careful not to let _will_ influence 
you to sacrifice a greater good for a less. It is not degrading for a 
wife to submit to her husband. On the contrary, she never appears more 
lovely than when cheerfully and gracefully yielding up her own wishes, 
that she may comply with his. Women were not made to rule; and in my 
view, the wife who attempts to govern, and the husband who submits to 
be governed, are equally contemptible.”

“What an admirable wife you would be for a tyrant!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Cunningham. “I never heard the doctrine of _passive obedience_ more 
strenuously inculcated. Indeed, you would make a tyrant of any man!”

“If any thing would disarm the tyrant,” said Mrs. Westbury, “I think 
this _passive obedience_ would do it, if at the same time, it were a 
_cheerful_ obedience. But happily, _you_ have no tyrant to disarm. 
Your husband, I am satisfied, would be easily pleased. Try, my friend, 
for a little while, to yield to him, and see if you do not meet a rich 
reward.”

“Well, I will think of it,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “and perhaps shall 
do as you advise; for really I am very wretched now. O, dear, I do 
wish the men were not so obstinate! so overbearing! so selfish!”

       *       *       *       *       *

For some time things went on very calmly with Julia. Though there was 
nothing tender, or even affectionate in the manner of her husband, 
there was a gradual alteration, sufficient to keep hope alive, and 
stimulate her to exertion. He spent more and more of his leisure time 
at home, and was at least becoming _reconciled_ to her society. 
Julia's system of visiting had been partially adopted, and Mr. 
Westbury enjoyed it highly. Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, and a few other 
friends of congenial minds, had been invited to drop in occasionally 
without ceremony; the invitation had been complied with, and Mr. 
Westbury and Julia had returned a few visits of this kind. Thus many 
evenings had been pleasantly, and profitably spent. Another great 
comfort to Julia, was, that her husband had cheerfully permitted her 
to decline several invitations to attend large parties, and had 
sometimes remained at home with her himself, and even when he had 
thought best, on his own part, to accept the invitation, he had been 
absent but a short {425} time, and had then returned to pass the 
remainder of the evening with his wife.

But after awhile, this faint gleam of sunshine began to fade away. A 
cloud of care seemed settling on Mr. Westbury's brow, he passed less 
and less time at home, till at length Julia scarcely saw him, except 
at mealtimes. “What is the matter?” thought Julia. “Am I the cause? is 
Miss Eldon? or is it some perplexity in his affairs?” She longed to 
inquire. If she had displeased him, she wished to correct whatever had 
given displeasure. If his sadness was in any way connected with Miss 
Eldon, of course she could in no way interfere; but if it originated 
in any cause foreign to either, she ardently desired to offer her 
sympathy, and share his sorrows. Day after day passed, without 
producing any favorable change, and Julia's feelings were wrought up 
to agony. She resolved, at all hazards, to inquire into the cause of 
his depression.

He came in late one evening, and taking a seat near the table, beside 
which Julia was sitting, leaned his head on his hand. Half an hour 
passed without a word being uttered. “Now is my time,” thought Julia. 
“Yet how can I do it? What can I say? A favored wife would seat 
herself on his knee, entwine his neck with her arms, and penetrate his 
very heart—but I, alas, should only disgust by such freedom?” She drew 
a sigh, and summoning all her courage, said, in a timid voice—

“I fear I have unwittingly offended you.”

Mr. Westbury looked up in some surprise, and assured her “that she had 
not.”

“You have absented yourself from home so much of late,” said Julia, 
“that I feared your own fireside was becoming less agreeable to you 
than ever.”

“Business of importance,” said Mr. Westbury, “has of late demanded all 
my time, and to-morrow I must start for New York.”

“For New York!” said Julia. “To be absent how long?”

“That,” said Mr. Westbury, “must depend on circumstances. I may be 
absent some time.”

“May I not hope to hear from you occasionally?” Julia assumed courage 
to ask.

“Yes—I will certainly write, from time to time.”

“He does not ask me to write,” thought Julia, with a sigh. “He is 
quite indifferent how she fares whom he calls his wife!”

The following morning witnessed the departure of Mr. Westbury, and 
Julia was left to painful conjecture as to the cause of his dejection. 
Three weeks passed away, in each of which she received a letter from 
him, comporting exactly with his manner toward her—friendly and 
respectful, but neither tender nor confiding.

At the close of that period Julia was one day alarmed by the 
unceremonious entrance of a sheriff's officer. He was the bearer of a 
writ of attachment, with orders to seize all the furniture.

“At whose suit do you come?” Julia asked the officer.

“At Mr. Eldon's, madam. He holds a note of some thousands against Mr. 
Westbury, and thinks no time is to be lost in making it secure. You 
have jewels of value, madam, which I was ordered to include in the 
attachment.”

“Will you allow me a few minutes for reflection?” said Julia, whose 
faculties seemed benumbed by the suddenness of the blow.

“Certainly, madam, certainly—any accommodation in my power I shall be 
happy to grant.”

“What _can_ I do? what _ought_ I to do?” thought Julia. “O, that Mr. 
Westbury were at home! Mr. Eveleth—yes—I will send for him; he can 
advise me, if the officer will only wait.”

“Will you suspend your operations for half an hour, sir,” asked Julia, 
“that I may send for a friend to advise and assist me?”

“Why, my time is very precious, madam, and my orders to attach were 
peremptory; nevertheless, half an hour will make no great difference, 
so to oblige you, I will wait.”

The pale and trembling Julia instantly despatched a servant for Mr. 
Eveleth, and in twenty minutes that gentleman arrived. He was 
instantly made acquainted with the business in hand, and without 
hesitation receipted for the furniture, and dismissed the officer. 
Julia felt relieved of an enormous burden, when the officer left the 
house—though in her trepidation she scarcely comprehended how he was 
induced to go, and leave every thing as it was. As soon as she was 
sufficiently composed and collected to take a pen, she wrote to her 
husband, giving an account of all that had transpired. Her letter 
despatched, she had nothing to do but wait in torturing suspense, till 
she should either see or hear from him. On the third evening, as she 
was sitting with her eyes resting on the carpet, alternately thinking 
of her husband, and of her own embarrassing situation, and at times 
raising her heart to heaven for strength and direction—as she was thus 
sitting, in deep and melancholy musing, Mr. Westbury entered the 
apartment. Quick as thought she sprang towards him, exclaiming—

“O, my dear husband, how glad I am that you are come! But what is the 
matter?” she cried, as he sank into a chair—“you are very ill!”

“I find that I am,” said Mr. Westbury. “My strength has just sufficed 
to fetch me home.”

Julia took his hand, and found it was burning with fever, and 
instantly despatching a servant for a physician, she assisted her 
husband to his chamber. The medical gentleman soon arrived, and 
pronounced Mr. Westbury in a confirmed fever. For twenty days, Julia 
was in an agony of suspense. With intense anxiety she watched every 
symptom, and administered every medicine with her own hand, lest some 
mistake should be made. It was in vain that the physician entreated 
her to take some care of herself; she could do nothing, think of 
nothing, but that which related to her husband. When nature was 
completely exhausted, she would take an hour's troubled repose, and 
then be again at her post. On every account, the thought of his death 
was terrible. “To be lost to me,” thought she, “is unutterably 
dreadful—but, O, it is a trifle when compared to being lost to 
himself! He is not fit for heaven. He has never sought the 
intercession of the great Advocate, through whom alone we can enter on 
eternal life.” How fervently did she pray that his life might be 
prolonged! that he might come forth from his affliction like ‘gold 
seven times refined!’

Mr. Westbury was exceedingly reduced, but there had been no symptom of 
delirium, though weakness {426} and pain compelled him to remain 
almost constantly silent. Occasionally, however, he expressed his 
gratitude to Julia for her unremitted attentions; begged her, _for his 
sake_, to take all possible care of her own health, for if her 
strength should fail, such another nurse—so tender—so vigilant—could 
not be found. Julia entreated him to take no thought for her, as she 
doubted not that her heavenly Father would give her strength for the 
discharge of every duty. Sometimes, when he was uttering a few words 
of commendation, she panted to say—“_Aimez moi, au lieu de me louer;_” 
but with a sigh she would bury the thought at the bottom of her heart, 
and proceed in the discharge of her duties. Oftentimes she would kneel 
for an hour together, at his bedside, when he appeared to be sleeping, 
with his hand clasped in hers, dividing the time between counting his 
fluttering pulse, and raising her heart to heaven in his behalf.

But Julia's constitution was unequal to the task she had undertaken. 
Protracted fatigue and anxiety did their work, and on the day that her 
husband was pronounced convalescent, she was conveyed to a bed of 
sickness. Unlike Mr. Westbury, she was in a constant state of 
delirium, induced by mental anxiety, and unremitting watching. Most 
touchingly would she beg to go to her husband, as he was dying for 
want of her care. It was in vain that she was told he was better—was 
rapidly recovering; the impression was gone in an instant, and her 
mind reverted to his danger. Her physician was anxious that Mr. 
Westbury should visit her chamber, as soon as he could do so with 
safety, hoping that the sight of him might change the current of her 
thoughts, and remove that anxiety that greatly heightened her fever. 
At the end of ten days he was able to be supported to her chamber, and 
advancing to the bedside, he said—

“My dear Julia, I am able to come and see you.”

“Thank heaven,” said Julia, clasping her hands—and then raising her 
eyes, she added—“Heavenly Father, I thank thee! But how sick you 
look,” she continued; “O, pray go to bed, and I will come and nurse 
you. I shall very soon be _rested_, and then they will let me come.”

“I will sit by, and watch and nurse you now, Julia,” said Mr. 
Westbury—“so try to go to sleep—it will do you good.”

“You called me _Julia_,” said she, smiling; “O, how sweetly that 
sounded! But I will mind you, and try to sleep, for my head feels 
strangely.”

She closed her eyes, and Mr. Westbury sat at the head of the bed, 
watching her with intense interest. Presently her lips moved, and he 
leaned forward to hear what she was saying.

“O, should he die,” she murmured in the softest tone—“O, should he die 
without ever loving me!—die, without knowing how much—how fondly I 
loved him! And, O,” she added, in a whisper, while an expression of 
deep solemnity settled on her features—“O, should he die without ever 
loving the blessed Saviour!—that would be the most dreadful of all!”

Presently a noise in the street disturbed her, and she opened her 
eyes. She did not see her husband, as she had turned her face a little 
on the other side, and calling the nurse, she said—

“Do beg them to make less noise; they will kill my dear husband—I know 
just how it makes his poor head feel,” and she clasped her own with 
her hands.

Mr. Westbury's feelings were much moved, and his debility was such he 
could with difficulty restrain them. He found he must return to his 
own chamber, and taking his wife's hand, he said—

“I hope to be able to come and see you now, every day, my dear Julia.”

“O, do,” she said—“and always call me Julia, will you?—it sounds so 
kindly!”

Scenes similar to this were constantly recurring for the next ten 
days. Mr. Westbury continued to gain strength, though his recovery was 
somewhat retarded by his visits to Julia's chamber, while she was 
gradually sinking under the violence of her disease. The hopes, 
however, which her physician gave of her recovery, were not delusive. 
Within three weeks of the time of her seizure, a crisis took place, 
and the next day she was pronounced out of danger.

Soon after this, Mr. Westbury was able to attend a little to business, 
but all the time he was in the house, was spent in Julia's chamber. 
One day, after she had so far recovered her strength as to be able to 
sit up for an hour or two at a time, he chanced to be left alone with 
her.

“My dear Julia,” said he, as he took her emaciated hand, and folded it 
between his own—“I can never express my gratitude to you for your kind 
attentions to an unworthy husband; nor my thankfulness to heaven that 
your precious life did not fall a sacrifice to your efforts to save 
mine. I hope to prove by my future conduct, that I have learned to 
appreciate your value.”

He spoke in the softest tones of love, while his eyes were humid with 
tears.

“Do you, then, love me?” said Julia.

“Love you!—yes, most tenderly—with my whole heart,” said Westbury; 
“more than any thing—more than every thing else on earth!”

Julia leaned her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears.

“Why do you weep, Julia?” said Westbury.

“O, I am so happy!” said Julia. “There wants but one thing to make my 
cup of blessedness quite full.”

“And what is that, dearest?”

“That you should give your first—your best affections where alone they 
are deserved—to your Creator.”

“I trust, my dear wife,” said Mr. Westbury, with deep feeling, “I 
trust that your precious intercessions for me at the throne of mercy, 
have been answered. My bed of sickness was a bed of reflection, of 
retrospection, of remorse, and, I hope, of true penitence. I feel as 
if in a new world; ‘old things have passed away, and all things have 
become new.’”

Julia clasped her hands together, leaned her face upon them, and for a 
long time remained perfectly silent. At length she raised her head, 
and said—

“Your fortune, I suppose, is gone—but what of that? It was a trifle—a 
toy—compared with the blessings now bestowed. A cottage—any place will 
be a paradise to me, possessing the heart of my husband, and he a 
believer!”

“My dear Julia,” said Westbury, “my fortune is unimpaired. I was in 
danger of sustaining great loss, through the embarrassments of my 
banker in New York, but all is now happily adjusted. The difficulty 
{427} here, was the result of malice. Eldon was embittered against me, 
I doubt not, through the influence of his sister—of whom it is 
unnecessary to speak to you. He heard of my difficulties, and knowing 
that he should be perfectly safe, purchased that note against me, that 
he might avenge her, by increasing my embarrassments. I have been 
recently informed that that unhappy girl looked on your _pearls_ with 
peculiar malignity. Her feelings were too bitter, and too strong for 
concealment. Poor girl—I fear that she and her brother are kindred in 
heart, as well as blood. I now look with something like terror, at the 
gulph into which I wished to plunge myself, and from which my dear 
father alone saved me. I can never be sufficiently thankful, for being 
turned, almost by force, from my rash and headstrong course; and for 
having a wife bestowed on me, rich in every mental and moral 
excellence—who loves me for myself, undeserving as I am, and not for 
my wealth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was now June; and as soon as Julia's strength was equal to the 
fatigue, Mr. Westbury took her into the country for change of air. 
They were absent from the city some months, and made, in the course of 
the summer, several delightful excursions in various parts of the 
country. A few days after their return to their house in town, Julia 
asked Mr. Westbury “if he had seen or heard any thing of the 
Cunninghams.”

“I have seen neither of them,” said Mr. Westbury, “but hear sad 
accounts of both. Mrs. Cunningham is now with a party at Nahant. She 
has been extremely gay, perhaps I might say _dissipated_, during the 
whole season, and her reputation is in some danger. Cunningham has 
become an inveterate gamester, and I am told that his face shows but 
too plainly, that temperance is not among his virtues.”

“Poor creatures,” said Julia, “how I pity them for their folly—their 
madness!”

“I pity _him_ most sincerely,” said Mr. Westbury, “in being united to 
a woman who selfishly preferred her own _pleasure_ to her husband's 
_happiness_. _Her_ I have not yet learned to pity. She richly deserves 
all she may suffer. Had she taken your advice, Julia—for most 
touchingly did I hear you warn her!—she might now have been happy, and 
her husband respectable. _Now_, they are both lost!—O, that every 
woman would learn where her true strength—her true happiness lies!—O, 
that she would learn, that to yield is to conquer! to submit, is to 
subdue! None but the utterly ignoble and abandoned, could long resist 
the genial influence of a cheerful, meek, patient, self-denying wife; 
nay—instances are not wanting, in which the most profligate have been 
reclaimed through the instrumentality of a _consistently_ amiable and 
virtuous woman! If the whole sex, my dear Julia, would imbibe your 
spirit, and follow your example, the effect would soon be manifest. 
Men would be very different creatures from what they now are, and few 
wives would have occasion to complain of unkind and obstinate 
husbands. A vast deal is said of the influence of women on society, 
and they, themselves, exult in their power; but how seldom, 
comparatively, do they use it, to benefit themselves, or the world! 
Let it be a woman's first desire to make her husband good, and happy, 
and respectable—and seldom will she fail of attaining her object, and 
at the same time, of securing her own felicity!”




THE SWAN OF LOCH OICH.

A solitary wild swan may be seen on Loch Oich. It has sailed there for 
twenty or thirty years, in summer and winter. It had a mate, but about 
twenty years ago the master of a trading vessel (more wantonly 
barbarous than the Duke of Cumberland when he burned the old castle of 
Inverrgarry,) shot the bird. The Glengary swan, however, kept its 
solitary range. Last winter three other swans lighted on the lake; 
they remained a month or two, and it was thought the recluse would 
depart with them, but it had apparently no desire to change its wonted 
station. As swans have been known to live upwards of a century, we 
hope this faithful bird will escape accident and cruelty, and live 
through two or three generations more, to grace the shores of Loch 
Oich.

_Inverness Courier_.


  Beautiful bird of the Scottish lake,
  With plumage pure as the light snow-flake,
  With neck of pride and a wing of grace,
  And lofty air as of royal race—
  Beautiful bird, may you long abide
  And grace Loch Oich in your lonely pride.

  Bright was the breast of the “loch,” I ween,
  Its crystal wave and its sapphire sheen;
  And bright its border of shrub and tree,
  And thistle-bloom in its fragrancy—
  When to thy side thy fair mate prest,
  Or skimm'd the lake with her tintless breast.

  But she is not! and still, to thee,
  Are the sunny wave and the shadowing tree,
  The mossy brink and the thistle flower,
  Dear, as to thee in that blessed hour!
  What is the spell o'er thy pinion thrown
  That binds thee here, fair bird, alone?

  Does the vision bright of thy peerless bride
  Still skim the lake and press thy side?
  And haunt the nook in the fir-tree's shade?
  And press the moss in the sunny glade?
  And has earth nothing, to thee, so fair,
  As the gentle spirit that lingers there?

  Oh, 'tis a wondrous, wizard spell!
  The human bosom its force can tell;
  The heart forsaken hath felt, like thine,
  The mystic web with its fibres twine,
  Constraining still in the scenes to stay,
  Where all it treasured had passed away.

  Bird of Loch Oich, 'tis well! 'tis well!
  You yield your wing to the viewless spell;
  Oh, who would seek, with a stranger eye,
  For blooming shores and a brilliant sky
  And range the earth for the hopeless art,
  To find a home for a broken heart?

  Oh, I would linger, though all alone,
  Where hallowed love its light has thrown,
  And hearth and streamlet and tree and flower,
  Are link'd in thought with a blessed hour;
  Home of my heart, those scenes should be
  As thy own Loch Oich, fair bird to thee.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




OTTO VENIUS.

Otto Venius, the designer of “Le Theatre moral de la Vie Humaine,” 
illustrates Horace's “Raro antecedentem scelestum deseruit _pede_ pœna 
_claudo_,” by sketching Punishment with a wooden leg.


{428}


DIARY OF AN INVALID.

NO. I.

ULEA HOLSTEIN—A TALE OF THE NORTHERN SEAS.


When I was at Nantucket last summer, trying the virtue of sea-bathing 
and sea-breezes, for a wearisome chronic disease, I used to resort to 
every imaginable form of innocent recreation, as a relief to the pain 
and ennui occasioned by my bodily indisposition. One day, as I was 
sitting on one of the rocks which project into the sea, observing the 
multitude of fishing craft that were plying about the island, my 
attention was arrested by the very remarkable appearance of the 
commander of a large whale ship. His figure was not strikingly tall or 
robust; but there were an energy and determination in his look, that 
seemed to turn his every sinew into iron; while, upon a closer 
observation, one might read in his upright and noble countenance, a 
soul of high moral bearing, and a mind unruffled by the passing 
vexations of life. Such a person always awakens interest, however 
transiently we may pass him; and although we may not stop, at the 
time, to define our sentiments, we are struck with something like 
veneration and awe, when we behold in the midst of hardship, toil, and 
danger, the tranquillity which marks a mind superior to the accidents 
of life. But this was not all. One acquainted with human nature, might 
see under this stern exterior, the generous nature, which would scorn 
to trample on the weak, or pass by the suffering. I was irresistibly 
drawn to make some acquaintance with this mariner, but found some 
difficulty in framing any excuse to accost one of appearance and 
accent so foreign. Accident soon accomplished the introduction, for 
which I had taxed my ingenuity in vain. In attempting to descend from 
my eminence, my decrepid limbs refused their office, and I fell 
headlong on a shoal of rocks, among which I was scrambling with much 
pain, when I felt myself raised gently, but powerfully, by a muscular 
arm. I turned in my distress to see by what kind hand I was assisted, 
when the eye of the hardy seaman met my inquiring glance. Pity and 
benevolence shone on his countenance, and I felt even in that moment 
of corporeal suffering, that the kindred tie of man—yes, of 
friendship, united us. His first words struck me as being of foreign 
accent, but his language was that of sympathy, which is read by all 
nations, and now flowed warm from the heart. After placing me 
comfortably on the sand, he hastened to his boat lying near, to bring 
some restoratives in which sailors have much faith. I was soon 
relieved by his attentions, and desiring to make some return for his 
kindness, inquired to whom I was indebted for assistance, and in what 
manner I could show my gratitude. To this the stranger replied, that 
the action itself brought sufficient reward, since he had been able to 
relieve a fellow creature. Our acquaintance began from this time, and 
I gradually drew from him a history of his past life, which had been 
one of trial and adventure. His narrative was given in our own 
language, which he spoke very intelligibly, having been long 
conversant with our seamen.

“In early life I lost my parents, who resided in one of the trading 
ports of Denmark; and with them perished my fair hopes of ease and 
affluence. When about nineteen years old, my independent spirit, being 
no longer contented to owe a scanty maintenance to my paternal 
relatives, I joined a whaling company, that were fitting out for a 
voyage in the Northern Ocean. My feelings, when I had resolved to bid 
farewell, probably forever, to all the scenes of my childhood, and 
break the ties that bound my youthful heart, to home, friends, and 
country, and to embark in the adventurous and toilsome life of a 
whaler, were melancholy enough and calculated to daunt the heart of 
the bravest; but the desire of independence nerved my courage, and I 
embarked in a whale ship manned by six men, and accompanied by three 
other vessels of larger size. The captain and half the hands had made 
the cruise before with great success, but the rest of us were raw 
recruits, and suffered much from the hardships of our new mode of 
life. We steered directly towards the northwest, intending to put in 
at the Shetland Islands, and wait for the breaking up of the ice at 
the north pole, when the whales are most abundant, following the 
increased flow of the tides. We hoped to encounter many of these 
monsters between these islands and Iceland, where the plan was to 
refit and spend a part of the summer in preparing our freight to take 
home. But how uncertain are human calculations! Our voyage was 
prosperous even beyond our hopes, for some time; we passed the stormy 
isles of Scotland in safety, and rode the blue billows of the 
Atlantic, looking ahead with great anxiety for the objects of our 
cruise. A few days only had elapsed, when some of our experienced 
harpooners saw tokens of one at a distance, and all hands were set to 
make ready. It is impossible to describe the excitement this notice 
produced, in minds so weary of the dullness of inaction, as ours were. 
The enormous animal was now manifest, from the whirlpool he had 
created around him. Our boats did not venture near until his frolic 
was over, and we saw his broad back even with the water. And now the 
skilful seamen with unerring aim darted the harpoon, and away launched 
and roared the whale, making the ocean heave with his throes; but our 
darts were in him, and after he had tried our cable's length several 
times, he was exhausted and became an easy conquest. This seemed a 
glorious achievement to me. I was so completely enraptured with the 
bold and perilous excitement, that I lost all the tender recollections 
of home, and desired only to be a renowned whaler. Our successes 
continued, and we mastered several whales, before we were warned that 
we were coming upon the region of ice. This was indicated by a hoarse 
crashing sound and a wide heaving of the sea, as if some body of 
tremendous dimensions had been thrown into it. Our commander feared we 
had delayed too long, and gave orders to make speedy sail for our 
destined port. For some time we made good headway, and all hearts were 
cheered, when, on the utmost verge of the horizon, we discerned the 
faint outline of land, which we hoped would prove to be the coast of 
Iceland, for which we now steered with all our press of sail. But just 
at this time, while we were making observation in the direction of our 
course, a moving mountain hove in view; at first like a cloud resting 
on the water, but soon the wary eye of the fisherman saw it fraught 
with danger, and with dread. An iceberg! an iceberg! and the panic ran 
through all the ranks, for our course was right in the track of the 
{429} horrific apparition. To recede was impossible, as the wind would 
be against us; our utmost exertions were strained to clear the passage 
in time, for before it heaved a mountain of waters, and behind it 
yawned a devouring gulph. The three hours of intense interest and 
uncertainty which passed, seemed like one moment drawn out to 
eternity. But we did clear its track so as to receive only a slight 
shock. As soon as the danger was over a reaction followed, almost too 
great for human nature; our nerves from being strained to their utmost 
tension, were suddenly relaxed to the weakness of infancy; our first 
desires were for stimulants which threw us into wild excitement; and 
our ships exhibited one scene of revelry and recklessness. In this 
situation we rushed unconsciously on a reef of rocks from which escape 
seemed impossible. We were already in pitchy darkness, driving among 
the breakers, which we heard with still greater force roaring ahead. 
It evidently appeared that we had forsaken our passage, and were on an 
unknown coast where shipwreck and death awaited us. This was the 
situation of our ship; we could not hear a sound from the other 
vessels amidst the roar of waters, but we supposed that they also were 
beating on rocks from which it was impossible to move them. Daylight 
only was necessary to confirm our despair, and its first rays shone on 
a scene of horror too great for utterance. We beheld our ship just in 
the jaws of destruction, while the other three had cleared a passage, 
and were free of the rocks, but dared not come within the force of the 
breakers. In vain we held out the signal of distress; in vain they 
lowered their boats and attempted to stem the whirlpool. Instant 
destruction would have been their fate. I saw my companions clinging 
to the broken masts and spars; but I made no effort: I sunk under the 
impending weight of that power whose bounty and mercy I had forgotten 
or despised in my days of prosperity, and whose incensed justice and 
vengeance I was now to feel.

“In this state of mind, I rose up and looked calmly upon the raging 
deep, feeling that the ‘sweat of its great agony’ was tranquillity to 
the vortex that awaited me. One after another of the men were carried 
off, as the ship split to pieces, but I remained, with two others, on 
a part of the bows, which seemed rivetted to the rock. I thought a few 
hours at most must terminate our existence, as the waves were gaining 
upon our remaining planks. My fellow sufferers clung to life with the 
tenacity of drowning men; they ascended our quivering mast, to see if 
any human habitations were discernible on this unknown coast, but 
nothing was visible but a girdle of steep rocks. While they were 
straining their vision, and in the wildness of desperation piercing 
the loud clamor of the waters with their shrieks, three little specks 
appeared in the direction of the shore; they gradually came nearer, 
until we perceived they were fishing-boats, each guided by two men. My 
companions besought me to unite with them in making every possible 
signal of distress. Our signals were understood, and we soon saw that 
their object was to rescue us, for they held out a token of 
recognition, and rowed fast until they came within the whirl of the 
tides, which obliged them to fall back and try another channel. We 
could distinctly see that they were baffled in every attempt and 
almost ready to abandon us; when one of their number, with skill 
nearly superhuman, darted his boat between two pointed rocks, in so 
narrow a passage that we expected to see it dashed to pieces every 
moment. But his fearless courage bore him through—the next instant he 
sprung on our shattered planks, drew a few hurried breaths, and then 
informed us, in the dialect of our own land, that they had seen our 
signals while out fishing, and had come to our relief; but at the same 
time told us of the danger we must run of being dashed to pieces, in 
attempting to steer through the breakers. ‘But,’ said he, ‘we will 
trust in God and do our best; keep up a good heart, I will lash you 
firmly to the boat, and if you will put your hope in the Almighty 
Deliverer in time of peril, I will try to save you.’ He then looked 
fixedly in our faces to see whether we agreed to the conditions; my 
companions without hesitation answered, that they would venture; death 
was inevitable if they remained. But I, though fearing death most of 
all, could not resolve to feign, what I did not feel, _trust and hope 
in God_; on the contrary, I felt that his every attribute was justly 
arrayed against me. In anguish, I exclaimed, ‘leave me to perish, God 
is my enemy—I shall sink from this gulph into a lower.’ ‘Sinful dying 
man,’ he said, ‘would you set bounds to the mercy of the Lord? Cry, 
rather, Lord, save me or I perish, for now is the accepted time, this 
is the day of salvation.’ I caught the inspiration that glowed on his 
tongue—I seized his hand, saying, ‘I am ready.’ In a few moments his 
little boat was amidst the boiling surge, sometimes lost in the 
tumultuous waves, but the mariner grasped the helm with a firm hand, 
and shot through the jagged rocks with the rapidity of lightning. Our 
deliverance was hailed by the other boats with a shout of joy, which 
was returned by us with all our remaining strength. Our kind 
deliverers perceiving our bodies and spirits exhausted by the combined 
suffering of fear, cold, and hunger, cheered us with the warmest 
expressions of sympathy, and the hope of speedily enjoying all the 
comforts of their hospitable homes. They steered their boats into a 
little sheltered bay surrounded by overhanging hills. As we approached 
the shore, they informed us that it was the coast of their own dear 
Iceland, whose snow-capt mountains and green valleys, they would not 
exchange for any other spot in creation.

“As I breathed its pure atmosphere, and pressed the young verdure 
which was just appearing from beneath the mantle of snow, which had 
shrouded it for many long months, I felt as if I were treading the 
unsullied shores of a better world. Our good fisherman conducted our 
failing footsteps over the wild and slippery rocks into a beautiful 
valley. The frosts which had locked up nature during the long winter, 
had yielded to the influence of the returning sun, which sent the 
rejoicing current through the veins of every living thing. The stunted 
trees put on their garniture of green in token of joy, the lichens and 
mosses brightened in the genial ray, and all blended in a smile of 
love and gratitude. We reached the cottage of the fisherman, sheltered 
by overhanging rocks on one side, from the icy winds; and were 
welcomed by its inmates with the looks and offices of kindness. They 
consisted of a mother and three children. The countenance of the 
former, notwithstanding the national peculiarity of features, was 
pleasing, expressing both intelligence and benevolence. {430} The 
oldest of her offspring was a girl of extremely prepossessing 
appearance. You would not, perhaps, in your country, call her 
beautiful, for she had not the slender figure and the delicate 
features which you associate with the idea of female loveliness; but 
the laughing blue eye lighted up with its beam, a face which seemed 
the mirror of her heart; her cheek was now mantled with rosy smiles, 
now moistened with the tear of sympathy or affection. Her hair was 
light, scarcely tinged with the sunny glow, but it was in unison with 
her fair complexion, and curled slightly around a neck of transparent 
whiteness. Her age might be fourteen, but there was so much childish 
gaiety in her manner, that you would have supposed her much younger. 
Her brothers were manly, noble looking boys, several years younger 
than herself. Never shall I forget the compassionate look with which 
the matron placed a seat near the warm fire, while with gentle voice 
she chid the curiosity of her little group, saying, ‘the stranger is 
cold and tired, and we must do all we can to make him comfortable.’ 
They instantly retreated—but the two oldest hung over her shoulder, 
earnestly whispering in her ear. I guessed that I was the subject of 
their discourse, by hearing the mother reply in a low voice—‘Yes  
Ulea, you may run and milk Minny, and Korner, get the potatoes ready, 
and the fish too. By the time you return, he will be dry and warm, I 
hope.’ With delighted countenances, they shot out of the cottage, and 
the good woman busied herself in mending up the fire, and spreading a 
couch of soft skins, on which she invited me to rest my weary limbs. I 
attempted to speak my gratitude to heaven, and to her, but the words 
were stifled by the strength of my feelings, which gushed out in 
tears. She seemed to understand the nature of my emotions. Her tone 
was soothing and encouraging. ‘God is good,’ she said, ‘and not only 
saves us in perils, but provides a table in the desert. He puts it in 
the hearts of strangers to show kindness, and makes us feel that we 
are all brethren, the children of his care and bounty.’ ‘How,’ said I; 
‘in this remote spot of creation, have you learned these heavenly 
precepts?’ ‘Our lives,’ she answered, ‘are crowned with blessings, and 
the greatest of all is, that of our dear missionary, who guides our 
erring footsteps in the way of duty, as he points our hopes to a 
brighter world.’ While she was speaking, Ulea returned, exclaiming, 
‘Ah! mother, Minny seemed to know how much haste I was in, for she 
stood right still; and here is Korner too, with the fish and 
potatoes—let us set the dinner for the poor stranger.’ In a few 
moments the repast was on the table, and I had scarcely taken the seat 
provided, before my young hosts pressed me to eat of one and another 
dish, telling me that ‘this was the richest milk because Minny gave 
it, and these fish were taken by Korner's green rocks.’ I had scarcely 
finished a hearty meal, when Holstein (for that was the name of the 
good fisherman) came in, attended by our other deliverers and my two 
comrades, who having received their hospitality, came with them to 
consult whether any attempt could be made to save what remained on the 
wreck. Holstein thought it probable no vestige of the wreck itself was 
left. But the other fishermen said it might have drifted over the 
rocks, and still contain something valuable. Under this possibility we 
followed our conductors to the scene of destruction; but we found it 
as Holstein had predicted; only a scattered plank here and there 
marked the place of ruin. Emotions of awe and gratitude filled my 
soul, when I beheld the vortex from which heaven had rescued us; but 
my fellow sufferers evinced mortification and disappointment, when 
their last hope was extinguished, and they saw themselves thrown on 
the charity of strangers, even for a change of raiment. This was 
particularly observable in the manner of Osman, a young adventurer, 
who had joined our expedition from a romantic turn for novelty and 
excitement. He was a singular compound of opposite qualities; 
sometimes exhibiting the hardihood and bold daring of his father, who 
was a Dane, then all the impassioned sentiment joined with the 
frivolity of an Italian, which he was on his mother's side. Since 
there remained nothing more to feed this adventurous excitement, his 
mind seemed to dwell on the loss he had sustained, particularly that 
of his wardrobe and musical instruments. Notwithstanding the occasion, 
which was fit to call forth only feelings of a solemn nature, I could 
not help being interested for him, when I heard him bewailing the loss 
of these resources of dress and music.

“His person was very striking, calculated to engage the attention of a 
stranger. A tall and graceful figure was united to a face of perfect 
symmetry, over which the light of full dark hazel eyes shone in 
alternate fire and softness. Until this time I had only observed him 
under passions of another kind, and was astonished at the pathetic 
strains in which he mourned over the extinction of his prospects. The 
fishermen endeavored in their sincere but homely language to comfort 
him, proffering the only help in their power—a share in their fishing 
spoils and a passage to Denmark, when another whaling expedition 
should visit the island. His youth and apparent sensibility interested 
us all in his favor, and induced us to do all in our power to promote 
his happiness.

“It was concluded that we should each remain with our hosts, and 
assist in such labor as we were able to do, in making preparations for 
a fishing cruise. I became more and more attached to the dear members 
of Holstein's family. Their daily avocations were simple and homely, 
but their minds were pure and elevated, deriving their highest 
enjoyments from the contemplation of a better world.

“Ulea engaged much of my interest. She was at that most pleasing of 
all ages, when we see the simplicity of childhood blended with the 
thoughts and reflections of a riper age; when the heedless word is 
followed by the conscious blush, and we love while we rebuke the 
tongue that speaks all the heart feels.

“Time glided pleasantly away, even in Iceland. We spent the evenings 
and inclement days in cheerful recreation, or in reading; which is a 
great, and almost universal resource among these Icelanders: it is 
thus they pass their long wintry nights—one ‘making vocal the poetic, 
or historic page.’

“Osman became our constant and welcome visitor. He constructed an 
instrument, on which he made very sweet music; and frequently sung the 
sentimental airs of his country. This, joined to his talent for wild 
and impassioned recitation, charmed the listening ear of all, but it 
vibrated to the heart of Ulea. Her delight did not show itself like 
her brother's in noisy ecstacy, but {431} her eyes filled with tears, 
and her heart throbbed with silent emotion. ‘Mother,’ she would say, 
‘Osman's singing reminds me of what I have heard about the harps of 
the angels.’ ‘It is pretty, my child, but I had rather hear the 
fisherman's welcome home.’ ‘That, mother, is because our father sings 
it. But when Osman sings I think of a happier world than this.’ ‘You 
are mistaken, my dear, if you think Osman's songs have any thing good 
in them. I have listened to them, and I think they are only calculated 
to make people discontented with what God has allotted them, and to 
fill the mind with foolish fancies.’ ‘Ah! mother, how can you wonder 
that his songs are melancholy, when he is far away from all that he 
loves, and that he has nothing to console him for the beautiful world 
he has left! You know he loves to climb our steep rocks, to see the 
sun go down behind Hecla. I did not know how grand our volcano could 
look, until he pointed to it, as the sun's last beams rested on its 
snowy scalp. Then he told me of Italy his country, where the mountains 
are crowned with snow, while flowers blow in the valleys—birds sing in 
the branches of trees, which bear golden fruit—the air is filled with 
the fragrance that breathes from the vineyards, and the bowers that 
never wither. Then there are temples in every grove, and the ruins of 
ancient cities, which people come to visit from every country. Do you 
wonder that he was happy in that lovely land?’ ‘No doubt, the 
inhabitants have much to be thankful for; but not more than we have. 
Would you, Ulea, be willing to exchange our own loved island for 
Italy, with all its charms?’ ‘No, dear mother, but I only wish Iceland 
was like it.’ ‘This is a vain, and I fear a sinful thought, and I 
shall tell Osman, when you walk with him again, to talk of something 
more profitable.’

“The fishermen were generally occupied in building or refitting boats 
for the approaching expedition, in which they were assisted by our 
hardy comrade, while Osman and myself were left to occupy or amuse 
ourselves as we chose. I remarked the gradual influence he was gaining 
over the unconscious heart of the young Ulea. I mourned over it, for I 
feared that he was incapable of a deep and lasting attachment. I saw 
that her family were blinded by their artless confidence, to the 
insidious poison that threatened to destroy their happiness. I could 
not bear to be the first to interrupt their peace. What should I do? I 
revolved in my mind the whole affair, and at last resolved that I 
would watch the conduct of Osman narrowly, and without being 
suspected, penetrate the secret of his soul. With this design I 
mingled more frequently in his pleasures, joined the little circle 
when he descanted on the scenes of his early life—beautiful Italy! 
whose charms were always associated with female loveliness, whose 
atmosphere breathed of love. This was the theme of his glowing 
narration, and his dark eye seemed to catch inspiration from the 
kindling blush of Ulea. After he had sung one or two of the most 
melting Italian airs, I was roused from my ruminating fit by Ulea's 
remarking—‘Steinkoff has grown very silent of late. Osman's songs, I 
believe, make him sad.’ ‘Quite otherwise,’ I replied, ‘and if he will 
listen, I will sing a song of the olden time myself.’ They exclaimed 
in one voice, ‘he will, he shall!’ ‘No need for compulsion,’ he said, 
‘I will hear it with pleasure.’ Without prelude I began—

  Soon as the wintry blasts were o'er,
    The maiden roamed the vale,
  To hear the cheerful robin pour
    His sweet notes on the gale.

  Then he, the faithless-hearted knight,
    Told of his own lov'd bowers,
  Where birds sing in the chequered light
    To the bright opening flowers.

  And when the light of parting day
    Gleamed on the distant hill,
  She climbed the steep and rocky way,
    Or lingered by the rill.

  Then he, the faithless-hearted knight,
    Sung of that region bland,
  Where sunset paints with golden light,
    The skies, the sea, the land.

  When down the long, long night let fall
    Her curtains o'er the earth,
  And nature lay in silence, all
    Beneath the pall of death.

  Then he, the faithless-hearted knight,
    Spoke of his country fair—
  How the moon walks heaven in silv'ry light,
    And the breath of flowers, is the air.

  And he whispered the tale of love in her ear,
    And the maiden, believing his truth,
  Left the home of her childhood, but sorrow and care
    Fled with her, and faded her youth.

I kept my eye on Osman: I wished to read his conscience. As the strain 
proceeded, his glance met mine; he saw my suspicions. Conscious that 
they were well founded, his countenance fell—he bit his lip in anger, 
and revenge fired his blood. Far differently was the innocent heart of 
Ulea wrought on. ‘I could weep,’ she said ‘for the poor maiden. Who 
would have thought the fair spoken knight would be false? But I hope 
it is only a tale of the olden time, fair and false as the lover of 
whom it sings.’ ‘It may be so,’ I said; ‘but let it serve as a warning 
to young maidens, how they listen to tales of love.’ Osman left the 
cottage while I was speaking. I saw the dark cloud lower on his brow, 
and I resolved to bring him to an acknowledgment of his passion, while 
he was under the influence of resentment—an unguarded hour with us 
all. I found him walking hurriedly, and muttering the words, ‘Villain, 
he shall pay dearly for this insult.’ I accosted him in a calm voice. 
I told him that my design was not to irritate or insult him, but to 
warn him in time of the danger of a passion which was growing upon 
himself daily, while he could not be insensible to the influence he 
was gaining over the affections of an unsuspecting girl. ‘And how does 
it concern you, cold hearted wretch,’ he exclaimed, ‘that I have 
excited the sympathy, the love of the only amiable being on this 
desolate island? Know, that love scorns the interference of such 
meddlers. It is enough that we can trust each other, and woe be to him 
who gives his counsel unadvisedly.’ With these last words he raised 
his arm in menace. ‘Osman,’ I replied, ‘you know I am superior to your 
threats. Unless you openly declare your love to the parents of Ulea, I 
shall consider myself bound to guard her from your arts.’ ‘Beware,’ he 
exclaimed, ‘how you injure me with her, or this dagger drinks your 
blood.’ Saying this, he strode away, and I returned with a heavy heart 
to the cottage. Not that I was personally afraid of Osman; I never 
feared the arm of man: but I had a {432} trying office to perform—to 
destroy the confidence of an amiable family, to show them that they 
had cherished in their bosoms a serpent, instead of a friend. It was 
evident that Osman wished to conceal his passion even from her who was 
the object of it. I determined before another interview, to endeavor 
to awaken her to the impropriety and danger of giving any 
encouragement to his attentions. The following day he did not come as 
usual. ‘How long the day seems,’ said Korner, ‘when Osman does not 
come. Ulea thinks so too, for she has not spoken a word to-day.’ ‘I 
have been thinking,’ replied Ulea, ‘that he looked last night as if 
something disturbed him. Did you observe him, Steinkoff? I hope 
nothing has happened.’ I said in a low tone, ‘Nothing, I believe. 
Suppose we walk: perhaps we may meet him.’ She sprang forward, 
animated with the hope; and we followed the winding path by which he 
generally came. I proposed that we should see which of us could first 
attain the top of a picturesque eminence which hung over our path, and 
from which there was a fine view of the neighboring cottages. She 
readily consented to make the trial, and arriving at the goal first, 
exultingly chid my loitering steps. She little knew that my real 
motive was to obtain a private interview with her. I began by saying, 
‘Osman's gait is fleeter than mine, Ulea.’ ‘O yes,’ she said, ‘I shall 
never forget the charming evening we came here together;’ and a bright 
smile irradiated her features. ‘His society is fascinating, but it may 
be dangerous to you. Already he has given you a distaste to the 
pleasures of your childhood, and he has presented in their place the 
attractions of an ideal world. Beware how you lend your pure and 
unsuspecting ear to the seductive charms of his conversation. He has 
confessed to me that he loves you; that you are the only being in this 
island that has power to interest him.’ ‘Oh! Steinkoff, ought you not 
rather to pity than to blame him? He has told me, that were it not for 
me, he would end his miserable existence—that every one else looks 
coldly on him. How can I think unkindly of him? He would protect me 
against all harm. When I told him of my cousin Ormond, who would not 
go into the far Greenland seas, until my father promised him that his 
little pet Ulea, should be his when he returned, he only said, May 
that day be distant, for then you will not care for Osman. And he 
asked me if I should be quite happy when I should be Ormond's wife.’ 
‘And what was your answer?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I did not answer at 
all; because I have not seen him for a long time, and he seems like a 
stranger to me—I wish not to think of it now.’ I could no longer 
repress my indignation. ‘My dear girl,’ I said, ‘trust Osman no 
further, he will destroy your peace, your innocence. I know him well; 
for present gratification he would not scruple to involve your whole 
family in wretchedness. I say this, because I will not see impending 
ruin coming on the child of my benefactor, if I can avert it.’ I saw 
Ulea start, while surprise and terror were painted on her countenance. 
I turned to ascertain the cause, and beheld Osman within a few steps 
of me. ‘Wretch,’ he cried, ‘have you dared to betray me? Revenge has 
nerved my arm, and my sword shall drink your blood, even were the form 
I love best between us.’ At that instant he rushed upon me; but fury 
blinded his sight, and his weapon missed its aim. This redoubled his 
wrath; he prepared for another thrust, and my superior muscular 
strength could not have saved me from the mortal stroke, had not Ulea 
in a phrenzy of despair, thrown herself between us, and received in 
her side the stab that was intended for me. Time can never efface the 
horror of that moment, when I saw her fall under the murderous stroke, 
and the red current pouring from her side. ‘Monster!’ I exclaimed, 
‘you have verified your threat. Would to God, this were my heart's 
blood instead of hers!’

“I raised the lifeless girl—I pressed her to my bosom. In the agony of 
my soul I entreated her to speak—to say that she forgave me. But all 
was silent, save the ebbing pulsations of her heart. Osman had fled 
the moment he saw what he had done. How should I obtain assistance, or 
even get a little water to revive her, if life was not extinct? 
Necessity is fruitful of invention—I lifted the pale form, and 
hastened to a near rivulet—I bathed her temples—I staunched the blood 
with the cooling current, and bound the wound with my handkerchief. I 
heard a faint sigh—I thought it was her last. Imagine my joy, when she 
opened her eyes, awaking as from a long sleep. I whispered, ‘Speak 
not, it will exhaust you; I will carry you home—you will soon be 
better.’ She cast her eyes towards heaven, to signify that her home 
would soon be there. I was advancing with a quick step, when I heard 
the voices of the children in search of us. They stopt their merry 
gambols, and stood in amazement. I broke the silence by telling them 
that Ulea was very ill, that they must run home and tell their mother 
not to be alarmed, but endeavor as soon as possible to prepare a 
cordial and a bed, for I should reach the cottage in a few minutes. I 
hoped this would be some preparation for what was to follow. The 
mother met me at the door, with a look of anguish and of doubt. I 
motioned to her to be silent, while we administered some of the 
restorative: we then laid Ulea on the bed. I watched by her a few 
moments, and seeing she had fallen into a gentle sleep, I took the 
hand of the agonized mother, whose suppressed sobs shook her whole 
frame. I supported her to a retired spot, where the burst of her grief 
might be unheard by the languid sufferer.

“I paused to gather firmness for the disclosure; I lifted up my heart 
to heaven for assistance. She seized my hand convulsively—‘Tell me 
all—but my heart anticipates it before you speak. Oh Steinkoff! it is 
the hand of man, yes, of a trusted villain, that has dealt the blow. 
My soul has labored under a mysterious weight this day—unseen but 
impending evil hung over me. Oh my God! prepare me to drink the bitter 
cup, and to trust in thee though thou slay me.’

“I related all—my suspicions of Osman—my conversation with him, the 
threat he had given, and then all the incidents of the sad 
catastrophe. ‘Oh my child!’ exclaimed the transported parent, ‘art 
thou then guiltless? has he not laid mine honor in the dust? If not, I 
can bear all.’ I concluded by encouraging her to hope the wound was 
not mortal, and that speedy medical aid might relieve it.

“Korner was immediately despatched for his father, and the nearest 
physician. We then returned to Ulea, whom we found still sleeping, but 
uneasily. Her mother kissed her forehead; she waked smiling, and said, 
‘Oh, mother! are you here? I thought I was passing through a dark 
valley to the bright world you have so {433} often described to us. 
And I was not at all afraid, for a light guided me safely through. Do 
you know what it was? _I_ do—it was whispered to my heart—it was the 
Saviour's presence! Mother, you must not weep; I rejoice, because I 
feel that it will be so. O! yes, I shall soon join the song of the 
angels—much sweeter than that I used to dream of. Mother, my heart is 
sinful—I loved to hear of the beauty and love of this world; but that 
is all passed away now. I hope God will forgive him who wished to lead 
me astray—and you, Steinkoff, my guardian angel on earth, with what 
joy shall I welcome you there.’ She saw my emotion—it excited her own: 
the effect I dreaded followed—the blood gushed out from her side, and 
she swooned away.

“Her father arrived, attended by the doctor; the last with heartfelt 
sorrow assured us, that all attempts to revive her were useless—that 
the slumber of death was even now on the gentle girl. The father, in 
his desolation of soul, sought the throne of mercy, and we united in 
committing the spirit of the beloved one to the Shepherd of Israel, 
and prayed that ‘his rod and staff might comfort and support her.’ Her 
freed spirit winged its flight, just as the sun's last rays gleamed on 
her pillow, which all with uplifted hearts blessed as the omen of that 
spirit's future happiness.

“We sorrowed, but not as those without hope. What saith the scripture? 
‘The hope of the righteous is as an anchor of the soul, sure and 
steadfast.’

“I assisted in depositing the beautiful clay in the earth, and planted 
over it the evergreen fir. It was a dear spot to me, and as long as I 
remained on the island I resorted to it, to commune with the image of 
her who was once the animating spirit of all that surrounded me.

“Soon after her death, an opportunity offered for my return to 
Denmark. I embraced it, promising, if circumstances should ever induce 
me to visit Iceland, that I would seek the hospitable mansion of 
Holstein. I never saw Osman again, but I was told by the owner of a 
boat on the coast, that he had been seen on the night of the fatal 
encounter, to leap into a fishing craft lying on the beach, and 
disappear.

“Thus I have given you some particulars connected with my past life. I 
have rushed into busy scenes—I have tried to forget my own sorrows in 
relieving the distresses of others—but in vain; the image of that 
bleeding form haunts me. I long for the hour when the kind hand of 
death shall blot the recollection forever from my memory.”

V.




THE LAUGHING GIRL.

Lines suggested on viewing a Painting of a Female laughing.


  Oh, let me laugh out, till my eye-lashes glisten
  With tear-drops, which joy, like affliction, will bring;
  Be not vex'd my dear Hal—I _must_ laugh, you may listen,
  And count the shrill echoes that cheerily ring.
          Hark! to the morning gun,
          Hail to thee! rising sun,
    Dances my heart with exuberant glee.
          The sky-lark from earth
          Flies to heaven with its mirth,
    But it cannot ha! ha! and be merry like me.

  Mine is no half-suppressed drawing-room titter,
  Strangled before it escapes from the lips;
  Nor the sardonic smile, than wormwood more bitter,
  Which might wither those flowers the honey-bee sips;
          But the fountain of joy,
          Without care or alloy,
    Springs in my bosom—refreshens my heart.
          Forest and river, then,
          Echo my laugh again—
    Never may gladness from Julia depart.

  Look not so grave, gentle Henry, at me,
  As if you would say all my griefs are to come;
  No gloom in the morn of my life can I see,
  And my laugh will scare sorrow away from our home.
          Pleasure unending
          Our footsteps attending,
    One brilliant May day through our lifetime shall last.
          Time shall not wear us,
          No trouble come near us,
    But the future be gilded by light from the past.

  Now laugh, for my sake, dearest Hal, and the kiss
  Which you sued for, I'll give, if you cordially roar.
  Well done!—never barter a pleasure like this,
  Were a crown to be purchased by laughing no more.
          In contentment and health,
          Tho' untrammel'd by wealth,
    True bliss from the store of our hearts we may draw.
          Let us laugh as we glide
          O'er mortality's tide,
    And cheer our last days with a rattling ha! ha!

E. M.




COURT DAY.


To a northern traveller in the southern states, there is scarcely any 
thing more novel or entertaining than a _Court Day_. Familiar as the 
occasion and its scenes may be to a Virginian, there is something in 
the whole aspect of this monthly festival which rivets the attention 
of a stranger. And I have not been without my suspicions that the 
influence of this custom and its adjuncts upon society, manners, and 
character has never been appreciated. In our northern country there 
are no occasions upon which the whole population of a county, even as 
represented by its leading freeholders, convenes at one spot. County 
courts are attended by functionaries, litigants, and very near 
neighbors, but not, as in the south, by the gentry and yeomanry of a 
whole district.

The consequence of such an arrangement as that of the south is, that 
all the landholders and gentlemen of a neighborhood become mutually 
acquainted, and lay the foundation for friendly and hospitable 
reciprocities, which may be continued through life. The whole texture 
of society has a tincture from this intermingling. It is undeniable, 
that while aristocratic family pride, and chivalrous elevation of 
bearing, exist no where in greater vigor than at the south, there is a 
freer intercourse on the court-house-lawn between the richest planter 
and the honest poor man, than is ever witnessed in the manufacturing 
districts of Connecticut or Pennsylvania. This constant mingling of 
the aged with the young, tends to keep up national characteristics and 
to perpetuate {434} ancient habits and sentiments. And let an 
old-fashioned man be allowed to whisper in the ear of this innovating 
age that all is not antiquated which is old, and that the hoary stream 
of tradition brings down with it not only _prejudices_, but wholesome 
_predilections_.

To enjoy a genuine and unsophisticated Court Day, one must select a 
county in the heart of the real Old Dominion, where emigration has not 
too much thinned the population, nor foreign settlers made the mass 
heterogeneous. It should be moreover in a region where the increase of 
villages has not modified the ancient character of the large estates.

I have in my mind's eye the very _beau ideal_ of an old Virginia Court 
House. The edifice itself is neither large nor lofty, but 
“time-honored” and solid, and embosomed in a grove of locusts, which 
at the May Court fill the air with their balsamic odor. The lawn, 
which surrounds the house and grove, has not the deep green of our 
northern commons, nor is the earth so perfectly hidden by matted 
grass, but it is sufficiently soft and fresh to tempt many a group of 
loungers. But the scene becomes more lively as the day advances. 
Stalls and booths are rapidly erecting, and wagons of vendibles are 
disposed in rows; no doubt by pertinacious wanderers from New England. 
The porches of two or three plain-looking stores are filling rapidly 
with visiters who are arriving every moment. A northerner is amazed at 
the number of equestrians, and the ease and non-chalance with which 
even little boys manage their spirited horses. I must pass a thousand 
traits which in the hands of Irving or Kennedy would afford a tempting 
picture. The cordiality of greeting with which Virginians meet is 
delightful; and from ample trial I am able to pronounce it sincere and 
available. This heartiness is encouraged by such monthly gatherings. 
It is vain to object to this vehement shaking of hands and emphatic 
compellation. As my old pastor used to say, “The form without the 
power is better than neither;” and as Solomon says, “He that is a 
friend must _show_ himself friendly.” By the time of dinner, a 
thousand morsels of business, postponed during the month, have been 
transacted; a thousand items of precious little family news have been 
exchanged; hundreds of clusters, under porch or tree, have discoursed 
of the reigning political topic; or mayhap, the mighty mass has all 
been moved toward some little eminence to hear the eloquence of a 
genuine “stump-speech.”

From my very heart, northman as I am, I admire and affect this good 
remnant of olden time. May no revised code ever disannul it, no 
sapient convention ever parcel out your counties into little municipal 
fragments!

I state it as an opinion very deliberately formed in my own mind, 
after some opportunities of comparison, that the elocution of southern 
men is more easy, more graceful, more natural, more vivacious, and 
more pathetic, than that of their northern compatriots. This is fairly 
to be traced to the influence of such occasions as the one which I 
describe. The moveable and excitable throng of a court-house-green is 
precisely the audience which awakens and inspires the orator. The tide 
of feeling comes back upon him at every happy appeal, and redoubles 
his energy. It was the Athenian _populace_, who “spent their time in 
nothing else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing,” (what a 
picture of a court day!) which made the Athenian _orator_. The 
practice of addresses to the literal and real constituency by every 
aspirant, brings into trial, very early, all the eloquence of the 
state. The manner of the best models is in some small degree 
perpetuated. The mere listening to such men as Patrick Henry, and John 
Randolph, not to mention the living, affords a school of eloquence to 
the youth of the country, and cultivates the taste of the people. And 
then in every little group upon yonder green, there is an ardor of 
conversation on political topics, which, as feeling rises, approaches 
to the character of harangue. I have never heard the impassioned 
conversation of southern men, in a tavern or by the way-side, without 
observing the natural tendency to a higher tone of elocution than 
would be tolerated in a similar circle at the north.

Whether the practice of “whittling,” during conversation, has any 
connexion with ease of utterance, is a question too abstruse for my 
present cursory investigation. The celebrated doctor Rush used 
jocosely to characterize some of his southern students, by their 
“_R-phobia et Cacoethes secandi_.” It may be noted as a token of the 
“free-and-easy” manner of certain courts, that we have seen advocates 
whittling during a defence, and judges whittling on the bench.

But finally, and most seriously, I trust no fanaticism of a faction at 
the north will ever so far prevail against the good sense and sound 
feeling of the community, as to interrupt the genial flow of 
hospitality, with which in every _individual_ case I have known, 
northern men have been received by the gentlemen of old Virginia.

A NORTHERN MAN.




A BIRTH-DAY TRIBUTE.

  When the dark shadows of approaching ills
    Have fallen on the spirit, and depressed
  Its proudest energies—when fear instils
    Its dastard maxims in the noblest breast,
    Preventing action and denying rest—
  When, undefined in distance, dimly glow
    Spectres of evil, till, by fancy drest,
  The illusive phantoms on the vision grow,
  And giants seem to wield the impending blow—

  When, wearied by uncertainty, we pray
    For what we fear, and deprecate suspense—
  When gleams of hope are painful as a ray
    Flashing at midnight from a light intense,
    And leave the darkness of despair more dense—
  When pleasure's cup is tasteless, and we seek
    No more the brief relief we once drew thence—
  When comes no sabbath in the lingering week
  Harassing thought to end, or coming bliss to speak—

  When even “desire it faileth,” and the voice
    Of softest music irritates the ear—
  When the glad sun makes fields and groves rejoice,
    While to our eyes the prospect still is drear—
    When the mild southern gale, that used to cheer
  With its bland fragrance, while it cooled the brow
    With lingering fever wasted, pained and sere,
  Has lost its power to charm—'tis then we know
  The worth of woman's love, and what to her we owe.    {435}

  Her holy love is like the gentle rill,
    Born where a fountain's waters bright are playing,
  (As from the birth of time they have, and will
    Till time shall end,) in noiseless beauty straying
    O'er golden sands, through verdant meads, and staying,
  To irrigate and freshen, as it flows
    Where man's proud works around in ruin lying,
  Proclaim the triumph of his many foes,
  Lust, passion, jealousy, and all the fiends he knows.

  And worse than these his breast will enter in,
    And each in turn his labored love control.
  The fond idolatry, which is not sin
    When woman loves—that yielding of the soul,
    Which hardly asks return, but gives the whole,
  He knoweth not; but, in the folds of pride,
    He seeks his gloomy spirit to enroll:
  Then her, who loves him most, he'll basely chide,
  And with his bitter words her constancy deride.

  Aye! thus infatuate, he will delight
    To lord it o'er the fond, devoted one
  Who breathes, but lives not, absent from his sight,
    If, for a moment, sorrow is unknown,
    Ambition gratified, or foes o'erthrown.
  But when his soul is darkened with alarms,
    And piercing thorns are in his pathway strown,
  He yields a willing pris'ner to her charms,
  And seeks to rest his head where love her bosom warms.

  But as the savage, when his eyes behold
    The bright creations of the artist's mind,
  Where light and shade the loveliest forms enfold,
    And chastened taste with nature's lore is joined,
    Pauses in ecstacy; yet seeks to find
  What hath his untaught spirit so subdued,
    But all in vain; so man, to love resigned,
  Can comprehend not what hath so endued
  Fair woman with the power to soothe his nature rude.

  He gazeth on the rill that is her love,
    But cannot pierce the bower of modesty
  Where roses, and where lilies twine above
    Its fount, and load the air with fragrancy.
    He hears its voice of heavenly melody;
  He sees, above, the bow of beauty spanned;
    He drinks; the draught has power his soul to free
  From all its ills; he feels his heart expand;
  He bears a charmed life; he walks on Eden land.

  Creature of impulse! but of impulse trained
    To do the bidding of a gentle heart,
  What man by years of study hath not gained,
    Thy spirit's teaching doth to thee impart.
    To him the unknown, to thee the easy art,
  To sway his reason and control his will;
    And when the unbidden gusts of passion start,
  To lay the whirlwind and bid all be still,
  And Peace, the vacant throne of Anarchy, to fill.

       *       *       *       *       *

  My cherished one! this tributary lay
    Upon thy natal morn thy husband brings;
  The gathered thoughts of many a weary day.
    Weary, save that my soul, on Fancy's wings,
    Borne as a bird that towards its eyrie springs,
  Flew where was thine to hold communion sweet:
    Save that each blissful memory, that clings
  Around my heart, would, as a dream, repeat
  Unnumbered vanished hours, with love and joy replete.

  As, when the orb that makes the day, declines,
    The twilight hour prolongs its cheering reign,
  My sun (thy love) through memory's twilight shines,
    Till its fair morning breaks on me again.
    Then shall my song resume in bolder strain
  The praises of thy sex, while I behold
    The loveliness, whose image I retain
  Within my heart—then shall my arms enfold
  Her who hath been to me, more than my lay hath told.




MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT POETRY.


Ever since I could write my name, I have been troubled with a disease 
which is spreading alarmingly in this our day and generation—I mean 
_Cacoethes Scribendi_; and the best antidote I have ever been able to 
discover for it, I received lately from the “Literary Messenger”—the 
rejection of my articles. At that time I imagined myself perfectly 
cured; but, unlike some other diseases, this can be had more than 
once, and the man who could invent some vaccinating process to prevent 
it, would deserve more gratitude from the present generation than the 
discoverer of vaccination against small pox.

I remember distinctly my first attempt at poetry. I was quietly 
resting under the shade of a stately elm, one bright summer day, 
turning over the leaves of a favorite author, and listening to the 
merry carols of a mock-bird that had perched on a thorn just before 
me. There was a beautiful lawn gently declining from the knoll where I 
lay, to the river's edge, green with luxuriant long grass, 
interspersed with the simple lily of the valley. There seemed to be a 
general thanksgiving of nature, and every thing tended to inspire my 
juvenile muse. After sundry bitings of the nails, and scratchings of 
the head,[1] I succeeded in pencilling on a blank leaf of the “Lady of 
the Lake,” lines “To a Mocking Bird.” No sooner had the fever of 
composition resolved itself into three stanzas, than the mock-bird, 
the green elms and humming waters, lost all their enchantment, and I 
hurried home to copy my verses and send them to the printing-office. I 
selected the whitest sheet of gilt-edged paper I had, made a fine nib 
to my pen, and soon finished a neat copy, which was forthwith 
deposited in the office of a respectable hebdomadal. Publication day 
came, and so did the carrier. Of all ugly boys, I used to think that 
carrier was the ugliest; but when he handed me the paper that I 
doubted not contained the first effort of unfledged genius, I thought 
he had the finest face and most waggish look I had ever seen—and in 
good truth, I never was so glad to see the fellow in my life. 
Wonderful metamorphosis! thought I, eagerly snatching the paper from 
him. But judge, oh! gentle reader, of my surprise and mortification, 
at not finding my cherished little poem either in the poet's corner, 
or even among the advertisements. The phiz of the carrier changed to 
its accustomed ugliness as if by magic, and, as he passed out of the 
door, he cast on {436} me a sardonic leer, grin'd “a ghastly smile,” 
and “left me alone in my glory.” I had too much philosophy, however, 
to remain long in a passion, or to suffer myself to be unhappy for 
such a trifle. I contented myself, therefore, as well as I could, and 
determined never to write another line until my first effort saw the 
light. How fortunate for you, kind reader, and perhaps for me, had my 
young muse then been nip'd in her incipient budding. But that first 
effort did see the light the next week, and ‘Solomon in all his glory’ 
was not so happy as I. You who have written and published, can have 
some idea of the sensations produced by the success of a first essay. 
Those who never have, cannot imagine the pleasure, the fluttering of 
heart, the gratified ambition, and the flattered vanity of him thus 
first dignified with print. Since then I have been rejected, but never 
so mortified as when my first poem did not appear when expected. And 
since then I have written, published, been republished and quoted, 
which is surely glory enough for one man, but have never been so happy 
as when my maiden effort first appeared among the blacksmiths' and 
tailors' advertisements of a village newspaper.

[Footnote 1: Be careful, when invention fails,
             To scratch your head, and bite your nails.—_Swift_.]




THY HOME AND MINE.


  Is this thy home? The wild woods wave
    Their branches in the mountain breeze—
  And nature to thy mansion gave
    A treasure in those noble trees.
  Here flows a river bright and pure
    Along its silver-winding way,
  While on its white and pebbled shore
    A fairy group of children play.
  Here calm and clear looks heaven's blue dome—
    This is thy lovely Highland home!

  This is thy home—at evening's hour
    A social band assemble here,
  With converse sweet and music's power,
    To chase each gloomy thought of care.
  Affection's gentle language speaks
    In every eye thine eyes behold—
  Here revels love on beauty's cheeks
    And bids her braid her locks of gold.
  In search of bliss you need not roam—
    But this is not—is not _my_ home!

  My home is where the waters roll
    Deep, wide and blue to ocean's caves—
  How sweetly soothing to the soul
    The murmur of their dashing waves!
  Oft has their music charmed mine ear
    At twilight's soft and dewy hour—
  When one I fondly love was near
    To feel with me its witching power,
  And watch the billows crown'd with foam,
    Break on thy walls, my lowland home!

  My home! how soon that single word
    Can cause regretful tears to flow!
  It thrills on feeling's finest chord—
    Still does it make my bosom glow.
  Oh what a fountain of delight
    Does that one little sound unseal!
  When far away, to mem'ry's sight
    What scenes of bliss does it reveal!
  'Tis the voice of nature bids me come
    To thy shrine of love—my own sweet home!

  Wealth may be ours, and fame may spread
    With trumpet-voice our names afar—
  In honor's cause we may have bled
    And braved the crimson tide of war—
  But wealth, and fame, and glory's crown
    Are bubbles which a breath may burst,
  As quickly as a breath hath blown;
    They cannot slake the burning thirst
  For happiness—for this we roam,
    And this is only found at home!

E. A. S.




SECOND LECTURE

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


_On Parental Faults_.

When I last had the honor of addressing you, I promised that I would 
endeavor to expose all such parental faults as obstruct the progress 
of correct education. This promise I will now proceed to fulfil, with 
only one prefatory request, which is, that if any individuals present 
shall apply a single remark to themselves, to bear it constantly in 
mind that such application is made by their own consciences—not by me. 
_My_ observations will all be general—_theirs_ should be particular, 
and should be carried home to their own bosoms and business; or all 
that I shall say, might as well be uttered to so many “deaf adders,” 
as to intelligent, rational, and moral beings.

Having been a parent myself for nearly forty years, and a close 
observer of other parents ever since I turned my attention 
particularly to the subject of education, I have much experience to 
“give in” relative to parental faults and vices. Whether this 
experience will avail any thing towards their cure, or even their 
mitigation, your own feelings and judgment can alone decide. The 
picture which I shall endeavor to draw will be a very revolting one, 
although not in the slightest degree caricatured or aggravated. But 
not less revolting is the sight of cancers in the human body, which 
require to be both seen and thoroughly examined before they can be 
extirpated. The cancers of the mind, however, as all faults and vices 
may justly be called, are infinitely harder to cut out; for in all 
these cases the victim and the operator must be the same person. 
_Here_, according to the old adage, every one must be his own 
doctor—since all that can be done for him by others is to tell him of 
his malady, and to convince him, if possible, in spite of his 
self-love and blindness, of its highly dangerous tendency, as well as 
of its certainly fatal termination, unless he himself will most 
earnestly and anxiously set about its cure. To produce this conviction 
in all my hearers who need it, arduous as the undertaking may be, is 
the sole purpose for which I now address you.

{437} Although the obstacles to the progress of correct views on the 
subject of education, as well as to the adoption of the best means for 
promoting this all-important object, be too numerous easily to 
determine which are the most pre-eminently mischievous, I shall begin 
with those which appear to constitute the very “head and front of the 
offending.” These are created under the parental roof itself, where 
the first elements of education are almost always acquired, and where 
it is most obvious that _if any but good seed are sown_, the most 
precious part of the child's subsequent existence must be spent rather 
in the toilsome, painful business of extirpating weeds, than of 
bringing to perfection such plants as yield the wholesome bread of 
life. Hence, in a great measure, the little benefit, in numberless 
instances, from going to school; because, the short time generally 
allowed for this purpose (particularly in the case of girls) is too 
often occupied solely in clearing away and rooting out from the mind 
_that_ which must necessarily be removed before any useful and lasting 
knowledge can well be implanted.

The first parental fault which I shall notice, is that by which 
children are first affected. It begins to influence them with the 
first dawnings of intellect—augments as that expands—accumulates like 
compound interest, and never ceases to exert its baneful power until 
fixed for life. This fault is the glaring and frequent contradictions 
between parental precepts and examples, although the least experience 
will suffice to convince any one who will consult it, that the latter 
will forever be followed rather than the former; nor will any thing 
ever check it but the fear of some very severe punishment—_the rod_ 
(for example) on the back of the far less guilty child, instead of the 
shoulders of the parental tempter. The father or mother who calculates 
on their children totally abstaining, unless by external force, from 
any vicious indulgence whatever, of which they see their parents 
habitually guilty, counts on a moral impossibility. As well might they 
expect water not to boil when sufficient heat is long enough applied, 
or dry tinder not to burn when brought in contact with fire; for these 
appliances are to water and tinder what vicious parental examples will 
always prove to the juvenile mind. Woe, double and triple woe, be to 
those who set them, for they incur the most awfully dangerous 
responsibility of rendering their children utterly worthless! I 
confidently appeal, as in a former lecture, to the experience of every 
one who now hears me, and I beseech them to ask themselves how many 
drinking, gambling, profane, lazy, idle fathers have they ever known 
whose sons were exempt from these vices? How many have they ever known 
who habitually gave way to bursts of anger and wrath—to a rude, 
dictatorial, despotic, quarrelsome disposition, especially in the 
privacy of home, which many seem to think a suitable place for acting 
as they would be ashamed or afraid to act in public, where they would 
meet with somewhat more formidable checks than helpless wives and 
children; how many such fathers can any recollect, whose sons did not 
resemble and probably surpass them in all their worst habits? Equally 
sure, too, will the daughters be to follow their mamma's goodly 
examples, should _they also_ habitually display any of those faults or 
vices that are calculated to sully the purity of the female character, 
or in any way to degrade and render it odious. With such facts 
continually before the eyes of all parents, what supreme folly and 
madness—nay, what deadly guilt must be theirs, who do not avoid 
setting bad examples to their children, as they would shun the utmost 
extremity of misery!

Among those parental faults which soonest begin to work incalculable 
mischief, is the habitual practice of talking and acting in such a 
manner, in regard to the whole class of teachers, that by the time 
their children are sent to school they learn to look upon the entire 
tribe of schoolmasters and schoolmistresses as belonging to a class 
much inferior to that of their parents, and to consider their being 
placed under such supervision as a kind of purgatorial punishment. I 
once knew a gentleman in whose mind these early notions had taken deep 
root, who used to say, that he could never pass through a pine-wood 
resembling that in which his first schoolhouse stood, without being 
thrown into a cold perspiration by it. Without doubt he had been 
exposed to the parental practice I am now condemning, the almost 
inevitable consequence of which is, to create contempt and aversion 
for teachers, reluctant obedience, distrust in their capacities to 
teach, and not unfrequently open insubordination. Manners and polite 
deportment are deemed quite hidden mysteries to these teachers, or 
matters with which the parents never designed they should meddle—it 
being frequently intimated that they never had opportunities for 
acquiring the first, nor feel any interest in teaching the last, 
farther than to protect themselves from injury and insult. 
Awkwardness, if not rudeness also, is often deemed an almost 
inseparable part of their character; and their pupils are not 
unfrequently encouraged by parental smiles to laugh at and ridicule 
“the poor schoolmaster or mistress,” instead of being checked by 
timely reproof in all such conduct. If there happen to be the faint 
semblance of a little wit or humor in these remarks, many silly 
parents take the first opportunity of retailing them with evident 
pleasure, even in the child's presence; and the silly delight 
manifested at this supposed proof of marvellous precocity, completely 
overcomes all sense of the culpability of the act, or of its very 
pernicious influence on the dispositions of the child. At most it is 
pronounced to be quite a venial peccadillo, amply compensated by the 
intellectual smartness which it evinces. The seeds of vanity, 
self-conceit, and censoriousness are thus sown in the youthful mind as 
soon as they can take root, and by the very hands too whose sacred 
duty it is to protect it from all harm.

Closely allied to the foregoing fault is the ever restless haste of 
very many parents to make men and women of their children sooner than 
nature intended. It may well be called the hot-bed system, and like 
that from which it takes its name, produces plants out of season, 
incapable of withstanding necessary exposure to the open atmosphere 
and the vicissitudes of climate. The consequence is, that the period 
of scholastic education is most injuriously shortened, particularly 
for girls. The boys are pushed forward into professions, and turned 
loose to act for themselves, with a mere smattering of literature and 
science—often before any power for serious reflection has been 
acquired, or indeed could well be formed in such juvenile, 
inexperienced minds, in regard to the great, complicated duties of 
life, the objects most worthy of pursuit, and the all-important {438} 
principles which should ever govern them in fulfilling the first, as 
well as in attaining the last. False estimates of human life, 
aggravated by innumerable miscarriages in their ill-digested plans, 
necessarily follow; and the poor youths are most unjustly condemned 
for failure in pursuits wherein they have been either forced or 
suffered from most foolish and mischievous indulgence to engage, long 
before they had maturity either of body or mind sufficient to render 
success even probable. They are stimulated—nay, often driven to sea, 
on the vast, tempestuous ocean of life, without compass or rudder to 
their little barks, and then are most grievously abused for getting 
wrecked, when the pilots who should have steered their fragile vessels 
had most unpardonably abandoned their trust. But should the frequent 
occurrence of such a calamity create any surprise, when we find so 
many, even of those who know better, so far yielding to the popular 
error, as to manage their sons in this way? It is quite enough to 
overcome all their wisest resolves, to be told by the majority of 
their acquaintance, that “it is a shame to keep their boys so long in 
leading-strings—they should be doing something for themselves.” This 
sapient admonition usually settles every doubt, and the unfortunate 
youths, in all the perilous immaturity of boyhood, are forthwith 
converted into men, left to think and act for themselves. But their 
mental outfits for so arduous a business being entirely inadequate, 
their outfits of property are not unfrequently squandered, and 
irretrievably lost, several years prior to the time when they could 
reasonably be expected to understand their only true and legitimate 
uses. Hence we have many examples of young men who have actually run 
quite through their estates but a little beyond the time when they 
should have been first put into possession of them, and who have lost 
all respectability of character at a period when they should be only 
commencing their career of active life. If these unfortunate victims 
of parental folly—may I not say, wickedness—_then_ open their eyes to 
their real situation, it will often be only to shut them again in 
utter despair, and plunge into all the fathomless depths of 
dissipation and vice, as their only refuge from the hopeless misery, 
the inextricable ruin in which they too late perceive that they have 
involved themselves. Hasty, inconsiderate marriages are often found to 
cap the climax of all this wretchedness, by adding helpless women and 
children to the number of sufferers, and thereby immeasurably 
augmenting the miseries of a condition which, without _this_, would 
seem to admit of scarcely any farther aggravation. A similar 
catastrophe often befals our girls who have had the deadly misfortune 
to be subjected to this hot-bed system. With unformed constitutions, 
and still more unformed minds, they are hurried into situations where 
they have to act the parts of _women_, before they are rid of the 
dispositions, inclinations, and follies of _children_. They not 
unfrequently marry and become mothers, while yet distant from the age 
of maturity, and thus have to fulfil the all-important duty of forming 
the hearts, minds, and principles of children, when, in fact, they are 
little more than children themselves. Loss of life is, in many 
instances, the forfeit paid for such premature marriages. But should 
they escape this awful sacrifice, they rarely fail to have their 
constitutions broken down, their powers of useful exertion greatly 
impaired or irrevocably lost; and an early grave, often—alas! too 
often, closes the heart-rending scene over these poor, unfortunate 
victims of parental mismanagement, at a time when probably they would 
just have reached the meridian of mature life, had they been properly 
prepared for all the momentous duties of wives and mothers, before 
they were compelled to fulfil them. Their helpless offspring are thus 
bereft of maternal nurture, when the parent was just beginning 
probably to understand what it ought to be—and how holy, how sacred 
she should esteem her obligations, to fulfil it most unremittingly to 
the children of her bosom. The same forcing process is then applied to 
the innocent little survivors; and _they_, in their turn, are to be 
married, if possible, when they should still be at school—to have the 
care of children before they know how to take care of themselves—and 
often to die, when they should be just beginning to live as the 
mistresses of families. Boys and girls have thus to act the part of 
instructers, while they themselves should yet be pupils; and the 
elementary education of their offspring, which is by far the most 
important part, is inevitably exposed to all the danger of being 
entirely perverted, by the inexperience, the unavoidable ignorance, 
and the moral incapacity of such very juvenile teachers. In regard to 
daughters especially, it may truly be said, that a cardinal article in 
the nursery creed of multitudes of mothers is, that they _must_ marry, 
and _marry early_, even without nicely weighing moral consequences, if 
it cannot be done as prudence, common sense, and correct principles 
would dictate. The period for going to school is thus necessarily 
curtailed within limits scarcely sufficient for the simplest 
elementary instruction, that the young candidates for conjugal honors 
may be pushed into general society and public amusements, which are 
considered the great marts for matrimonial speculations. Now, although 
marriage is highly honorable, as well as the state which _may_ afford 
most happiness in this life, it is indisputably true, that it can be 
neither honorable nor happy, unless very many circumstances, too 
frequently overlooked or disregarded, concur to make it so. It can 
produce nothing but disgrace and unhappiness if contracted, as it 
often is, without affection, esteem, or even respect for the husband, 
who is married merely for his wealth; or, because the poor girl has 
been taught to dread the condition of an old maid as something so 
terrible, that it should be avoided at every hazard. Equally certain 
is it that marriage can procure no happiness—nay, that it is a truly 
miserable condition, without good morals, good temper, and a tender 
regard among the parties. Yet thousands of unfortunate girls marry 
rather than live single, simply because their parents and other 
connexions have made them believe that to remain _unmarried_, is to 
become objects of general derision and contempt. Even if this were 
true, as it certainly is not, surely there is no rational person who 
would not pronounce such a state much more bearable than a union for 
life with a man who was vicious both in principles and conduct, who 
was cursed with a bad temper, and incapable of any sentiment even 
resembling conjugal love. A very large portion of the miserable 
marriages which we see in our society, may justly be ascribed to this 
most cruel—I may say, wicked error in the parental nurture of 
daughters. It is too shameful to be acknowledged by any as committed 
by {439} themselves; yet there is not a person probably in the United 
States who cannot cite many instances of it in others.

Another parental fault of very extensive prevalence, is their 
sufferance, if not actual encouragement of an opinion very common, at 
least among their male children, that it is quite manly, magnanimous, 
and republican to oppose, even by open rebellion, (if nothing less 
will do) all such scholastic laws and regulations, as they, in the 
supremacy of their juvenile wisdom, may happen to disapprove. This has 
been signally and most lamentably verified in regard to that 
particular law so indispensably necessary to the well being of all 
schools, which requires the students to give evidence when called 
upon, against all violators of the existing regulations, without 
respect to persons. How an opinion so absurd and pernicious first got 
footing, unless by parental inculcation, it would be difficult to say; 
but nothing is more certain than its wide-spread influence, nor are 
there many things more sure than the great agency it has heretofore 
had in preventing any good schools from being long kept up in a 
flourishing condition, at least in our own state, where they are as 
much wanted as in any part of the Union. Such an opinion is the more 
unaccountable—indeed, it appears little short of downright insanity, 
when we come to reflect that _all_ think it right for adults to be 
punished for refusing to give evidence before our courts when 
required, in regard to any breaches of the laws under which _they_ 
live; and yet, the same individuals who entertain this opinion, almost 
universally uphold their own children in committing a similar offence, 
by withholding _their_ testimony when any of the laws under which 
_they_ live are violated at their respective schools—even should such 
violation go to the very subversion of the schools themselves. Nay, 
more—if a poor devoted teacher or professor should dare to punish 
these very independent young gentlemen for such unjustifiable and 
fatal contumacy, a universal clamor is immediately raised against 
him—his character is instantly stigmatized for cruelty and tyranny, 
while that of the rebel youths is eulogized as much as if they were 
really martyrs to generous feeling and magnanimous self-devotion to 
the good of others. All sense of just punishment and disgrace is thus 
effectually taken away, and the young offender is taught to pride 
himself on what should be his shame. That fathers should acquiesce in 
the wisdom and justice of laws to punish _themselves_ for certain 
offences against society at large, and be unable to see the justice 
and wisdom of laws to punish their sons for similar offences against 
the little societies called schools, is surely one of the greatest and 
most inexplicable follies of which men, in their senses, can possibly 
be guilty. Have not these last named institutions precisely the same 
right and reason, that national governments have, to pass laws for 
their own preservation? How, indeed, could either long exist without 
them? It will be in vain to deny the prevalence of this most 
pernicious folly, so long as we find a very large majority of the 
youth of our country acting under the opinion of its being highly 
disgraceful to do _that_ before the faculty of a college, or the head 
of a school, which their fathers deem it perfectly right to do every 
time _they themselves_ are called as witnesses before the juries and 
courts of their country. I have said more on this parental fault than 
otherwise I should have done, because I am thoroughly and deeply 
convinced that there never can long exist any flourishing schools, 
academies, or colleges, in any portion of our country, where so 
radically mischievous an error prevails. _Our youth must be taught_, 
and by their parents too, that _they_ have no more right to exemption 
from the restraints of scholastic law, than _men_ have from the 
inhibitions of the laws of their country—that all legitimate human 
institutions have a clear, indisputable, and necessary power to make 
regulations for their own preservation; that this power _must_ be 
obeyed, or it is utterly useless; and that if obedience be proper, 
honorable, and indispensable in their fathers, it cannot possibly be 
improper, unessential, or dishonorable in their children. Let our sons 
be taught _this lesson_ at home, and the absolute necessity of always 
acting up to it every where, and we may then confidently hope, _but 
not until then_, that all our seminaries of instruction will flourish 
in a far greater degree than we ever yet have witnessed. “It is a 
consummation most devoutly to be wished,” and _one_, towards the 
accomplishment of which, neither time, money, nor intellectual effort 
should be spared.

Another fault committed by many more parents than are aware of it is, 
that either from very culpable neglect in studying their children's 
characters, or from most fatuitous partiality, they often send them to 
school, in full confidence that they will prove most exemplary 
patterns of good principles and good conduct, when, in fact, they are 
signally deficient in both. The consequence is, that should any 
teacher be daring enough to communicate the painful intelligence, it 
is either entirely discredited, or it comes on the unfortunate, 
self-deluded parent with the suddenness and shock of a clap of 
thunder. If the account is believed, the punishment justly due to the 
real author of the mischief, the guilty father or mother, is not 
unfrequently inflicted on the child; or, should it be deemed false, 
young master or miss (as the case may be) is immediately taken away, 
and turned loose at home to unrestrained indulgence, or sent to some 
instructer who has more of the cunning of worldly wisdom than to make 
any such startling and incredible communications.

In close connexion with the foregoing fault is one of still greater 
and more injurious prevalence. It is assumed, as a settled point, 
probably by a majority of parents, that if heaven has not bestowed on 
_their offspring_ more than a usual proportion of brains, at least a 
very competent share has been allotted them; and that they—the 
parents, have not failed previously to sending the children to school, 
in doing every thing necessary to enable those brains to work 
beneficially for the craniums which contain them, and for the bodies 
whose movements are to be governed thereby. Yet there are certainly 
many children—very many, who from great deficiency of natural talent, 
appear to be born for nothing higher than to be “hewers of wood and 
drawers of water.” This truth cannot be denied; yet the fathers and 
mothers of these children, in despite of nature, will often persist in 
attempting to make them learned men and learned women. The consequence 
is inevitable. An irreparable waste of time and money results from the 
abortive attempt, and thousands who might have become useful and 
highly respectable day laborers, at some easily acquired handicraft, 
are {440} converted, by this most misapplied and cruel kindness into 
ridiculous pretenders to situations that nature never destined them to 
fill. This parental notion of marvellous talents and virtues in their 
children—if it happen to be unfounded—and much too often it 
unfortunately proves so, leads certainly to the conclusion, that 
whatever scrapes the children get into at school, or, however 
deficient they may appear in acquirement, when they go home, the whole 
and sole blame attaches to the teachers; and the children are 
withdrawn, often without the slightest intimation of the real cause, 
leaving the luckless instructers to infer, that, probably, they have 
given satisfaction.

Another very general and deeply rooted fault in parents, is, the 
readiness with which they believe and act upon the complaints of their 
children, often without taking the smallest pains whatever to 
ascertain whether these complaints may not be at least exaggerated, if 
not entirely unfounded. The humorous author of Peter Plymley's letters 
has said—“that a single rat in a Dutch dyke is sometimes sufficient to 
flood a whole province.” The idea intended to be conveyed by this, is 
eminently true, especially in relation to female seminaries, where 
only one gossipping, talking girl, although free, perhaps, from 
malicious intent, is quite enough to destroy an entire school. Were it 
possible for teachers before hand, to know the propensities of such 
little bipeds, they should exclude them as carefully as the Dutch 
attempt to do the small, apparently impotent quadrupeds, that do them 
so much injury. But suffer me to cite some instances to sustain my 
opinion. Let us suppose, for example, that the grievance complained of 
is partial treatment. To say nothing of the difficulty of proving a 
negative, or of disproving, even when heard, a charge which covers so 
much ground, and which is rarely suffered to reach the teacher's 
ears—it is perfectly easy to demonstrate, that it _may_, and often 
_will_ be made, without the shadow of truth. When to this is added, 
its utter incompatibility with that portion of common sense, which all 
instructers, who are not miserable drivellers, must possess, and which 
they, of course, will exercise, in comparing their infinitely small 
and doubtful gains, with their great and certain loss by such 
injustice towards the complainants, (putting all principles of honor 
and public pledges out of the question,) the accusation ought to 
appear in most cases, past all rational credibility. But let us return 
to the proof, that the charge of partiality _may_ and _will_ often be 
made without the shadow of truth. It is a thing which deeply concerns 
_all schools_, and is therefore a subject of common and vital 
interest—both to them and to the public. None have so little 
experience as not to know, that among the scholars of every school 
there will be irregularities of conduct with corresponding 
inequalities in talent, application, and acquirement, and that the old 
adage, that “one man can carry a horse to water, but that four and 
twenty can't make him drink,” is equally true in a figurative sense as 
to children at school. Hence, some pupils go on very successfully, 
without punishment of any kind, while others not unfrequently require 
it in all its most effective forms. This equitable and obviously 
necessary difference in treatment, between offenders and 
non-offenders, is always sensibly felt by the culprits 
themselves—often deeply resented; the true cause of it, rarely well 
understood, and still more rarely acknowledged or explained, 
especially to parents and guardians: for self-accusation is least apt 
to be made by those who most frequently commit acts that should 
produce it. Much the most common course among the violators of any 
moral law or obligation whatever, whether they are children or adults, 
is to seek refuge from the consciousness of one fault, in the 
commission of some other—which other, generally, is, to shift the 
blame, if possible, from themselves. That humble, contrite, 
self-abasing spirit which caused the prodigal son to exclaim—“Father, 
I have sinned against heaven and thee, and am no more worthy to be 
called thy son,” is hardly to be expected, in any great degree, among 
children at school: yet they _should_ possess it, before their parents 
ought to rely on their competency to judge and decide in their own 
cases, whether _they_ or _their teachers_ are in the wrong—cases too, 
wherein it is perfectly obvious, that if the teachers are the 
offending party, they must have become so in opposition to their best 
interests. From the foregoing considerations, it is manifest, that 
among such children at school as are justly reproved or punished for 
misconduct, unjust complaints of partiality in the teachers will 
frequently arise; and that these will often be too readily credited, 
without any investigation, or even the slightest hint to the persons 
thus secretly accused, of what has been alleged against them. In all 
such cases a withdrawal of the pupils almost certainly follows, 
succeeded by abuse of the schools, which often becomes the more bitter 
and inveterate, from the parents themselves having an unacknowledged 
conviction, that _they are the injurers_, instead of the _injured 
party_. With all such persons the self-applied cure for the 
mortification arising from incurable dullness, or depravity in their 
children, is to slander their teachers wherever it can safely be done.

Another proper and necessary difference in the scholastic treatment of 
children proceeds from difference of age. But most unluckily, it 
sometimes happens, that very young little masters and misses expect to 
be treated like grown up young gentlemen and ladies; and should such 
very rational expectations be disappointed, as they most assuredly 
should be, these premature aspirants to the privileges and immunities 
of manhood and womanhood, take most grievous and unappeasable offence 
at it. Heavy, but vague complaints of partial treatment follow of 
course; parental tenderness is naturally excited; parental credulity 
lends too easy credence to the tale of juvenile woe; and a change of 
school is the frequent consequence, without the really innocent 
teachers even suspecting that any such cause could possibly have 
produced it.

Another most extensively pernicious fault in parents, is the 
incompatible expectations formed of what teachers can do, with the 
practice of treating them, and speaking of them, as scarcely above the 
menial class of society. The expectations of many fathers and mothers 
would appear to be something not very far from a belief, that 
instructers are masters of some wonder-working process which can 
inspire genius where it never existed; give talents that nature has 
withheld; correct in a few weeks or months every bad habit, however 
long indulged; and force knowledge into heads, pertinaciously 
determined to reject, or so constructed as to be incapable of 
receiving it. The general conduct towards such intellectual magicians, 
where consistency is at all regarded, should {441} certainly be, at 
least, to place them on a footing of perfect equality with the members 
of the most esteemed professions in society. But what is the fact? 
Why, that schoolmasters and schoolmistresses are viewed by multitudes 
of those who arrogate the right to decide, as a class of persons, 
essentially vulgar and awkward in their manners; ignorant of the 
world; of low, grovelling, selfish principles, and nearly incapable of 
any of those feelings and high sense of honor which are claimed, as a 
kind of inalienable property by all who believe, (and there are 
thousands of such individuals,) that wealth and worldly distinctions 
authorize them to be proud, arrogant, and contemptuous towards all who 
are deficient in the gifts of fortune. It is not easy to trace this 
opinion respecting teachers to its source, because one would think 
that the least pittance of common sense would teach parents the 
impossibility of their children ever being well taught by any persons 
for whom they felt no respect, and the equal impossibility of 
respecting those whom their parents evidently despised. Two causes 
probably may have produced this mischievous variance between the 
conduct of parents towards instructers, and the momentous duties which 
these last are expected to fulfil. First, that many who have taken 
upon themselves the profession of teachers, have neither the talents, 
the knowledge, the temper, nor the manners necessary to discharge its 
numerous and arduous duties; and secondly, that the pride of wealth, 
which generally indulges itself in an exemption from bodily and mental 
labor, naturally seeks to dignify its idleness by assuming a 
superiority over all who work either with their hands or their head. 
But be the origin what it may, the cause of education is most 
injuriously affected by it.

Another parental fault is, the interference both as to matter and 
manner in which children are to be taught; and this is sure to be 
committed in proportion to the self-conceited competency, but real 
inability of the advising, or rather commanding party. Let a single 
exemplification suffice, out of very many others I could give of this 
most ridiculous, but very pernicious fault. I select it because it is 
one of those occurrences in the “olden time,” the relation of which 
can hurt the feeling of none, but may afford a useful lesson to many. 
My informant told me, that many years ago he knew a lady who could 
barely read and write, to carry a little girl whose acquirements 
extended not much farther than her own, to a school conducted by a 
gentleman well qualified for his profession. She announced herself, as 
having brought to him a pupil, who was immediately to be taught some 
half dozen sciences, the names of which she had somewhere picked up, 
but could scarcely pronounce; and that “he must make haste to do it, 
as the little miss had not much more than a year, if that, to go to 
school.” I was not told whether or not the teacher laughed in her 
face, but if he refrained he must have had much more than common 
control over his risible muscles. “It was enough,” (as the hero of 
Cherubina says,) “to make a tiger titter.” This most compendious way 
of manufacturing learned young masters and young misses, when viewed 
in its effects upon the great interests of our community—upon the 
happiness of families, as well as of the nation at large, is enough to 
sicken the heart of any person capable, even in a moderate degree, of 
serious reflection. Numerous instances have I known, in my limited 
sphere of observation, especially in female schools, where, just as 
the pupils had acquired a taste for reading, and were beginning to 
make good progress in their studies, they were hurried away, and 
plunged headlong into the vortex of gay, pleasure-seeking company, 
there to lose—far more rapidly than it was gained—all desire, all 
anxiety for intellectual culture. Books, together with all the useful 
lessons they are calculated to impart; the whole long-labored scheme 
of moral instruction, from which so much good had been anticipated; 
the anxious preparation for a life of active beneficence, are all 
forgotten or neglected, for constantly recurring schemes of frivolous 
gaiety, and utter idleness in regard to all really useful pursuits. 
The only subject of intense interest which seems to occupy these 
fanatic devotees of worldly pleasure, is _marriage_; and provided they 
can succeed in procuring a wealthy husband for their daughters, all 
other matters are deemed of very subordinate importance. After the 
teachers of these unfortunate girls may have been laboring for years 
to convince them that the value of eternal things is immeasurably 
greater than that of any merely temporal things whatever, they are to 
be “finished off,” (as it is called) in the school of the world, where 
all these calculations are utterly reversed, and present objects alone 
are made to occupy all their thoughts and time.

Another fault of parents, and I may add guardians too, is to be led 
away by mere reports in regard to the character of schools and their 
teachers, without always inquiring for themselves, as they should do 
where possible, minutely into both. Thus, it often happens that, 
governed entirely by rumor not to be traced to any authentic source, 
all will be anxiously hurrying to secure places for their children in 
schools said to be already full to overflowing, so that no more can 
possibly get in; while schools of equal merit are carefully avoided, 
because the same common untraceable rumor proclaims that they are 
losing all their scholars; which, if not true at the time, soon 
probably becomes so, from the capricious love of change, and the 
desire to get their children's brains swept by the new broom, or from 
the common habit of ascribing all removals of pupils from any schools 
whatever, to incompetency or misconduct in the teachers. These ebb and 
flood tides of popularity often happen to the same schools, without 
any change whatever in the schools themselves, except increased 
fitness in the teachers, from additional experience. A signal instance 
of this fell under my observation, many years ago, in the case of a 
long established, highly respectable, but no longer existing city 
school. This institution, after maintaining very deservedly a high 
character for many years, was literally stripped almost entirely naked 
of pupils, by some utter strangers, who, although possibly as 
meritorious, were certainly not known to be so, by a single individual 
of the whole number that immediately sent scholars to them. It is 
true, that the old school, after the public imagination had time to 
sober a little, somewhat recovered from the shock, although never 
sufficiently to regain its former standing. What is called 
“_patronage_,” had fled from its walls, which were soon entirely 
deserted, and answered little other purpose than to present another 
striking monument of public caprice, fickleness, and folly. This case 
is cited from no invidious motive {442} whatever—both schools having 
long ceased to exist; but it furnishes a most striking proof of the 
existence, as well as of the pernicious effects of the last parental 
fault noticed. As a necessary consequence of this fault, comes the 
frequent changes made from school to school, often without any 
assignable cause, but the mere love of novelty; or some secret, but 
unfounded dissatisfaction imbibed from the _ex parte_ 
misrepresentation of the children, most carefully concealed from the 
teachers themselves. If the matter ended here, it might not do more 
harm than occasion the loss of the particular pupils to the offending 
teachers; but the fancied injury, although never communicated to the 
person chiefly interested in removing the unfounded imputation, is, in 
general, the more diligently made known to others. With all these, the 
characters of the teachers are deeply injured, if not entirely ruined, 
without the possibility of a vindication, from utter ignorance of its 
being any where necessary. Persons who are thus regardless of what 
they say of schools and their conductors, and who are so careless as 
to the sources from which they seek a knowledge of their characters, 
are liable to be greatly deceived, even when making inquiries, in a 
manner that appears to them most likely to obtain correct information. 
Thus, in the opinion of these precipitate and reckless judges, it is 
at once concluded, that if an individual of their acquaintance has 
merely been _at_ any particular school, whether in casually passing or 
specially to see it, this person must necessarily be well qualified to 
tell, describe, and explain every thing about it; and therefore, that 
the sentence of approval or condemnation produced by this off-hand 
judge, must be decisive, although it may go no farther than a simple 
“_ipse dixit_”—“he or she said it.” Details are rarely, if ever asked 
by such inquirers, (for I have often witnessed their method of 
proceeding) but the mere opinion of the informant, for or against the 
school, is deemed all sufficient; the brief assertion, “I've no notion 
of it,” or “I like it mightily,” settles the question. It seems never 
to be even suspected, that to form a just and impartial judgment in 
regard to the merits or demerits of any school, requires much more 
time, learning, knowledge of the principles and management of schools 
in general, acquaintance with the various modes of instructing youth, 
but, above all, more power of discrimination than most persons 
possess. Hence, the characters both of schools and teachers, are 
generally at the mercy of individuals extremely incompetent to 
determine what they really are.

Another common fault with many parents and guardians, has always 
reminded me of the old miser who inquired of his merchant for a pair 
of shoes, that must be at once “very neat, and strong, and fine, and 
cheap.” They confound together cheapness and lowness of price, 
although no two things generally differ more widely; and hence they 
always endeavor to purchase their schools as they do their 
merchandise. It is certainly true that a _high_ price does not 
necessarily make either schools or merchandise of good quality; but it 
is equally true, that a _low_ price can never have any such effect. 
The principle of equivalents must be alike consulted in both cases, or 
no fair, equitable bargain can be made, either for bodily or mental 
apparel. If much is required, much must be given, provided both 
parties are free to give and take; and those who act upon different 
principles—be they parents, guardians, or teachers, deserve to _be_, 
and generally _are_, utterly disappointed.

There is another fault which I will here mention—not on account of any 
connexion with that just noticed, but because the recollection of it 
has just presented itself. It is of most fearful import, for I verily 
believe it to be the foundation of most of the infidelity which 
prevails among the youth of our country. I mean, the neglect of 
parents to require their children to seek religious instruction by 
constant attendance at places of religious worship—places where _they 
themselves_, if professors of religion, deem it _their_ sacred duty to 
attend. They require—nay, insist upon these children seeking 
classical, scientific, and literary knowledge by attending schools and 
colleges; how then can they possibly justify, or even excuse their 
attendance at church, not being at least equally insisted upon. They 
themselves, unless hypocrites, must deem religious knowledge far more 
important than all other kinds united. To leave their children then, 
at full liberty to seek or not to seek it, and to coerce them in 
seeking these other kinds, is to act, not only inconsistently and 
foolishly, but wickedly.

One of the greatest and most pernicious faults of all, I have reserved 
for the last to be noticed. It is the utter indifference which, not 
only parents and guardians but all other persons except the 
instructors themselves, appear to feel for the reputation of schools 
and their particular conductors, although this reputation is really a 
matter of the deepest interest to the whole community. Of these 
institutions and their managers, it seems in an especial manner, and 
most emphatically true, that “what is every body's business is no 
body's business.” Slander and its effects may certainly be called 
_every body's business_, since all are exposed to it; yet no 
individual appears to think it his own, or likely to be so, until it 
touches his own dear self, although one of the best modes of 
protecting himself from it, most obviously is—to manifest, on all 
occasions, a readiness to protect others. But while men remain so 
prone to believe ill, rather than good, of their fellow creatures, and 
are too regardless of any reputations but their own, it is hardly to 
be expected, that so long as they themselves are safe, much care will 
be felt whether the persons assailed, are openly or secretly attacked, 
or whether they have opportunities to defend themselves or not. Hence, 
there are no courts in the world that exercise a more despotic, 
reckless sway, than what may justly be called _courts of defamation_; 
the only qualifications for which are, a talent and love for malignant 
gossipping. Even the tribunals of the inquisition make a pretence at 
justice, by calling the accused before them; but the self-constituted 
inquisitors of reputation, who often, in the course of their various 
sessions, sit upon schools and their conductors, disdain to use even 
the mockery of a trial. With them, to try, to condemn, and to execute 
the character, while the body is absent, constitute but one and the 
same act; and like so many grand sultans, whose power is supreme, 
whose word is law, and whose arguments are the scimitars and 
bow-strings of death, they are alike uncontrolled and uncontrollable 
by any considerations even approaching towards truth and justice. If 
defamation never meets with any thing to check it but the unheeded, 
unavailing complaints of the immediate sufferers from its diabolical 
spirit, it will {443} continue greatly to impair, if it does not 
utterly destroy one of the most copious sources of human happiness—I 
mean, the heart-cheering confidence, that all will acquire fair 
reputations by always acting in a manner to deserve them, and that 
nothing can bereave them of this inestimable blessing, but actual 
misconduct. It is true, that our laws hold out something like a remedy 
for slander by known individuals. But what is this remedy? While 
house-breaking and house-burning have often been made punishable by 
death—_character-breaking and burning_ have met with no other legal 
corrective than pecuniary fines, and these too, dependent on 
enactments hard to be applied to any particular case, and upon the 
capricious, ill-regulated, not to say, prejudiced, judgments of 
others. To mend the matter, public opinion generally attaches no small 
disgrace to the seeking this species of redress; as if to sue for 
damages to character, implied, on the part of woman, some strong 
probability of guilt, and on the part of man, a great presumption both 
of guilt and cowardice. Against the effect of inimical motives, 
calumnious opinions, and their underhand circulation, no law affords 
any protection whatever. These matters are entirely beyond the reach 
of all legislation, and unless they can be cured by moral instruction, 
moral discipline, and such a public sentiment as will keep alive in 
every bosom a strong sense of our obligations always to judge 
charitably and justly of each other, the members of our society, one 
and all, must still live exposed to this deep and deadly curse of 
secret defamation. Such is the baneful nature of this deplorable evil, 
that to fear or despise will only serve to aggravate it—while to live 
above it, although very comfortable to our consciences, can never 
entirely prevent the injuries it often has the power of inflicting 
upon even the best of mankind. The disastrous effects of it upon 
education, so far as this depends upon scholastic establishments, are 
incalculable; for although some particular schools might rise or fall 
a sightless distance above the hopes of their most sanguine 
friends—below the wishes of their bitterest enemies—without materially 
affecting the general cause of instruction; yet that cause cannot 
possibly flourish—cannot even approach its maximum of general good, 
without far greater protection from public sentiment. It _must_ 
protect, and with parental solicitude too, the reputation both of 
teachers and schools, or none whatever, even the best, can be secure 
of a twelve months' existence. None can possibly last, unless all who 
have any power of giving the tone and character of public opinion, 
will unite in marking with the severest reprobation the kind of spirit 
which so frequently gives birth and circulation to the numerous, 
unfounded calumnies we so often hear against the very best of them; 
calumnies too, to the greedy swallowing of which, it forms no 
objection with many, that they have no authors who have hardihood 
enough to avow them. But the same violent spirit which ruins some 
schools by calumny, often exerts itself with so little judgment as to 
destroy others by intended kindness. Thus, the same tongues which will 
persecute particular schools in secret—“even unto death,” will praise 
and puff others so immeasurably, as to excite against them that never 
dying envy and animosity, which is always roused to action by high 
seasoned commendation of others. These headlong, unreflecting puffers, 
are either utterly ignorant, or entirely forget that the world is 
still full of people who are brothers and sisters, at least in 
feeling, to that Athenian who voted to banish Aristides, (whom he 
acknowledged he did not know,) solely, as he declared—“_because he was 
weary and sick at heart, on hearing him every where called the Just_.”

The foregoing faults, as far as I can recollect, are the chief and 
most pernicious of those which attach particularly to parents and 
guardians. But there are many others to which they are parties, either 
as principals or accessaries with that great and complicated mass of 
human beings, which, when considered in the aggregate, constitute what 
is called—“_the public_.” These often form themselves into large 
subdivisions, arrayed against each other with all the bitter animosity 
of partizan hostility, as the assailants and defenders of particular 
schools; without appearing, for a moment to reflect, that complete 
success to either party must sweep from the face of the earth one half 
of the existing schools, although it is manifest to all who will look 
soberly at our present condition, that the supply of good schools, 
still falls very far short of the demand. But if this exterminating 
war between the partizans and enemies of schools in general is never 
to cease, would it not be far better for the world, if all the schools 
in it, with their friends and enemies, were crushed together in one 
promiscuous mass—that some new, and, if possible, better road might be 
opened to science, literature and religion?

In education there should be, in reality, _but one party_—(if I may be 
allowed to say so) that of knowledge and virtue; _but one object_, and 
that object _human happiness_. Until this principle can be universally 
established and acted upon—until the class of instructers shall not 
only be held in higher estimation, but be more secure of being 
protected by public sentiment, from unmerited obloquy and secret 
detraction, thousands of those who are most capable of fulfilling all 
the momentous duties of teachers, will shrink entirely from so 
thankless, so discouraging an occupation. It is true, that even under 
present circumstances, we have the appearance of much good resulting 
from the various attempts to educate the rising generation; but no 
very extensive advantage—no permanent benefit, at all commensurate to 
the wants and wishes of our thirteen millions of people, can possibly 
result from them while things remain exactly as they are. This is not 
the worst consequence of such a state of public sentiment—for, not 
only will the accessions of highly qualified persons to the class of 
instructers be much fewer, but those already belonging to it, will 
either abandon it, or, perceiving that the privilege of teaching is 
usually let to the lowest bidder, and that their profession is 
generally treated as an inferior one, having few claims to generous 
sympathy, and none to that respect and esteem which would bear them 
harmless, at all times, against all suspicions of meanness and 
servility, will insensibly contract the spiritless, submissive 
feelings which they find are commonly supposed to belong to their 
situation. Seeing also that a spirit of independence—a nice, 
high-minded sense of honor, are deemed by many, sentiments of much too 
exalted a grade for those who follow such a calling, their principles 
are always in danger of sinking to the level of such a standard, 
however arbitrary and unreasonable may have been its establishment. 
Woe to the unlucky {444} wight of a schoolmaster or schoolmistress who 
happens to be gifted with so rebellious a heart, as to betray any 
feeling, even approaching to indignant resentment, for such treatment! 
Silence is their true policy, for it will be considered his or her 
humble duty; and silence must be kept, cost what it may, unless they 
are prepared to encounter the worst consequences of derision, scorn, 
or deprivation of what is called _patronage_.

It is readily admitted, that persons of this profession are more 
highly estimated than they were forty or fifty years ago; for I 
distinctly recollect the time when all I have said of the degrading 
treatment of teachers generally, both by parents and others, was 
literally true; when to the question, “who is such a one?” the common 
reply was, “oh, nothing but a schoolmaster or schoolmistress;” and 
when they were all commonly viewed precisely as we might imagine from 
such an answer. But although they have, of late years, been elevated a 
spoke or two higher up the ladder of respectability, still they are 
not admitted to a level with several other classes, whose real claims 
to superiority have no better foundation than their own silly, 
groundless pride.

The following extract from the London Examiner affords a striking 
proof that what I have affirmed of the public sentiment relative to 
the class of teachers in the United States, is true to a still more 
pernicious extent in Great Britain.

The author remarks, “A trust is generally accounted honorable in 
proportion to its importance, and the order of the qualities or 
acquirements requisite to the discharge of it. There is, however, one 
striking exception to this rule in the instance of the instructers of 
youth, who, specially appointed to communicate the knowledge and 
accomplishments which may command respect in the persons of their 
pupils, are, in their own, denied every thing beyond the decencies of 
a reluctantly accorded civility, and often are refused even those 
barren observances. The treatment which tutors, governesses, ushers, 
and the various classes of preceptors, receive in this boasted land of 
liberality, is a disgrace to the feelings, as well as to the 
understanding of society. Every parent acknowledges that the domestic 
object of the first importance is the education of his children. In 
obtaining the services of an individual for this purpose, he takes 
care to be assured” (not always so with us) “that his morals are good 
and his acquirements beyond the common average—in nine hundred and 
ninety-nine cases out of a thousand, we may add, beyond those which he 
himself possesses, and on which he sufficiently prides himself. When 
he has procured such a man as he believes this to be, he treats him 
with perhaps as much courtesy as his cork-drawer, and shows him less 
favor than his groom. The mistress of the family pursues the same 
course with the governess which the master adopts towards the tutor. 
The governess is acknowledged competent to form the minds and manners 
of the young ladies—to make, indeed, the future women: but of how much 
more consequence in the household is she who shapes the mistresses 
caps, and gives the set to her head-dress—the lady's maid! The unhappy 
teachers in almost every family are only placed just so much above the 
servants as to provoke in them the desire to pull them down—an 
inclination in the vulgar menials which is commonly encouraged by the 
congenial vulgar and jealous pride of the heads of the house, 
impatient of the intellectual equality or superiority which they have 
brought within their sphere. The remark, however, does not apply to 
the narrow-minded only. All of us regard too lightly those who make a 
profit of communicating what all of us prize, and what we know 
entitles us to respect when we possess it. Some carry their neglect or 
contempt farther than others, but all are, in a greater or less 
degree, affected by the vicious standard of consideration common in 
the country. The instructers of youth serve for low wages; _that_ is a 
sufficient cause for their being slighted, where money puts its value 
upon every thing and being. The butler and groom, indeed, serve for 
less than the tutor; but, beside the lowness of price, there is 
another peculiar ingredient in the condition of the last, which is, 
the accompaniment with it of a claim to respect on the score of a 
requital. It is this very claim, so ill-substantiated in hard cash, 
the secret force of which wounds the self-love of purse-proud 
nothingness, which sinks the poor tutor in regard below the man of 
corks or currycombs. We will not deny, too, that there are families in 
which the care of wine and the training of horses are really 
_accounted_, although _not confessed_, of superior importance to the 
care and training of youth. These are extreme cases, however, which we 
would not put. The common one is that of desiring and supposing every 
thing respectable in the preceptor, and denying him respect—of 
procuring an individual to instil virtue and knowledge into the minds 
of youth, and showing them, at the same time, the practical and 
immediate example of virtue and knowledge neglected or despised in 
_his_ person. How can a boy (and boys are shrewd enough) believe that 
the acquirements, the importance of which is dinned in his ears, are 
of any value as a means of commanding the respect of the world, when 
he witnesses the treatment, the abject social lot of the very man, 
who, as best stored with them, has been chosen his instructer? Will he 
not naturally ask, how can these things obtain honor for me which do 
not command even courtesy for him who is able to communicate them to 
me?”

We remember, in a little volume treating on instruction, to have seen 
this anecdote:

“A lady wrote to her son, requesting to look out for a young lady, 
respectably connected, possessed of various elegant accomplishments 
and acquirements, skilled in the languages, a proficient in music, and 
above all, an unexceptionable moral character—and to make her an offer 
of 40_l._ a year for her services as a governess. The son's reply 
was—‘My dear mother, I have long been looking out for such a person as 
you describe, and when I have the good fortune to meet with her, I 
propose to make her an offer—not of 40_l._ a year, but of my hand, and 
to ask her to become—not your governess, but my wife.’”

Such are the qualities expected or supposed in instructers; and yet, 
what is notoriously their treatment?

I will here end this long and painful catalogue of parental faults, 
and shall devote the next lecture to the faults of teachers—merely 
remarking, in conclusion, that my sole undertaking being to point out 
things which require reformation, I shall present no favorable views 
of the various parties concerned in the great work of education, 
although many very animating ones might {445} be given. To aid in 
removing the numerous obstacles which so fatally impede its progress, 
being my only purpose, I would fain render the nature of them as 
odious as possible, believing this to be the best means of 
accomplishing the great end in view.

May the moral mirror which I have endeavored to present to all parents 
and guardians who may now hear me, enable them so to see and to study 
their own peculiar faults as speedily to correct them.




TO MISS ——, OF NORFOLK.


  Which ever way my vision turns,
    To heaven or earth, I see thee there,
  In every star thy eyebeam burns,
    Thy breath in every balmy air;
  Thy words seem truth herself enshrined,
    Sweet as the seraph minstrel sung,
  And thou, in dignity of mind,
    An angel with a silver tongue.

  What dreams of bliss entrance the soul,
    When Persians watch their idol light,
  What pleasing visions o'er them roll
    Caught from his beams serene and bright,
  Thus, when a sparkling ray is given,
    From eyes so soft, so pure as thine—
  We feel as though our earth were heaven
    And thou its radiant light divine.

B.




FROM THE MSS. OF FRANKLIN.


    In vain are musty morals taught in schools,
  By rigid teachers and as rigid rules,
  Where virtue with a frowning aspect stands,
  And frights the pupil with her rough commands.
  But Woman—
  Charming Woman, can true converts make—
  We love the precepts for the teacher's sake:
  Virtue in them appears so bright and gay,
  We hear with transport, and with pride obey.




_Editorial_.


RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION.

The pages of our Magazine are open, and have ever been, to the 
discussion of all general questions in Political Law, or Economy—never 
to questions of mere party. The paper on the _Right of Instruction_, 
which forms our leading article this month, was addressed, in the form 
of a letter, to a gentleman of Richmond. The letter concluded thus—

“I assure you, my dear sir, that I hesitate about sending these sheets 
to you under the denomination of a _letter_. But I began to write 
without knowing how far the subject might carry me on. No doubt had I 
time to write it over again, I might avoid repetition and greatly 
abridge it. But I pray you to take it with a fair allowance for all 
imperfections of manner; for the opinions and argument I confess my 
responsibility.

  Most truly and respectfully your obedient servant,
                                                 —— ——.”




CRITICAL NOTICES.


LETTERS ON PENNSYLVANIA.

_A Pleasant Peregrination through the Prettiest Parts of Pennsylvania. 
Performed by Peregrine Prolix. Philadelphia: Grigg and Elliot._

We know nothing farther about _Peregrine Prolix_ than that he is the 
very clever author of a book entitled “_Letters descriptive of the 
Virginia Springs_,” and that he is a gentleman upon the wrong side of 
forty. The first fact we are enabled easily to perceive from the 
peculiarity of an exceedingly witty-pedantic style characterizing, in 
a manner not to be mistaken, both the Virginia and the Pennsylvania 
Letters—the second appears from the first stanza of a rhyming 
dedication (much better than eulogistic) to _John Guillemard, Esquire, 
Fellow of the Royal Society, London_—

  I send my friend a little token
    Three thousand miles across the sea,
  Of kindness, forty years unbroken
    And cherished still for him by me.

However these matters may be, it is very certain that _Peregrine 
Prolix_ is a misnomer, that his book is a very excellent thing, and 
that the Preface is not the worst part of it.

Our traveller, before setting out on his peregrinations, indulges us, 
in Letter I, with a very well executed outline sketch, or scratch, of 
Philadelphia, not troubling himself much about either his _keeping_ or 
his _fillings in_. We cannot do better than just copy the whole of his 
picture.


Philadelphia is a flat, rectangular, clean, (almost too clean 
sometimes, for on Saturdays “nunquam cessavit lavari, aut fricari, aut 
tergeri, aut ornari, poliri, pingi, fingi,”[1]) uniform, well-built, 
brick and mortar, (except one stone house,) well-fed and watered, 
well-clad, moral, industrious, manufacturing, rich, sober, quiet, 
good-looking city. The Delaware washes its eastern and the Schuylkill 
its western front. The distance between the two rivers is one mile and 
three quarters, which space on several streets is nearly filled with 
houses. Philadelphia looks new, and is new, and like Juno always will 
be new; for the inhabitants are constantly pulling down and 
new-vamping their houses. The furor delendi with regard to old houses, 
is as rife in the bosoms of her citizens, as it was in the breast of 
old Cato with regard to Carthage. A respectable-looking old house is 
now a rare thing, and except the venerable edifice of Christ Church in 
Second above Market Street, we should hardly know where to find one.

[Footnote 1: Plautus, Pænuli, Act i., sc. 2, l. 10.]

The dwelling-houses in the principal streets are all very much alike, 
having much the air of brothers, sisters and cousins of the same 
family; like the supernumerary figures in one of West's historical 
paintings, or like all the faces in all of Stothard's designs. They 
are nearly all three stories high, faced with beautiful red unpainted 
Philadelphia brick, and have water tables and steps of white marble, 
kept so painfully clean as to make one fear to set his foot on them. 
The roofs are in general of cedar, cypress or pine shingles; the 
continued use of which is probably kept up (for there is plenty of 
slate,) to afford the Fire-Companies a little wholesome exercise.

The streets are in general fifty feet wide, having on each side 
convenient _trottoirs_ well paved with brick, and a carriage way badly 
paved with large round pebbles. They are kept very clean, and the 
kennels are frequently washed by floods of pure Schuylkill water, 
poured from the iron pipes with which all the streets are underlaid. 
{446} This same Schuylkill water is the cause of many comforts in the 
shape of drinking, bathing and clean linen, (indusia toraliaque;) and 
enters into the composition of those delicious and persuasive liquids 
called Pepper's beer and Gray's ale and porter.

This water is so pure, that our brothers of New York complain of its 
want of taste; and it is as wholesome and refreshing as the stream of 
father Nilus. It is also so copious, that our incendiaries are 
scarcely ever able to burn more than the roof or garret of one or two 
houses in a month. The fire companies are numerous, voluntary, 
well-organized associations, amply furnished with engines, hose, and 
all other implements and munitions necessary to make successful war 
upon the destroying element; and the members are intelligent, active 
and intrepid young men, so skilful from daily practice, that they will 
put you out three or four fires in a night, in less time than 
Higginbottom, that veteran fireman of London, would have allowed them 
to kindle.

The public confidence in these useful, prompt, energetic and faithful 
companies is so great, that no citizen is alarmed by the cry of fire; 
for he knows that the first tap on the State House bell, arouses 
hundreds of these vigilant guardians of the city's safety, who rush to 
the scene of danger with one accord; and with engines, axes, ladders, 
torches, hooks and hose, dash through summer's heat, or winter's hail 
and snows.

The old State House, in whose eastern room the Declaration of 
Independence was signed, has on the top of it, a sort of stumpy 
steeple, which looks as if somewhat pushed in, like a spy glass, half 
shut. In this steeple is a large clock, which, twice as bad as Janus, 
presents four faces, which at dusk are lighted up like the full moon; 
and as there is a man in the moon, so there is a man in the clock, to 
see that it does not lag behind, nor run away from father time; whose 
whereabout, ever and anon, the people wish to know. This close 
observer of the time is also a distant observer of the fires, and 
possesses an ingenious method of communicating their existence and 
position to his fellow citizens below. One tap on the great bell means 
north; two indicate south; three represent east, and four point out 
west; and by composition these simple elements are made to represent 
also the intermediate points. If the fire be in the north, the man 
strikes successive blows with solemn and equal intervals, thus; 
tap——tap——tap——tap; if it be in the south, thus; tap tap——tap tap; if 
it be in the north east, thus; tap——tap tap tap———tap——tap tap tap; so 
that when the thrifty and well-fed citizen is roused by the cry of 
fire at midnight, from a pleasant dream of heaps of gold and smoking 
terrapins and whisky punch, he uncovers one ear and listens calmly for 
the State House bell, and if its iron tongue tell of no scathe to him, 
he turns him on his side and sleeps again. What a convenient 
invention, which tells the firemen when and where to go, and the 
terrapin men when to lie snug in their comfortable nests! This clever 
plan is supposed to have been invented by an M. A. P. S.; this 
however, we think doubtful, for the Magellanic Premium has never, to 
our knowledge, been claimed for the discovery. This reminds us that 
the American Philosophical Society is _located_[2] in Philadelphia, 
where it possesses a spacious hall, a good library, and an interesting 
collection of American antiquities, gigantic fossil bones, and other 
curiosities, all of which are open to the inspection of intelligent 
and inquisitive travellers.

[Footnote 2: A new and somewhat barbarous, but exceedingly convenient 
yankeeism, which will probably work its way into good society in 
England, as its predecessor ‘_lengthy_,’ has already done.]

The Society was founded by the Philosophical Franklin, and its 
presidential chair is now occupied by the learned and venerable 
Duponceau.

There exists here a club of twenty-four philosophers, who give every 
Saturday evening very agreeable male parties;[3] consisting of the 
club, twenty invited citizens and any strangers who may happen to be 
in town. These parties are not confined to any particular circle; but 
all men who are distinguished in the arts, whether fine or mechanical; 
or in the sciences, whether natural or artificial, are liable to be 
invited. The members of the club are all M. A. P. S., and the parties 
are supposed to look with a steady eye towards the cultivation of 
science; the other eye however regards with equal complacency the 
useful and ornamental arts of eating and drinking. The only defect in 
the latter department that we have discovered, is the banishment of 
ice cream and roman punch.

[Footnote 3: Called Wistar parties, in honor of the late illustrious 
Caspar Wistar, M.D., Professor of Anatomy in the University of 
Pennsylvania.]

The markets are well supplied with good things. The principal one is 
held under long colonnades running along the middle of Market street, 
and extending from Front to Eighth street, a distance of more than one 
thousand yards. The columns are of brick and the roofs of shingles, 
arched and ceiled underneath. If I were to say all they deserve of its 
beef, mutton and veal, there would be no end to the praises that 
_flesh_ is heir to; but the butter and cream-cheese in the spring and 
summer, are such dainties as are found in no other place under the 
welkin. They are produced on dairy farms and by families near the 
city, whose energies have for several generations been directed to 
this one useful end, and who now work with an art made perfect by the 
experience of a century.

Here is the seat of the University of Pennsylvania, which comprehends 
a College of the Arts and several preparatory schools; and a college 
of Medicine the most celebrated of the United States, in the list of 
whose professors are many names advantageously known in all civilized 
nations.

The Hospital for the insane, sick and wounded is a well conducted 
institution, and worth a stranger's visit. Go and see also the Museum, 
the Water-Works, the Navy-Yard, and the public squares, and lots of 
other things too tedious to write down.

The site of the city promises very little for the scenery of the 
environs; but unlike the witches in Macbeth, what is promised is more 
than kept. Take an open carriage and cross the Schuylkill by the 
Market street bridge, and ride up the west bank of the river for five 
or six miles, and your labor will be fully rewarded by a succession of 
lovely landscapes, comprehending water, hill and dale; wood, lawn and 
meadow; villas, farmhouses and cottages, mingled in a charming 
variety.

On the west bank of the Schuylkill opposite to the city, we regret to 
say, is an enormous palace, which cost many hundred thousand dollars, 
called an Almshouse, (unhappy misnomer,) which is big enough to hold 
all the paupers that _would be_ in the world, if there were no poor 
laws to _make them_. But you had better go and see it, and take the 
length and breadth and height of our unreason, in this age of light, 
when we ought to know better.

The people of Philadelphia are in general well-informed, well-bred, 
kind, hospitable and of good manners, very slightly tinged with quaker 
reserve; and the tone of society is good, except in a small circle of 
exclusive _imagines subitæ_, who imitate very awkwardly the 
exaggerations of European fashion. The tone of the Satanic school, 
which has somewhat infected the highest circles of fashion in England, 
has not yet crossed the Atlantic.

There are many good Hotels, and extensive boarding houses; and the 
table of the Mansion House is said to be faultless.

Taking every thing into consideration, this is certainly the very spot 
for annuitants, who have reached the rational age of fifty, to nestle 
in during the long remnant of their comfortable days. We say long 
remnant, because as a class, annuitants are the longest livers; and 
there is an excellent company here, that not only grants annuities, 
but also insures lives.

The climate of Philadelphia is variable, and exhibits (in the shade,) 
all the degrees of temperature that are contained between the tenth 
below, and the ninetieth {447} above zero, on the scale of Fahrenheit. 
In general, winter does not begin seriously until after Christmas, but 
he sometimes lingers too long in “_the lap of spring_,” and leaves a 
bridge of ice on the noble river Delaware until the tenth of March.

There are generally three or four weeks of severe cold, during which 
the thermometer sometimes at night sinks below zero, and sometimes in 
the day does not rise to the point of thaw. This period is generally 
enlivened by two or three snow storms, which set in motion the rapid 
sleighs, the jingle of whose lively bells is heard through day and 
night. The Delaware is not frozen over every winter, but there is 
always made an ample supply of fine crystalline ice to last the 
citizens until the next winter. The annual average duration of 
interrupted navigation may be four or five weeks. In March there is 
sometimes a little Scotch weather in which Sawney would rub his hands 
and tell you, here is a fine cauld blawey snawey rainy day. There is 
however not much such weather, though the March winds have been known 
to blow (as Paddy would say,) even in the first week of April; after 
which spring begins with tears and smiles to coax the tardy vegetation 
into life.

Spring is short and vegetation rapid. Summer sprinkles a day here and 
there in May, and sets in seriously to toast people in June; during 
which month there are generally six or eight days whose average 
temperature reaches the altissimum of summer heat. In July the days 
are hot, but there is some relief at night; whilst in August the fiery 
day is but a prelude to a baking night; and the whole city has the air 
of an enormous oven.[4] The extremely hot weather does not continue 
more than six weeks, and so far from being a misfortune, it is a great 
advantage to the inhabitants; for it makes every body that can spare 
twenty dollars, take a pleasant journey every year, whereby their 
minds are expanded, their manners improved, and they return with a 
double zest to the enjoyments of Philadelphia, having learned, quantum 
est in rebus inane, that is, in the rebuses of other places.

[Footnote 4: The season of the Dog Days. A witty Philadelphia lady 
being once asked, how many Dog Days there are, answered that there 
must be a great many, for every dog has his day. At that time the city 
abounded in dogs, but the corporation has since made fierce war upon 
them, with a view perhaps of lessening the number of Dog Days, and 
improving the climate, by _curtailing_ those innocent beasts.]

The autumn, or as the Philadelphians call it, the Fall, is the most 
delightful part of the year, and is sometimes eked out by the Indian 
Summer as far as Christmas. The Fall begins in the first half of 
September and generally lasts until the middle of November, when it is 
succeeded by the Indian Summer; a pleasant period of two or three 
weeks, in which the mornings, evenings and nights are frosty, and the 
days comfortably warm and a little hazy. The Indians are supposed to 
have employed this period in hunting and laying in game for winter 
use, before the long-knives made game of _them_.

The population of Philadelphia and its suburbs exceeds 180,000 souls.


Having taken passage for himself and a friend in the Pioneer line, at 
8 A. M., for Hallidaysburg, Mr. Prolix dates his second letter from 
Lancaster. This epistle is full of fun, bustle, and all good 
things—gives a lively picture of the horrors of early rising and 
half-eaten breakfasts—of a cruise in an omnibus, about the city of 
Brotherly Love, in search of the due quota of passengers—of the depot 
in Broad Street—of an unilocular car with its baggage and 
passengers—of an old woman in a red cloak and an old gentleman in a 
red nose—of a tall, good looking Englishman, who was at the trouble of 
falling asleep—and of an infantile little American gentleman, who had 
no trouble whatever about fulfilling all his little occasions. Some 
account, too, is given of the ride to the foot of the inclined plane 
on the western bank of the Schuylkill, of the viaduct by which the 
plane is approached, the view from the viaduct, of the country between 
Philadelphia and Lancaster, of the Columbia rail road, of Lancaster 
city, and of Mrs. Hubley's very respectable hotel.

_Letter III_ is dated from Duncan's Island. Mr. Prolix left Lancaster 
at 5 A. M. in a rail road car, drawn by two horses tandem, arrived at 
Columbia in an hour and a half, and stopped at Mr. Donley's Red Lion 
Hotel, where he “breakfasted and dined, and found the house very 
comfortable and well kept.”


“Columbia,” says Mr. P. “is twelve miles from Lancaster, and is 
situated on the eastern bank of the noble river Susquehanna. It is a 
thriving and pretty town, and is rapidly increasing in business, 
population and wealth. There is an immense bridge here over the 
Susquehanna, the superstructure of which, composed of massy timber, 
rests upon stone piers. This bridge is new, having been built within 
three years. The waters of the Susquehanna, resembling the citizens of 
Philadelphia, in their dislike to old buildings, took the liberty 
three years ago, to destroy the old bridge by means of an ice freshet, 
though it was but twenty years of age, and still in excellent 
preservation. The views from the bridge, up and down the river, are 
very interesting. Here is the western termination of the rail road, 
and goods from the sea-board intended for the great west, are here 
transhipped into canal boats. Columbia contains about twenty-five 
hundred souls.”


Our author does not think that the state affords the public as good a 
commodity of travelling as the public ought to have for the money 
paid. Each passenger car, he says, pays for locomotive power two cents 
per mile, for each passenger—for toll two cents a mile for itself, and 
one cent per mile for each passenger—burthen cars paying half these 
rates. There is some mistake here or—we are mistaken. The estimated 
cost of working an engine, including interest and repairs, is sixteen 
dollars per day—and the daily sum earned is twenty eight dollars—the 
state clearing twelve dollars per day on each locomotive. Empty cars 
pay the same toll and power-hire as full ones, which, as Mr. Prolix 
observes, is unreasonable.

At 4 P. M. our peregrinator went on board a boat to ascend the canal 
which follows the eastern bank of the Susquehanna. His description of 
the genus “canal boat,” species “Pioneer Line,” is effective, and will 
interest our readers.


A canal packet boat is a microcosm that contains almost as many 
specimens of natural history as the Ark of Noah. It is nearly eighty 
feet long and eleven wide; and has a house built in it that extends to 
within six or seven feet of stem and stern. Thirty-six feet in length 
of said house are used as a cabin by day, and a dormitory by night; 
the forward twelve feet being nocturnally partitioned off by an opaque 
curtain, when there are more than four ladies on board, for their 
accommodation. In front of said twelve feet, there is an apartment of 
six feet containing four permanent berths and separated from the cabin 
by a wooden partition, with a door in it; this is called the ladies' 
dressing room, and is sacred to their uses.

At 9 P. M. the steward and his satellites begin the work of arranging 
the sleeping apparatus. This consists of a wooden frame six feet long 
and twenty inches wide, with canvass nailed over it, a thin mattress 
and sheets, &c. to match. The frame has two metallic points on one 
side which are inserted into corresponding holes in the side of the 
cabin, and its horizontality is preserved {448} by little ropes 
descending from the ceiling fastened to its other side. There are 
three tiers of these conveniences on each side, making twenty-four for 
gentlemen, and twelve for ladies, besides the four permanent berths in 
the ladies' dressing room. The number of berths, however, does not 
limit the number of passengers; for a packet is like Milton's 
Pandemonium, and when it is brim full of imps, the inhabitants seem to 
grow smaller so as to afford room for more poor devils to come in and 
be stewed; and tables and settees are put into a sleeping fix in the 
twinkling of a bedpost.

Abaft the cabin is a small apartment four feet square, in which the 
steward keeps for sale all sorts of potables, and some sorts of 
eatables. Abaft that is the kitchen, in which there is generally an 
emancipated or escaped slave from Maryland or Virginia, of some shade 
between white and black, who performs the important part of cook with 
great effect. The breakfasts, dinners and suppers are good, of which 
the extremes cost twenty-five cents each, and the mean thirty-seven 
and a half.

The passengers can recreate by walking about on the roof of the cabin, 
at the risque of being decapitated by the bridges which are passed 
under at short intervals of time. But this accident does not often 
happen, for the man at the helm is constantly on the watch to prevent 
such an unpleasant abridgment of the passengers, and gives notice of 
the approaching danger by crying out ‘bridge.’

This machine, with all that it inherits, is dragged through the water 
at the rate of three miles and a half per hour by three horses, driven 
tandem by a dipod with a long whip, who rides the hindmost horse. The 
rope, which is about one hundred yards in length, is fastened to the 
side of the roof, at the distance of twenty feet from the bow, in such 
fashion that it can be loosed from the boat in a moment by touching a 
spring. The horses are changed once in about three hours and seem very 
much jaded by their work.


At an hour past midnight Mr. Prolix arrived at Harrisburg, where the 
boat stops for half an hour to let out and take in passengers. It was 
pitch dark, however, and nothing was visible from the boat. We miss, 
therefore, a description of the town, which is cavalierly snubbed by 
the tourist for containing no more than forty-five hundred 
inhabitants. He goes to sleep, and awaking at 5 in the morning, finds 
himself opposite to Duncan's Island. He lands, and takes up his 
quarters at the hotel of Mrs. Duncan. Unlike the hotels previously 
described, which were all “elegant, respectable and neat,” this one is 
merely “neat, elegant and respectable.”

_Letter IV_ is dated from Hallidaysburg. Leaving Duncan's Island at 6, 
the traveller embarked in the canal packet Delaware, Captain Williams, 
following the bank of Duncan's Island in a north-western course for 
about a mile, and then crossing the Juniata over “a substantial 
aqueduct built of timber and roofed in.” In the course of the day he 
passed Millerstown, Mexico and Mifflin, arriving at Lewistown before 
sunset, a distance of about forty miles. Lewistown contains about 
sixteen hundred inhabitants, some of whom, says Mr. Prolix, make 
excellent beer. Waynesburg and Hamiltonville were past during the 
night, and Huntingdon at 7 in the morning. In the course of the day 
Petersburg, Alexandria and Williamsburg made their appearance, and at 
3 P. M. a shower of rain. At half past 6, “the packet glided into the 
basin at Hallidaysburg.” Here terminates that portion of the 
Pennsylvania canal which lies east of the Alleghany mountains. Goods 
destined for the west are taken from the boats and placed in burthen 
cars, to make their passage over the mountains by means of the 
Alleghany portage rail road. Mr. Prolix here put up at Moore's hotel, 
which was not only very “neat, elegant,” &c. but contained at least 
one vacant room, six feet wide by fourteen long, with a double bed, 
two chairs, and a wash-stand, “whose cleanliness was as great as its 
littleness.”

_Letter V_ is headed _Bedford Springs, August 7, 1835_. At half past 8 
on the 6th, “after a good and abundant breakfast,” Mr. P. left 
Hallidaysburg in a coach and four for these Springs. The distance is 
thirty-four miles—direction nearly south. In six hours he arrived at 
Buckstown, a little village consisting of two taverns, a blacksmith's 
shop, and two or three dwellings. Here our traveller put up at a 
tavern whose sign displayed the name of P. Amich—probably, quoth Mr. 
P., a corruption of Peregrini Amicus. Leaving this establishment at 3 
P. M. he proceeded eleven miles to the village of Bedford—thence two 
miles farther to the Springs, of which we have a very pretty 
description. “The benches,” says Mr. Prolix, “and wooden columns of 
the pavilion have suffered much from the ruthless ambition of that 
numerous class of aspirants after immortality who endeavor to cut 
their way to the temple of fame with their penknives, and inflict the 
ambitious initials of their illustrious names on every piece of stuff 
they meet. As a goose delights in its gosling, so does one of these 
wits in his whittling.”

_Letters VI and VII_ are a continuation of the description of the 
Springs. From letter VII we extract, for the benefit of our invalid 
readers, an analysis by Doctor William Church of Pittsburgh, of a 
quart of the water from the particular springs ycleped Anderson's.


A quart of water, evaporated to dryness, gave _thirty-one_ grains of a 
residuum. The same quantity of water, treated agreeably to the rule 
laid down by Westrumb, contained eighteen and a half inches of 
carbonic acid gas. The residuum, treated according to the rules given 
by Dr. Henry, in his system of Chemistry, gave the following result.

  Sulphate of Magnesia or Epsom Salts, 20  grains.
  Sulphate of Lime,  . . . . . . . . .  3¾   "
  Muriate of Soda, . . . . . . . . . .  2½   "
  Muriate of Lime, . . . . . . . . . .   ¾   "
  Carbonate of Iron, . . . . . . . . .  1¼   "
  Carbonate of Lime, . . . . . . . . .  2    "
  Loss,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   ¾   "
                                       ———
                                       31  grains.

To which must be added 18½ cubic inches of carbonic acid gas.


“These waters,” says our author, “have acquired so great a reputation 
that immense quantities are sent away daily in barrels to perform long 
and expensive journeys by land to go and cure those who cannot come to 
them. The price of a barrel filled, and ready booted and spurred for 
its journey, is three dollars—and that is enough to last a regular and 
prudent toper four months.”

_Letter VIII_ is dated “_Somerset, August 14_.” At 10 in the morning 
of this day, our traveller left the Springs in a hack, to join the 
mail coach at Bedford on its way to Somerset. “In an hour,” says Mr. 
P. “we were snugly ensconced in one of Mr. Reeside's well-appointed 
coaches, and rumbling over the stone turnpike on our way to the great 
west.” The road for eleven miles is, we are told, not very hilly. 
Afterwards the country rises gradually from plateau to plateau, for a 
{449} distance of fourteen miles, when you reach the summit of the 
Alleghany. Here is a large stone tavern, where the coach takes fresh 
horses. The country is now nearly level—but for the next six miles 
descends by alternate declivities and levels into “the broad valley 
which lies between the summits of the Alleghany Mountain and Laurel 
Hill,” the distance between which is about twenty miles. In this 
valley stands Somerset, which Mr. P. reached at half past 7 P. M. 
“having been eight hours and a half in travelling thirty-eight miles 
from Bedford.”

_Letter IX_ is dated “_Pittsburg, August 16_.” At half past 3 A. M. on 
the 15th, the tourist took the coach from the east bound to the City 
of Furnaces—at 7 passed the summit of Laurel Hill—at 8 arrived at 
_Jones' Mills_, about one-third down the western declivity of the 
mountain, and breakfasted—at one reached Mount Pleasant, having passed 
through two mountain villages, Donegal and Madison—thence twenty miles 
to Stewartsville—thence thirteen farther to

  _Pittsburgium, longæ finis chartæque viæque,_

in spite of the manifold temptations offered to keen appetites by the 
luxuries of _Chalfant's_, at Turtle Creek, which, quoth Mr. Prolix, 
“is a very good house.” His opinions of Pittsburgh, as of every thing 
else, are entitled to much weight, and in the present instance we give 
them entire.


The sensation on entering Pittsburgh is one of disappointment; the 
country through which you have come is so beautiful, and the town 
itself so ugly. The government of the town seems to have been more 
intent on filling the purses, than providing for the gratification of 
the taste, or for the comfort of its inhabitants. As for the 
Pittsburghers themselves, they are worthy of every good thing, being 
enlightened, hospitable, and urbane.

Pittsburgh has produced many eminent men in law, politics and 
divinity, and is now the residence of the erudite, acute and witty 
author of the Memoir of Sebastian Cabot, which should be read by every 
native American. Its manufacturing powers and propensities have been 
so often described and lauded that we shall say nothing about them, 
except that they fill the people's pockets with cash, and their 
toiling town with noise, and dust, and smoke.

Pittsburgh is full of good things in the eating and drinking way, but 
it requires much ingenuity to get them down your throat 
unsophisticated with smoke and coal-dust. If a sheet of white paper 
lie upon your desk for half an hour, you may write on it with your 
finger's end, through the thin stratum of coal-dust that has settled 
upon it during that interval.

The Pittsburghers have committed an error in not rescuing from the 
service of Mammon, a triangle of thirty or forty acres at the junction 
of the Alleghany and Monongahela, and devoting it to the purposes of 
recreation. It is an unparalleled position for a park in which to ride 
or walk or sit. Bounded on the right by the clear and rapid Alleghany 
rushing from New York, and on the left by the deep and slow 
Monongahela flowing majestically from Virginia, having in front the 
beginning of the great Ohio, bearing on its broad bosom the traffic of 
an empire, it is a spot worthy of being rescued from the ceaseless din 
of the steam engine, and the lurid flames and dingy smoke of the coal 
furnace. But alas! the sacra fames auri is rapidly covering this area 
with private edifices; and in a few short years it is probable, that 
the antiquary will be unable to discover a vestige of those celebrated 
military works, with which French and British ambition, in by-gone 
ages, had crowned this important and interesting point.

There is a large bridge of timber across the Alleghany and another 
over the Monongahela; the former of which leads to the town of 
Alleghany, a rapidly increasing village, situated on a beautiful plain 
on the western side of the river. About half a mile above the bridge 
the Alleghany is crossed by an aqueduct bringing over the canal, which 
(strange to say) comes down from the confluence of the Kiskeminetas 
with the Alleghany on the _western_ side of the latter river. The 
aqueduct is an enormous wooden trough with a roof, hanging from seven 
arches of timber, supported by six stone piers and two abutments. The 
canal then passes through the town and under Grant's hill through a 
tunnel, and communicates by a lock with the Monongahela.

The field of battle on which the conceited Braddock paid with his life 
the penalty of obstinate rashness, is not far from Pittsburgh, and is 
interesting to Americans as the scene on which the youthful Washington 
displayed the germs of those exalted qualities which afterwards 
ripened into the hero, and made him the founder and father of a 
nation.

Pittsburgh is destined to be the centre of an immense commerce, both 
in its own products and those of distant countries. Its annual exports 
at present probably exceed 25,000 and its imports 20,000 tons. Its 
trade in timber amounts to more than six millions of feet. The 
inexhaustible supply of coal and the facility of obtaining iron, 
insure the permanent success of its manufactories. Pittsburgh makes 
steam engines and other machinery, and her extensive glassworks have 
long been in profitable operation. There are also extensive paper 
mills moved by steam, and a manufactory of crackers (not explosive but 
edible) wrought by the same power. These crackers are made of good 
flour and pure water, and are fair and enticing to the eye of hunger, 
but we do not find the flavor so agreeable to the palate as that of 
Wattson's water crackers. Perhaps they are _kneaded_ by the iron hands 
of a steam engine, whereas hands of flesh are _needed_ to make good 
crackers.

New Yorkers and people from down east, who wish to visit the Virginia 
Springs, cannot take an easier and more delightful route, than that 
through Pennsylvania to Pittsburg, and thence down the Ohio to 
Guyandotte; whence to the White Sulphur the distance is one hundred 
and sixty miles over a good road, through a romantic country, and by a 
line of good stage coaches.


_Letter X_ is dated “_Johnstown, August 20_.” Mr. P. left Pittsburgh 
on the 18th, at nine in the evening, in the canal packet Cincinnati, 
Captain Fitzgerald. In a few minutes after moving, the packet entered 
the aqueduct which carries the canal over to the western bank of the 
Alleghany, “along which it runs in a north eastern direction for 
thirty miles.” At five o'clock on the morning of the 19th, our tourist 
passed the village of Freeport, which stands on the western bank of 
the Alleghany, below the mouth of the Kiskeminitas. A few minutes 
afterwards he crossed the Alleghany through an aqueduct, which 
“carries the canal over that river to the northern bank of the 
Kiskeminitas, the course of which the canal now pursues in a south 
eastern direction.”

At eight A. M. Mr. P. passed Leechburg, at twelve Saltsburgh—and at 
two P. M. an aqueduct leading the canal into a tunnel eight hundred 
feet long, going through the mountain and cutting off a circuit of 
four miles. At 3 A. M. on the 20th, Johnstown is reached, “the eastern 
end of the trans-Alleghanian canal, and the western beginning of the 
Portage rail road.”

_Letter XI_ gives a vivid picture of the Portage rail road. This also 
we will be pardoned for copying.


_Packet Juniata, near Lewistown, August 21, 1835._

Yesterday, at Johnstown, we soon despatched the ceremony of a good 
breakfast, and at 6 A. M. were in {450} motion on the first level, as 
it is called, of four miles in length, leading to the foot of the 
first inclined plane. The _level_ has an ascent of one hundred and one 
feet, and we passed over it in horse-drawn cars with the speed of six 
miles an hour. This is a very interesting part of the route, not only 
on account of the wildness and beauty of the scenery, but also of the 
excitement mingled with vague apprehension, which takes possession of 
every body in approaching the great wonder of the internal 
improvements of Pennsylvania. In six hours the cars and passengers 
were to be raised eleven hundred and seventy-two feet of perpendicular 
height, and to be lowered fourteen hundred feet of perpendicular 
descent, by complicated, powerful, and _frangible_ machinery, and were 
to pass a mountain, to overcome which, with a similar weight, three 
years ago, would have required the space of three days. The idea of 
raising so rapidly in the world, particularly by steam or _a rope_, is 
very agitating to the simple minds of those who have always walked in 
humble paths.

As soon as we arrived at the foot of plane No. 1, the horses were 
unhitched and the cars were fastened to the rope, which passes up the 
middle of one track and down the middle of the other. The stationary 
steam engine at the head of the plane was started, and the cars moved 
majestically up the steep and long acclivity in the space of four 
minutes; the length of the plane being sixteen hundred and eight feet, 
its perpendicular height, one hundred and fifty, and its angle of 
inclination 5° 42′ 38″.

The cars were now attached to horses and drawn through a magnificent 
tunnel nine hundred feet long, having two tracks through it, and being 
cut through solid rock nearly the whole distance. Now the train of 
cars were attached to a steam tug to pass a level of fourteen miles in 
length. This _lengthy_ level is one of the most interesting portions 
of the Portage Rail Road, from the beauty of its location and the 
ingenuity of its construction. It ascends almost imperceptibly through 
its whole course, overcoming a perpendicular height of one hundred and 
ninety feet, and passes through some of the wildest scenery in the 
state; the axe, the chisel and the spade having cut its way through 
forest, rock and mountain. The valley of the little Conemaugh river is 
passed on a viaduct of the most beautiful construction. It is of one 
arch, a perfect semi-circle with a diameter of _eighty feet_, built of 
cut stone, and its entire height from the foundation is seventy-eight 
feet six inches. When viewed from the bottom of the valley, it seems 
to span the heavens, and you might suppose a rainbow had been turned 
to stone.

The fourteen miles of this second level are passed in one hour, and 
the train arrives at the foot of the second plane, which has seventeen 
hundred and sixty feet of length, and one hundred and thirty-two feet 
of perpendicular height. The third level has a length of a mile and 
five-eighths, a rise of fourteen feet six inches, and is passed by 
means of horses. The third plane has a length of fourteen hundred and 
eighty feet, and a perpendicular height of one hundred and thirty. The 
fourth level is two miles long, rises nineteen feet and is passed by 
means of horses. The fourth plane has a length of two thousand one 
hundred and ninety-six feet, and a perpendicular height of one hundred 
and eighty-eight. The fifth level is three miles long, rises 
twenty-six feet and is passed by means of horses. The fifth plane has 
a length of two thousand six hundred and twenty-nine feet, and a 
perpendicular height of two hundred and two, and brings you to the top 
of the mountain, two thousand three hundred and ninety-seven feet 
above the level of the ocean, thirteen hundred and ninety-nine feet 
above Hallidaysburg, and eleven hundred and seventy-two feet above 
Johnstown. At this elevation in the midst of summer, you breathe an 
air like that of spring, clear and cool. Three short hours have 
brought you from the torrid plain, to a refreshing and invigorating 
climate. The ascending apprehension has left you, but it is succeeded 
by the fear of the steep descent which lies before you; and as the car 
rolls along on this giddy height, the thought trembles in your mind, 
that it may slip over the head of the first descending plane, rush 
down the frightful steep, and be dashed into a thousand pieces at its 
foot.

The length of the road on the summit of the mountain is one mile and 
five-eighths, and about the middle of it stands a spacious and 
handsome stone tavern. The eastern quarter of a mile, which is the 
highest part, is a dead level; in the other part, there is an ascent 
of nineteen feet. The descent on the eastern side of the mountain is 
much more fearful than the ascent on the western, for the planes are 
much longer and steeper, of which you are made aware by the increased 
thickness of the ropes; and you look _down_ instead of _up_.

There are also five planes on the eastern side of the mountain, and 
five slightly descending levels, the last of which is nearly four 
miles long and leads to the basin at Hallidaysburg; this is travelled 
by the cars without steam or horse, merely by the force of gravity. In 
descending the mountain you meet several fine prospects and arrive at 
Hallidaysburg between twelve and one o'clock.


_Letter XII_ is dated from Lancaster and is occupied with the return 
home of the adventurous Mr. Prolix, whose book we heartily recommend 
to all lovers of the _utile et dulce_.


ARMSTRONG'S NOTICES.

_Notices of the War of 1812. By John Armstrong. New York: George 
Dearborn._

These “Notices,” by the former Secretary of War, are a valuable 
addition to our history, and to our historical literature—embracing a 
variety of details which should not have been so long kept from the 
cognizance of the public. We are grieved, however, to see, even in the 
opening passages of the work, a piquancy and freedom of expression, in 
regard to the unhappy sources of animosity between America and the 
parent land, which can neither to-day nor hereafter answer any 
possible good end, and may prove an individual grain in a future 
mountain of mischief. At page 12, for example.


Still her abuse of power did not stop here: it was not enough that she 
thus outraged her rights on the ocean; the bosoms of our bays, the 
mouths of our rivers, and even the wharves of our harbors, were made 
the theatres of the most flagitious abuse; and as if determined to 
leave no cause of provocation untried, the personal rights of our 
seamen were invaded: and men, owing her no allegiance, nor having any 
connexion with her policy or arms, were forcibly seized, dragged on 
board her ships of war and made to fight her battles, under the 
scourge of tyrants and slaves, with whom submission, whether right or 
wrong, _forms_ the whole duty of man.


We object, particularly here to the use of the verb _forms_ in the 
present tense.

Mr. Armstrong's publication will extend to two volumes—the second 
following as soon as possible. What we have now is mostly confined to 
the operations on the frontier. The subjects of main interest are the 
opposition to the War—Hull's Expedition—Loss of 
Michilimackinac—Surrender of Detroit—Militia operations in the 
West—Harrison's Autumnal and Winter Campaigns—the Partial 
Armistice—the attack on Queenstown, by Van Rensselaer—the invasion of 
Canada, by Smith—the campaign against the British advanced posts on 
Lake Champlain, by {451} Dearborn—Chauncey and Dearborn's 
Expedition—the reduction of York and Fort George—the affair of 
Sackett's Harbor—the first and second investments of Fort Meigs—and 
the defeat of the British fleet on Lake Erie. The Appendix embraces a 
mass of official and other matter, which will prove of great service 
to the future historian. What follows has with us a deep interest, and 
we know many who will understand its origin and character.


The ministry of the elder Adams in England, began on the 10th of June, 
1785. In a letter to the American Secretary of Foreign Affairs, on the 
19th of July following, he says—“The popular pulse seems to beat high 
against America; the people are deceived by numberless falsehoods 
circulated by the Gazettes, &c. so that there is too much reason to 
believe, that if the nation had another hundred million to spend, they 
would soon force the ministry into a war against us. Their present 
system, as far as I can penetrate it, is to maintain a determined 
peace with all Europe, in order that they may war singly against 
America, if they should think it necessary.”

In a second letter of the 30th of August following, he says—“In short, 
sir, America has no party at present in her favor—all parties, on the 
contrary, have committed themselves against us—even Shelburne and 
Buckingham. I had almost said, the friends of America are reduced to 
Dr. Price and Dr. Jebb.”

Again, on the 15th of October, 1785, he informs the American 
Secretary—“that though it is manifestly as much the interest of Great 
Britain to be well with us, as for us to be well with them, yet this 
is not the judgment of the English nation; it is not the judgment of 
Lord North and his party; it is not the judgment of the Duke of 
Portland and his friends, and it does not appear to be the judgment of 
Mr. Pitt and the present set. In short, it does not at present appear 
to be the sentiment of any body; and I am much inclined to believe 
they will try the issue of importance with us.”

In his two last letters, the one dated in November, the other in 
December, 1787, we find the following passages—“If she [England] can 
bind Holland in her shackles, and France, from internal dissension, is 
unable to interfere, she will make war immediately against us. No 
answer is made to any of my memorials, or letters to the ministry, nor 
do I expect that any thing will be done while I stay.”


RECOLLECTIONS OF COLERIDGE.

_Letters, Conversations and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge. New 
York: Harper and Brothers._

We feel even a deeper interest in this book than in the late 
Table-Talk. But with us (we are not ashamed to confess it) the most 
trivial memorial of Coleridge is a treasure of inestimable price. He 
was indeed a “myriad-minded man,” and ah, how little understood, and 
how pitifully villified! How merely nominal was the difference (and 
this too in his own land) between what he himself calls the “broad, 
pre-determined abuse” of the Edinburgh Review, and the cold and brief 
compliments with the warm _regrets_ of the Quarterly. If there be any 
one thing more than another which stirs within us a deep spirit of 
indignation and disgust, it is that damnation of faint praise which so 
many of the Narcissi of critical literature have had the infinite 
presumption to breathe against the majesty of Coleridge—of 
Coleridge—the man to whose gigantic mind the proudest intellects of 
Europe found it impossible not to succumb. And as no man was more 
richly-gifted with all the elements of mental renown, so none was more 
fully worthy of the love and veneration of every truly good man. Even 
through the exertion of his great powers he sought no immediate 
worldly advantages. To use his own words, he not only sacrificed all 
present prospects of wealth and advancement, but, in his inmost soul, 
stood aloof from temporary reputation. In the volume now before us, we 
behold the heart, as in his own works we have beheld the mind, of the 
man. And surely nothing can be more elevating, nothing more cheering 
than this contemplation, to one who has faith in the possible virtue, 
and pride in the possible dignity of mankind. The book is written, we 
believe, by one of the poet's most intimate friends—one too in whom we 
recognize a familiarity with the thoughts, and sympathy with the 
feelings of his subject. It consists of letters, conversations, and 
fragmentary recollections, interspersed with comment by the compiler, 
and dedicated to “Elizabeth and Robin, the Fairy Prattler, and still 
Meek Boy of the Letters.” The letters are by far the most valuable 
part of the compilation—although all is truly so. A portion of one of 
them we copy as affording a picture, never surpassed, of great mental 
power conscious of its greatness, and tranquilly submitting to the 
indignities of the world.


But enough of these generals. It was my purpose to open myself out to 
you in detail. My health, I have reason to believe, is so intimately 
connected with the state of my spirits, and these again so dependant 
on my thoughts, prospective and retrospective, that I should not doubt 
the being favored with a sufficiency for my noblest undertaking, had I 
the ease of heart requisite for the necessary abstraction of the 
thoughts, and such a reprieve from the goading of the immediate 
exigencies as might make tranquillity possible. But, alas! I know by 
experience (and the knowledge is not the less because the regret is 
not unmixed with self-blame, and the consciousness of want of exertion 
and fortitude,) that my health will continue to decline as long as the 
pain from reviewing the barrenness of the past is great in an inverse 
proportion to any rational anticipations of the future. As I now am, 
however, from five to six hours devoted to actual writing and 
composition in the day is the utmost that my strength, not to speak of 
my nervous system, will permit; and the invasions on this portion of 
my time from applications, often of the most senseless kind, are such 
and so many as to be almost as ludicrous even to myself as they are 
vexatious. In less than a week I have not seldom received half a dozen 
packets or parcels of works, printed or manuscript, urgently 
requesting my candid _judgment_, or my correcting hand. Add to these, 
letters from lords and ladies, urging me to write reviews or puffs of 
heaven-born geniuses, whose whole merit consists in being ploughmen or 
shoemakers. Ditto from actors; entreaties for money, or 
recommendations to publishers, from ushers out of place, &c. &c.; and 
to _me_, who have neither interest, influence, nor money, and, what is 
still more _àpropos_, can neither bring myself to tell smooth 
falsehoods nor harsh truths, and, in the struggle, too often do both 
in the anxiety to do neither. I have already the _written_ materials 
and contents, requiring only to be put together, from the loose papers 
and commonplace or memorandum books, and needing no other change, 
whether of omission, addition, or correction, than the mere act of 
arranging, and the opportunity of seeing the whole collectively bring 
with them of course,—I. Characteristics of Shakspeare's Dramatic 
Works, with a Critical Review of each Play; together with a relative 
and comparative Critique on the kind and degree of the Merits and 
Demerits of the Dramatic Works of Ben Johnson, Beaumont and Fletcher, 
and Massinger. The History of the English Drama; the accidental 
advantages it afforded to Shakspeare, without in the least detracting 
from the perfect originality or proper creation of the {452} 
Shakspearian Drama; the contradistinction of the latter from the Greek 
Drama, and its still remaining _uniqueness_, with the causes of this, 
from the combined influences of Shakspeare himself, as man, poet, 
philosopher, and finally, by conjunction of all these, dramatic poet; 
and of the age, events, manners, and state of the English language. 
This work, with every art of compression, amounts to three volumes of 
about five hundred pages each.—II. Philosophical Analysis of the 
Genius and Works of Dante, Spenser, Milton, Cervantes, and Calderon, 
with similar, but more compressed, Criticisms on Chaucer, Ariosto, 
Donne, Rabelais, and others, during the predominance of the Romantic 
Poetry. In one large volume. These two works will, I flatter myself, 
form a complete code of the principles of judgment and feeling applied 
to Works of Taste; and not of _Poetry_ only, but of Poesy in all its 
forms, Painting, Statuary, Music, &c. &c.—III. The History of 
Philosophy considered as a Tendency of the Human Mind to exhibit the 
Powers of the Human Reason, to discover by its own Strength the Origin 
and Laws of Man and the World, from Pythagoras to Locke and Condillac. 
Two volumes.—IV. Letters on the Old and New Testaments, and on the 
Doctrine and Principles held in common by the Fathers and Founders of 
the Reformation, addressed to a Candidate for Holy Orders; including 
Advice on the Plan and Subjects of Preaching, proper to a Minister of 
the Established Church.

To the completion of these four works I have literally nothing more to 
do than _to transcribe_; but as I before hinted, from so many scraps 
and _Sibylline_ leaves, including margins of books and blank pages, 
that, unfortunately, I must be my own scribe, and not done by myself, 
they will be all but lost; or perhaps (as has been too often the case 
already) furnish feathers for the caps of others; some for this 
purpose, and some to plume the arrows of detraction, to be let fly 
against the luckless bird from whom they had been plucked or moulted.

In addition to these—of my GREAT WORK, to the preparation of which 
more than twenty years of my life have been devoted, and on which my 
hopes of extensive and permanent utility, of fame, in the noblest 
sense of the word, mainly rest—that, by which I might,

  “As now by thee, by all the good be known,
     When this weak frame lies moulder'd in the grave,
   Which self-surviving I might call my own,
     Which Folly cannot mar, nor Hate deprave—
   The incense of those powers, which, risen in flame,
   Might make me dear to Him from whom they came.”

Of this work, to which all my other writings (unless I except my 
poems, and these I can exclude in part only) are introductory and 
preparative; and the result of which (if the premises be, as I, with 
the most tranquil assurance, am convinced they are—insubvertible, the 
deductions legitimate, and the conclusions commensurate, and only 
commensurate, with both,) must finally be a revolution of all that has 
been called _Philosophy_ or Metaphysics in England and France since 
the era of the commencing predominance of the mechanical system at the 
restoration of our second Charles, and with this the present 
fashionable views, not only of religion, morals, and politics, but 
even of the modern physics and physiology. You will not blame the 
earnestness of my expressions, nor the high importance which I attach 
to this work; for how, with less noble objects, and less faith in 
their attainment, could I stand acquitted of folly and abuse of time, 
talents, and learning, in a labor of three fourths of my 
_intellectual_ life? Of this work, something more than a volume has 
been dictated by me, so as to exist fit for the press, to my friend 
and enlightened pupil, Mr. Green; and more than as much again would 
have been evolved and delivered to paper, but that, for the last six 
or eight months, I have been compelled to break off our weekly 
meeting, from the necessity of writing (alas! alas! of _attempting_ to 
write) for purposes, and on the subjects of the passing day. Of my 
poetic works, I would fain finish the Christabel. Alas! for the proud 
time when I planned, when I had present to my mind the materials, as 
well as the scheme of the hymns entitled, Spirit, Sun, Earth, Air, 
Water, Fire, and Man; and the epic poem on—what still appears to me 
the one only fit subject remaining for an epic poem—Jerusalem besieged 
and destroyed by Titus.

And here comes my dear friend; here comes my sorrow and my weakness, 
my grievance and my confession. Anxious to perform the duties of the 
day arising out of the wants of the day, these wants, too, presenting 
themselves in the most painful of all forms,—that of a debt owing to 
those who will not exact it, and yet need its payment, and the delay, 
the long (not live-long but _death_-long) behindhand of my accounts to 
friends, whose utmost care and frugality on the one side, and industry 
on the other, the wife's management and the husband's assiduity are 
put in requisition to make both ends meet,—I am at once forbidden to 
attempt, and too perplexed earnestly to pursue, the _accomplishment_ 
of the works worthy of me, those I mean above enumerated,—even if, 
savagely as I have been injured by one of the two influensive Reviews, 
and with more effective enmity undermined by the utter silence or 
occasional detractive compliments of the other,[5] I had the probable 
chance of disposing of them to the booksellers, so as even to 
liquidate my mere boarding accounts during the time expended in the 
transcription, arrangement, and proof correction. And yet, on the 
other hand, my heart and mind are for ever recurring to them. Yes, my 
conscience forces me to plead guilty. I have only by fits and starts 
even prayed. I have not prevailed on myself to pray to God in 
sincerity and entireness for the fortitude that might enable me to 
resign myself to the abandonment of all my life's best hopes, to say 
boldly to myself,—“Gifted with powers confessedly above mediocrity, 
aided by an education, of which, no less from almost unexampled 
hardships and sufferings than from manifold and peculiar advantages, I 
have never yet found a parallel, I have devoted myself to a life of 
unintermitted reading, thinking, meditating, and observing. I have not 
only sacrificed all worldly prospects of wealth and advancement, but 
have in my inmost soul stood aloof from temporary reputation. In 
consequence of these toils and this self-dedication, I possess a calm 
and clear consciousness, that in many and most important departments 
of truth and beauty I have outstrode my contemporaries, those at least 
of highest name; that the number of my printed works bears witness 
that I have not been idle, and the seldom acknowledged, but strictly 
_proveable_, effects of my labors appropriated to the immediate 
welfare of my age in the Morning Post before and during the peace of 
Amiens, in the Courier afterward, and in the series and various 
subjects of my lectures at Bristol and at the Royal and Surrey 
Institutions, in Fetter Lane, at Willis's Rooms, and at the Crown and 
Anchor (add to which the unlimited freedom of my communications in 
colloquial life), may surely be allowed as evidence that I have not 
been useless in my generation. But, from circumstances, the _main_ 
portion of my harvest is still on the ground, ripe indeed, and only 
waiting, a few for the sickle, but a large part only for the 
_sheaving_, and carting, and housing, but from all this I must turn 
away, must let them rot as they lie, and be as though they never had 
been, for I must go and gather blackberries and earth-nuts, or pick 
mushrooms and gild oak-apples for the palates and fancies of chance 
customers. I must abrogate the name of philosopher and poet, and 
scribble as fast as I can, and with as little thought as I can, for 
Blackwood's Magazine, or, as I have been employed for the last days, 
in writing MS. sermons for lazy clergymen, who stipulate that the 
composition must not be more than respectable, for fear they should be 
desired to publish the visitation sermon!” This I have not yet had 
courage to do. My soul sickens and my heart sinks; {453} and thus, 
oscillating between both, I do neither, neither as it ought to be 
done, or to any profitable end. If I were to detail only the various, 
I might say capricious, interruptions that have prevented the 
finishing of this very scrawl, begun on the very day I received your 
last kind letter, you would need no other illustrations.

[Footnote 5: Neither my Literary Life, (2 vols.) nor Sibylline Leaves, 
(1 vol.) nor Friend, (3 vols.) nor Lay Sermons, nor Zapolya, nor 
Christabel, have ever been noticed by the Quarterly Review, of which 
Southey is yet the main support.]

Now I see but one possible plan of rescuing my permanent utility. It 
is briefly this, and plainly. For what we struggle with inwardly, we 
find at least easiest to _bolt out_, namely,—that of engaging from the 
circle of those who think respectfully and hope highly of my powers 
and attainments a yearly sum, for three or four years, adequate to my 
actual support, with such comforts and decencies of appearance as my 
health and habits have made necessaries, so that my mind may be 
unanxious as far as the present time is concerned; that thus I should 
stand both enabled and pledged to begin with some one work of these 
above mentioned, and for two thirds of my whole time to devote myself 
to this exclusively till finished, to take the chance of its success 
by the best mode of publication that would involve me in no risk, then 
to proceed with the next, and so on till the works above mentioned as 
already in full material existence should be reduced into formal and 
actual being; while in the remaining third of my time I might go on 
maturing and completing my great work (for if but easy in mind I have 
no doubt either of the reawakening power or of the kindling 
inclination,) and my Christabel, and what else the happier hour might 
inspire—and without inspiration a barrel-organ may be played right 
deftly; but

  “All otherwise the state of _poet_ stands:
   For lordly want is such a tyrant fell,
   That where he rules all power he doth expel.
   The vaunted verse a vacant head demands,
   Ne wont with crabbed Care the muses dwell:
  _Unwisely weaves who takes two webs in hand!_”

Now Mr. Green has offered to contribute from 30_l._ to 40_l._ yearly, 
for three or four years; my young friend and pupil, the son of one of 
my dearest old friends, 50_l._; and I think that from 10_l._ to 20_l._ 
I could rely upon from another. The sum required would be about 
200_l._, to be repaid, of course, should the disposal or sale, and as 
far as the disposal and sale of my writings produced the means.

I have thus placed before you at large, wanderingly as well as 
diffusely, the statement which I am inclined to send in a compressed 
form to a few of those of whose kind dispositions towards me I have 
received assurances,—and to their interest and influence I must leave 
it—anxious, however, before I do this, to learn from you your very, 
very inmost feeling and judgment as to the previous questions. Am I 
entitled, have I earned _a right_ to do this? Can I do it without 
moral degradation? and, lastly, can it be done without loss of 
character in the eyes of my acquaintance, and of my friends' 
acquaintance, who may have been informed of the circumstances? That, 
if attempted at all, it will be attempted in such a way, and that such 
persons only will be spoken to, as will not expose me to indelicate 
rebuffs to be afterward matter of gossip, I know those to whom I shall 
entrust the statement, too well to be much alarmed about.

Pray let me either see or hear from you as soon as possible; for, 
indeed and indeed, it is no inconsiderable accession to the pleasure I 
anticipate from disembarrassment, that _you_ would have to contemplate 
in a more gracious form, and in a more ebullient play of the inward 
fountain, the mind and manners of,

  My dear friend,
  Your obliged and very affectionate friend,
                                S. T. COLERIDGE.


It has always been a matter of wonder to us that the _Biographia 
Literaria_ here mentioned in the foot note has never been republished 
in America. It is, perhaps, the most deeply interesting of the prose 
writings of Coleridge, and affords a clearer view into his mental 
constitution than any other of his works. Why cannot some of our 
publishers undertake it? They would be rendering an important service 
to the cause of psychological science in America, by introducing a 
work of great scope and power in itself, and well calculated to do 
away with the generally received impression here entertained of the 
_mysticism_ of the writer.


COLTON'S NEW WORK.

_Thoughts on the Religious State of the Country; with Reasons for 
preferring Episcopacy. By Rev. Calvin Colton. New York: Harper & 
Brothers._

If we are to consider opinions of the press, when in perfect 
accordance throughout so wide a realm as the United States, as a fair 
criterion by which to estimate the opinions of the people, then it 
must be admitted that Mr. Colton's late work, “Four Years in Great 
Britain,” was received, in the author's native land at least, with 
universal approbation. We heard not a dissenting voice. The candor, 
especially—the good sense, the gentlemanly feeling, and the accurate 
and acute observation of the traveller, were the daily themes of high, 
and, we have no doubt, of well merited panegyric. Nor in any private 
circle, we believe, were the great merits of the work disputed. The 
book now before us, which bears the running title of “_Reasons for 
Episcopacy_,” is, it cannot be denied, a sufficiently well-written 
performance, in which is evident a degree of lucid arrangement, and 
simple perspicuous reason, not to be discovered, as a prevailing 
feature, in the volumes to which we have alluded. The _candor_ of the 
“_Four Years in Great Britain_,” is more particularly manifest in the 
“_Reasons for Episcopacy_.” What a lesson in dignified frankness, to 
say nothing of common sense, may the following passage afford to many 
a dunder-headed politician!


Inasmuch as it has been supposed by some, that the author of these 
pages has made certain demonstrations with his pen against that which 
he now adopts and advocates, it is not unlikely that his consistency 
will be brought in question. Admitting that he has manifested such an 
inclination, it can only be said, that he has changed his opinion, 
which it is in part the design of this book to set forth, with the 
reasons thereof. If he has written against, and in the conflict, or in 
any train of consequences, has been convinced that his former position 
was wrong, the least atonement he can make is to honor what he now 
regards as truth with a profession as public, and a defence as 
earnest, as any other doings of his on the other side. It is due to 
himself to say and to claim, that while he remained a Presbyterian he 
was an honest one; and it would be very strange if he had never done 
or said any thing to vindicate that ground. Doubtless he has. He may 
now be an equally honest Episcopalian; and charity would not require 
him to assert it.


But the truth is that Mr. Colton has been misunderstood. To be sure, 
he has frequently treated of the evils attending the existence and 
operation of the church establishment in England—the union of Church 
and State. He manifested deep sympathy for those who suffered under 
the oppression of this establishment, and even allowed himself to be 
carried so far (in some early communications on the subject which 
appeared in the columns of a New York weekly paper,) as to animadvert 
in unbecoming terms upon a class of British {454} clergymen, whose 
exemplary conduct deserved a more lenient treatment, but whose zeal 
for the Church of England blinded them to a sense of justice towards 
Dissenters, and induced them to oppose that just degree of reform 
which would have proved effectual in remedying the great causes of 
complaint. He contended, however, if we are not greatly in error, that 
total reform, to be safe, must be slow—that a separation at a single 
blow, could not be effected without great hazard to the public 
interest, and great derangement of private society.

It is even possible (and Mr. Colton himself admits the possibility) 
that, mingled up with these animadversions of which we speak, might 
have been some censures upon the Church itself. This was nothing more 
than natural in an honest and indignant man—an American too, who 
beheld the vices of the British Church Establishment. But it appears 
to us quite evident, that the strictures of the author (when 
considered as a whole and in their general bearing,) have reference to 
the character—not of the Church—but of the Church of England. Let us 
turn, for an exemplification of what we say, to his chapter on “The 
Church of England,” in the “_Four Years in Great Britain_.” This 
chapter consists principally of a collection of facts, tending to show 
the evils of a conjoined Church and State, and intended especially for 
the perusal of Americans. It is great injustice to confound what we 
find here, with an attack upon Episcopacy. Yet it seems to us, that 
this chapter has been repeatedly so misunderstood, by a set of people 
who are determined to understand every thing in their own particular 
fashion. “That Episcopacy,” says Mr. Colton, in vindicating himself 
from the charge adduced, “is the established Church of England is an 
accident. Presbyterianism is the established religion of Scotland and 
of some parts of the north of Europe. So was it of England under the 
Protectorate of Cromwell. No matter what had been the form of the 
established religion of Great Britain, in the same circumstances the 
results must have been substantially the same. It is not Episcopacy 
that has induced these evils, but the vicious and impracticable plan 
of uniting Church and State for the benefit of society.”

While in England Mr. Colton wrote and published a book on the subject 
of _Revivals_, and declared himself their advocate. In the fifth 
chapter of his present work he opposes them, and in the Preface 
alludes to his so doing, maintaining that these religious excitements 
are materially changed in their character. He speaks also of a chapter 
in a former work, entitled “_The Americans, by an American in 
England_”—a chapter devoted to the removal of aspersions cast in 
England upon the developments of religion in America. For some such 
defence it appears that he was called upon by friends. The effort 
itself was, as Mr. C. assures us, of the nature of an 
_apology_—neither attempting to recommend or establish any thing—and 
he thus excuses himself for apparent inconsistency in now declaring an 
opinion against the expediency of the practices which were 
scandalized.

The _Episcopacy_ of Mr. Colton will be read with pleasure and profit 
by all classes of the Christian community who admire perspicuity, 
liberality, frankness, and unprejudiced inquiry. It is not our purpose 
to speak of the general accuracy of his _data_, or the soundness of 
his deductions. In style the work appears to us excessively 
faulty—even uncouth.


MAURY'S NAVIGATION.

This volume, from an officer of our Navy, and a Virginian, strongly 
commends itself to notice. The works at present used by our navy and 
general marine, though in many respects not devoid of merit, have 
always struck us as faulty in two particulars. They aim at comprising 
a great multiplicity of details, many of which relate to matters only 
remotely bearing upon the main objects of the treatise—and they are 
deficient in that clearness of arrangement, without which, the 
numerous facts and formulæ composing the body of such works are little 
else than a mass of confusion. The extraction of the really useful 
rules and principles from the multifarious matters with which they are 
thus encumbered, is a task for which seamen are little likely to have 
either time or inclination, and it is therefore not surprising that 
our highly intelligent navy exhibits so many instances of imperfect 
knowledge upon points which are elementary and fundamental in the 
science of navigation.

We think that Mr. Maury has, to a considerable degree, avoided the 
errors referred to; and while his work comprises a sufficient and even 
copious statement of the rules and facts important to be known in the 
direction of a ship, he has succeeded, by a judicious arrangement of 
particulars and by clearly wrought numerical examples, in presenting 
them in a disembarrassed and very intelligible form. With great 
propriety he has rejected many statements and rules which in the 
progress of nautical science have fallen into disuse, and in his 
selection of methods of computation, has, in general, kept in view 
those modern improvements in this branch of practical mathematics in 
which simplicity and accuracy are most happily combined. Much 
attention to numerical correctness seems to pervade the work. Its 
style is concise without being obscure. The diagrams are selected with 
taste, and the engraving and typography, especially that of the 
tables, are worthy of the highest praise.

Such, we think, are the merits of the work before us—merits which, it 
must be admitted, are of the first importance in a book designed for a 
practical manual. To attain them required the exercise of a 
discriminating judgment, guided by a thorough acquaintance with all 
the points in nautical science which are of interest to seamen.

There are particulars in the work which we think objectionable, but 
they are of minor importance, and would probably be regarded as 
scarcely deserving criticism.

The spirit of literary improvement has been awakened among the 
officers of our gallant navy. We are pleased to see that science also 
is gaining votaries from its ranks. Hitherto how little have they 
improved the golden opportunities of knowledge which their distant 
voyages held forth, and how little have they enjoyed the rich banquet 
which nature spreads for them in every clime they visit! But the time 
is coming when, imbued with a taste for science and a spirit of 
research, they will become ardent explorers of the regions in which 
{455} they sojourn. Freighted with the knowledge which observation 
only can impart, and enriched with collections of objects precious to 
the student of nature, their return after the perils of a distant 
voyage will then be doubly joyful. The enthusiast in science will 
anxiously await their coming, and add his cordial welcome to the warm 
greetings of relatives and friends.


UPS AND DOWNS.

_Ups and Downs in the Life of a Distressed Gentleman. By the author of 
“Tales and Sketches, such as they are.” New York: Leavitt, Lord & Co._

This book is a public imposition. It is a duodecimo volume, of the 
usual novel size, bound in the customary muslin cover with a gilt 
stamp on the back, and containing 225 pages of letter press. Its 
price, in the bookstores, is, we believe, a dollar. Although we are in 
the habit of reading with great deliberation, not unfrequently 
perusing individual passages more than two or three times, we were 
occupied _little better than one hour_ in getting through with the 
whole of the “_Ups and Downs_.” A full page of the book—that is, a 
page in which there are no breaks in the matter occasioned by 
paragraphs, or otherwise, embraces precisely 150 words—an average page 
about 130. A full page of this our Magazine, will be found to contain 
1544 words—an average page about 1600, owing to the occasional notes 
in a smaller type than that generally used. It follows that nearly 
thirteen pages of such a volume as the “_Ups and Downs_” are required 
to make one of our own, and that in about fourteen pages such as we 
are writing, (if we consider the sixteen blank half-pages at the 
beginning of each chapter in the “_Ups and Downs_,” with the four 
pages of index) the whole of the one dollar duodecimo we are now 
called upon to review, might be laid conveniently before the public—in 
other words, that we could print nearly six of them in one of our 
ordinary numbers, (that for March for instance) the price of which is 
little more than forty cents. We give the amount of six such volumes 
then for forty cents—of one of them for very little more than a 
_fi'penny bit_. And as its price is a dollar, it is clear either that 
the matter of which the said “_Ups and Downs_” is composed, is sixteen 
times as good in quality as our own matter, and that of such Magazines 
in general, or that the author of the “_Ups and Downs_” supposes it so 
to be, or that the author of the “_Ups and Downs_” is unreasonable in 
his exactions upon the public, and is presuming very largely upon 
their excessive patience, gullibility, and good nature. We will take 
the liberty of analyzing the narrative, with a view of letting our 
readers see for themselves whether the author (or publisher) is quite 
right in estimating it at sixteen times the value of the ordinary run 
of compositions.

The volume commences with a Dedication “_To all Doating Parents_.” We 
then have four pages occupied with a content table, under the 
appellation of a “Bill of Lading.” This is well thought of. The future 
man of letters might, without some assistance of this nature, meet 
with no little trouble in searching for any particular chapter through 
so dense a mass of matter as the “_Ups and Downs_.” The “Introduction” 
fills four pages more, and in spite of the unjustifiable use of the 
word “_predicated_,” whose meaning is obviously misunderstood, is by 
much the best portion of the work—so much so, indeed, that we fancy it 
written by some kind, good-natured friend of the author. We now come 
to _Chapter I_, which proves to be Introduction the Second, and 
extends over seven pages farther. This is called “A Disquisition on 
Circles,” in which we are informed that “the motion produced by the 
_centripetal_ and _centrifugal_ forces, seems to be that of 
nature”—that “it is very true that the _periphery_ of the circles 
traversed by some objects is greater than that of others”—that “cast a 
stone into a lake or a mill-pond, and it will produce a succession of 
motions, circle following circle in order, and extending the radius 
until they disappear in the distance”—that “Time wings his flight in 
circles, and every year rolls round within itself”—that “the sun turns 
round upon his own axis, and the moon changes monthly”—that “the other 
celestial bodies all wheel their courses in circles around the common 
centre”—that “the moons of Jupiter revolve around him in circles, and 
he carries them along with him in his periodical circuit around the 
sun”—that “Saturn always moves within his rings”—that “a ship on the 
ocean, though apparently bounding over a plain of waters, rides in 
fact upon the circumference of a circle around the arch of the earth's 
diameter”—that “the lunar circle betokens a tempest”—that “those 
German principalities which are represented in the Diet are 
denominated circles”—and that “modern writers on pneumatics affirm 
every breeze that blows to be a whirlwind.”

But now commences the “_Ups and Downs_” in good earnest. The hero of 
the narrative is Mr. Wheelwright, and the author begs leave to assure 
the reader that Mr. W. is no fictitious personage, that “with the 
single abatement that names are changed, and places not precisely 
designated, every essential incident that he has recorded actually 
occurred, much as he has related it, to a person who, if not now 
living, certainly was once, and most of them under his own 
observation.”

_Chapter II_, treats of the birth and parentage of the hero. Mr. 
Daniel Wheelwright originally came from New Jersey, but resides at the 
opening of the story, in the beautiful valley of the Mohawk “on the 
banks of the river, and in a town alike celebrated for the taste of 
its people in architecture, and distinguished as a seat of learning.” 
He was early instructed by his father in the “elementary principles of 
his trade,” which was coach-making. “He was also taught in some 
branches of household carpentry work, which proved of no disadvantage 
to him in the end.” “Full of good nature he was always popular with 
the boys,” and we are told “was never so industrious as when 
manufacturing to their order little writing desks, fancy boxes, and 
other trifling articles not beyond the scope of his mechanical 
ingenuity.” We are also assured that the young gentleman was 
excessively fond of oysters.

In _Chapter III_, Daniel Wheelwright “grows up a tall and stately 
youth.” His mother “discovers a genius in him requiring only means and 
opportunity to wing an eagle-flight.” “An arrangement therefore is 
effected” by which our hero is sent to school to a “man whom the 
mother had previously known in New Jersey, and whose occupation was 
that of teaching young ideas how to shoot—not grouse and woodcock—but 
to shoot forth into scions of learning.” This is a new and excellent 
joke—but by no means so good as the one immediately {456} following, 
where we are told that “notwithstanding the natural indolence of his 
character, our hero knew that he must know something before he could 
enter college, and that in case of a failure, he must again cultivate 
more acquaintance with the _felloes_ of the shop than with the 
_fellows_ of the university.” He is sent to college, however, having 
“read _Cornelius Nepos_ and three books of the Æneid, thumbed over the 
Greek Grammar, and gone through the Gospel of St. John.”

_Chapter IV_, commences with two quotations from Shakspeare. Our hero 
is herein elected a member of the _Philo-Peithologicalethian 
Institute_, commences his debates with a “Mr. President, I _are_ in 
favor of the negative of that are question,” is “read off” at the 
close of every quarter, “advances one grade higher” in his classic 
course every year, and when about to take his degree, is “announced 
for a poem” in the _proces verbal_ of the commencement, and (one of 
the professors, if we comprehend, being called _Nott_) distinguishes 
himself by the following satirical verses—

  The warrior fights, and dies for fame—
  The empty glories of a name;—
  But we who linger round this spot,
  The warrior's guerdon covet Nott.

  Nott for the miser's glittering heap
  Within these walls is bartered sleep;
  The humble scholar's quiet lot
  With dreams of wealth is troubled Nott.

  While poring o'er the midnight lamp,
  In rooms too cold, and sometimes damp,
  O man, who land and cash hast got,
  Thy life of ease we envy Nott.

  Our troubles here are light and few;—
  An empty purse when bills fall due,
  A locker, without e'er a shot,—
  Hard recitations, or a Knot-

  Ty problem, which we can't untie—
  Our only shirt hung out to dry,—
  A chum who never pays his scot,—
  Such ills as these we value Nott.

  O, cherished *****! learning's home,
  Where'er the fates may bid us roam,
  Though friends and kindred be forgot,
  Be sure we shall forget thee Nott.

  For years of peaceful, calm content,
  To science and hard study lent,
  Though others thy good name may blot,
  T'were wondrous if we loved thee Nott.

For this happy effort he is admitted _ad gradum in artibus_, and thus 
closes chapter the fourth.

_Chapter V_, is also headed with two sentences from Shakspeare. The 
parents of Mr. W. are now inclined to make him a clergyman, being “not 
only conscientious people, but sincerely religious, and really 
desirous of doing good.” This project is dismissed, however, upon our 
hero's giving no evidence of piety, and Daniel is “entered in the 
office of an eminent medical gentleman, in one of the most beautiful 
cities which adorn the banks of the majestic Hudson.” Our author 
cannot be prevailed upon to state the precise place—but gives us 
another excellent joke by way of indemnification. “Although,” says he, 
“like Byron, I have no fear of being taken for the hero of my own 
tale, yet were I to bring matters too near their homes, but too many 
of the real characters of my narrative might be identified. Suffice 
it, then, to say of the location—_Ilium fuit_.” Daniel now becomes 
Doctor Wheelwright, reads the first chapter of _Cheselden's Anatomy_, 
visits New York, attends the lectures of Hosack and Post, “presses 
into his goblet the grapes of wisdom clustering around the tongue of 
Mitchill, and acquires the principles of surgery from the lips, and 
the skilful use of the knife from the untrembling hand, of Mott.”

At the close of his second year our hero, having completed only half 
of Cheselden's article on Osteology, relinquishes the study of 
medicine in despair, and turns merchant—purchasing “the odds and ends 
of a fashionable fancy and jobbing concern in Albany.” He is gulled 
however, by a confidential clerk, one John Smith, his store takes fire 
and burns down, and both himself and father, who indorsed for him, are 
ruined.

Mr. Wheelwright now retrieves his fortune by the accidental possession 
of a claim against government, taken by way of payment for a bad debt. 
But going to Washington to receive his money, he is inveigled into a 
lottery speculation—that is to say, he spends the whole amount of his 
claim in lottery-tickets—the manager fails—and our adventurer is again 
undone. This lottery adventure ends with the excellent joke that in 
regard to our hero there “were five _outs_ to one _in_, viz.—_out_ of 
money, and _out_ of clothes; _out_ at the heels, and _out_ at the 
toes; _out_ of credit and _in_ debt!” Mr. Wheelwright now returns to 
New York, and is thrown into prison by Messieurs Roe and Doe. In this 
emergency he sends for his friend the narrator, who, of course, 
relieves his distresses, and opens the doors of his jail.

_Chapter IX_, and indeed every ensuing chapter, commences with two 
sentences from Shakspeare. Mr. Wheelwright now becomes agent for a 
steamboat company on Lake George—but fortune still frowns, and the 
steamboat takes fire, and is burnt up, on the eve of her first trip, 
thus again ruining our hero.

“What a moment!” exclaims the author, “and what a spectacle for a 
lover of the ‘sublime and beautiful!’ Could Burke have visited such a 
scene of mingled magnificence, and grandeur and terror, what a vivid 
illustration would he not have added to his inimitable treatise on 
that subject! The fire raged with amazing fury and power—stimulated to 
madness, as it were, by the pitch and tar and dried timbers, and other 
combustible materials used in the construction of the boat. The 
nightbird screamed in terror, and the beasts of prey fled in wild 
affright into the deep and visible darkness beyond. This is truly a 
gloomy place for a lone person to stand in of a dark 
night—particularly if he has a touch of superstition. There have been 
fierce conflicts on this spot—sieges and battles and fearful 
massacres. Here hath mailed Mars sat on his altar, up to his ears in 
blood, smiling grimly at the music of echoing cannons, the shrill 
trump, and all the rude din of arms, until like the waters of Egypt, 
the lake became red as the crimson flowers that blossom upon its 
margin!” At the word margin is the following explanatory note. 
“_Lobelia Cardinalis_, commonly called the _Indian Eye-bright_. It is 
a beautiful blossom, and is frequently met with in this region. The 
writer has seen large clusters of it blooming upon the margin of the 
‘Bloody Pond’ in this neighborhood—so called from the circumstance of 
the slain being thrown into this pond, after the defeat of Baron 
Dieskau, by Sir William Johnson. The ancients would have constructed a 
beautiful legend from this incident, and sanctified the sanguinary 
flower.”

In _Chapter X_, Mr. Wheelwright marries an heiress—a rich widow worth 
thirty thousand pound sterling in prospectu—in _Chapter XI_, sets up a 
_Philomathian Institute_, the whole of the chapter being occupied with 
his {457} advertisement—in _Chapter XII_, his wife affronts the 
scholars, by “swearing by the powers she would be afther clearing them 
out—the spalpeens!—that's what she would, honies!” The school is 
broken up in consequence, and Mrs. Wheelwright herself turns out to be 
nothing more than “one of the unmarried wives of the lamented Captain 
Scarlett,” the legal representatives being in secure possession of the 
thirty thousand pounds sterling in prospectu.

In _Chapter XIII_, Mr. Wheelwright is again in distress, and applies, 
of course, to the humane author of the “_Ups and Downs_,” who gives 
him, we are assured, “an overcoat, and a little basket of provisions.” 
In _Chapter XIV_, the author continues his benevolence—gives a crow, 
(_cock-a-doodle doo!_) and concludes with “there _is_ no more 
charitable people than those of New York!” which means when translated 
into good English—“there never was a more charitable man than the wise 
and learned author of the ‘_Ups and Downs_.’”

_Chapter XV_, is in a somewhat better vein, and embraces some 
tolerable incidents in relation to the pawnbrokers' shops of New York. 
We give an extract—believing it to be one of the best passages in the 
book.


To one who would study human nature, especially in its darker 
features, there is no better field of observation than among these 
pawn-brokers' shops.

In a frequented establishment, each day unfolds an ample catalogue of 
sorrow, misery, and guilt, developed in forms and combinations almost 
innumerable; and if the history of each customer could be known, the 
result would be such a catalogue as would scarcely be surpassed, even 
by the records of a police-office or a prison. Even my brief stay 
while arranging for the redemption of Dr. Wheelwright's personals, 
afforded materials, as indicated in the last chapter, for much and 
painful meditation.

I had scarcely made my business known, at the first of “my uncle's” 
establishments to which I had been directed, when a middle-aged man 
entered with a bundle, on which he asked a small advance, and which, 
on being opened, was found to contain a shawl and two or three other 
articles of female apparel. The man was stout and sturdy, and, as I 
judged from his appearance, a mechanic; but the mark of the destroyer 
was on his bloated countenance, and in his heavy, stupid eyes. 
Intemperance had marked him for his own. The pawn-broker was yet 
examining the offered pledge, when a woman, whose pale face and 
attenuated form bespoke long and intimate acquaintance with sorrow, 
came hastily into the shop, and with the single exclamation, “O, 
Robert!” darted, rather than ran, to that part of the counter where 
the man was standing. Words were not wanted to explain her story. Her 
miserable husband, not satisfied with wasting his own earnings, and 
leaving her to starve with her children, had descended to the meanness 
of plundering even her scanty wardrobe, and the pittance for the 
obtaining of which this robbery would furnish means, was destined to 
be squandered at the tippling-house. A blush of shame arose even upon 
his degraded face, but it quickly passed away; the brutal appetite 
prevailed, and the better feeling that had apparently stirred within 
him for the moment, soon gave way before its diseased and insatiate 
cravings.

“Go home,” was his harsh and angry exclamation; “what brings you here, 
running after me with your everlasting scolding? go home, and mind 
your own business.”

“O Robert, dear Robert!” answered the unhappy wife, “don't pawn my 
shawl. Our children are crying for bread, and I have none to give 
them. Or let me have the money; it is hard to part with that shawl, 
for it was my mother's gift; but I will let it go, rather than see my 
children starve. Give me the money, Robert, and don't leave us to 
perish.”

I watched the face of the pawn-broker to see what effect this appeal 
would have upon him, but I watched in vain. He was hardened to 
distress, and had no sympathy to throw away. “Twelve shillings on 
these things,” he said, tossing them back to the drunkard, with a look 
of perfect indifference.

“Only twelve shillings!” murmured the heart-broken wife, in a tone of 
despair. “O Robert, don't let them go for twelve shillings. Let me try 
some where else.”

“Nonsense,” answered the brute. “It's as much as they're worth, I 
suppose. Here, Mr. Crimp, give us the change.”

The money was placed before him, and the bundle consigned to a drawer. 
The poor woman reached forth her hand toward the silver, but the 
movement was anticipated by her husband. “There Mary,” he said, giving 
her half a dollar, “there, go home now, and don't make a fuss. I'm 
going a little way up the street, and perhaps I'll bring you something 
from market, when I come home.”

The hopeless look of the poor woman, as she meekly turned to the door, 
told plainly enough how little she trusted to this ambiguous promise. 
They went on their way, she to her famishing children, and he to 
squander the dollar he had retained, at the next den of intemperance.


_Chapter XVI_, is entitled the “end of this eventful history.” Mr. 
Wheelwright is rescued from the hands of the watch by the author of 
the “_Ups and Downs_”—turns his wife, very justly, out of doors—and 
finally returns to his parental occupation of coach-making.

We have given the entire pith and marrow of the book. The term _flat_, 
is the only general expression which would apply to it. It is written, 
we believe, by Col. Stone of the New York Commercial Advertiser, and 
should have been printed among the quack advertisements, in a spare 
corner of his paper.


WATKINS TOTTLE.

_Watkins Tottle, and other Sketches, illustrative of every-day Life, 
and every-day People. By Boz. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

This book is a re-publication from the English original, and many of 
its sketches are with us old and highly esteemed acquaintances. In 
regard to their author we know nothing more than that he is a far more 
pungent, more witty, and better disciplined writer of sly articles, 
than nine-tenths of the Magazine writers in Great Britain—which is 
saying much, it must be allowed, when we consider the great variety of 
genuine talent, and earnest application brought to bear upon the 
periodical literature of the mother country.

The very first passage in the volumes before us, will convince any of 
our friends who are knowing in the requisites of “a good thing,” that 
we are doing our friend Boz no more than the simplest species of 
justice. Hearken to what he says of Matrimony and of Mr. Watkins 
Tottle.


Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. Like an overweening 
predilection for brandy and water, it is a misfortune into which a man 
easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to 
extricate himself. It is no use telling a man who is timorous on these 
points, that it is but one plunge and all is over. They say the same 
thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive about as 
much comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other.

{458} Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong 
uxorious inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial 
timidity. He was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches 
and three quarters in his socks—for he never stood in stockings at 
all—plump, clean and rosy. He looked something like a vignette to one 
of Richardson's novels, and had a clean cravatish formality of manner, 
and kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself 
might have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to 
the individual who received it in one respect—it was rather small. He 
received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he 
ran himself out about a day after the expiration of the first week, as 
regularly as an eight-day clock, and then, to make the comparison 
complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular 
tick.


It is not every one who can put “a good thing” properly together, 
although, perhaps, when thus properly put together, every tenth person 
you meet with may be capable of both conceiving and appreciating it. 
We cannot bring ourselves to believe that less actual ability is 
required in the composition of a really good “brief article,” than in 
a fashionable novel of the usual dimensions. The novel certainly 
requires what is denominated a sustained effort—but this is a matter 
of mere perseverance, and has but a collateral relation to talent. On 
the other hand—unity of effect, a quality not easily appreciated or 
indeed comprehended by an ordinary mind, and a _desideratum_ difficult 
of attainment, even by those who can conceive it—is indispensable in 
the “brief article,” and not so in the common novel. The latter, if 
admired at all, is admired for its detached passages, without 
reference to the work as a whole—or without reference to any general 
design—which, if it even exist in some measure, will be found to have 
occupied but little of the writer's attention, and cannot, from the 
length of the narrative, be taken in at one view, by the reader.

The Sketches by Boz are all exceedingly well managed, and never fail 
to _tell_ as the author intended. They are entitled, Passage in the 
Life of Mr. Watkins Tottle—The Black Veil—Shabby Genteel 
People—Horatio Sparkins—The Pawnbroker's Shop—The Dancing 
Academy—Early Coaches—The River—Private Theatres—The Great Winglebury 
Duel—Omnibuses—Mrs. Joseph Porter—The Steam Excursion—Sentiment—The 
Parish—Miss Evans and the Eagle—Shops and their Tenants—Thoughts about 
People—A Visit to Newgate—London Recreations—The 
Boarding-House—Hackney-Coach Stands—Brokers and Marine Store-Shops—The 
Bloomsbury Christening—Gin Shops—Public Dinners—Astley's—Greenwich 
Fair—The Prisoner's Van—and A Christmas Dinner. The reader who has 
been so fortunate as to have perused any one of these pieces, will be 
fully aware of how great a fund of racy entertainment is included in 
the Bill of Fare we have given. There are here some as well conceived 
and well written papers as can be found in any other collection of the 
kind—many of them we would especially recommend, as a study, to those 
who turn their attention to Magazine writing—a department in which, 
generally, the English as far excel us as Hyperion a Satyr.

The _Black Veil_, in the present series, is distinct in character from 
all the rest—an act of stirring tragedy, and evincing lofty powers in 
the writer. Broad humor is, however, the prevailing feature of the 
volumes. _The Dancing Academy_ is a vivid sketch of Cockney low life, 
which may probably be considered as somewhat too _outré_ by those who 
have no experience in the matter. _Watkins Tottle_ is excellent. We 
should like very much to copy the whole of the article entitled 
_Pawnbrokers' Shops_, with a view of contrasting its matter and manner 
with the insipidity of the passage we have just quoted on the same 
subject from the “_Ups and Downs_” of Colonel Stone, and by way of 
illustrating our remarks on the _unity of effect_—but this would, 
perhaps, be giving too much of a good thing. It will be seen by those 
who peruse both these articles, that in that of the American, two or 
three anecdotes are told which have merely a relation—a very shadowy 
relation, to pawn-broking—in short, they are barely elicited by this 
theme, have no necessary dependence upon it, and might be introduced 
equally well in connection with any one of a million other subjects. 
In the sketch of the Englishman we have no anecdotes at all—the 
_Pawnbroker's Shop_ engages and enchains our attention—we are 
enveloped in its atmosphere of wretchedness and extortion—we pause at 
every sentence, not to dwell upon the sentence, but to obtain a fuller 
view of the gradually perfecting picture—which is never at any moment 
any other matter than the _Pawnbroker's Shop_. To the illustration of 
this one end all the _groupings_ and _fillings in_ of the painting are 
rendered subservient—and when our eyes are taken from the canvass, we 
remember the personages of the sketch not at all as independent 
existences, but as essentials of the one subject we have witnessed—as 
a part and portion of the _Pawnbroker's Shop_. So perfect, and 
never-to-be-forgotten a picture cannot be brought about by any such 
trumpery exertion, or still more trumpery talent, as we find employed 
in the ineffective daubing of Colonel Stone. The scratchings of a 
schoolboy with a slate-pencil on a slate might as well be compared to 
the groupings of Buonarotti.

We conclude by strongly recommending the Sketches of Boz to the 
attention of American readers, and by copying the whole of his article 
on Gin Shops.


It is a very remarkable circumstance, that different trades appear to 
partake of the disease to which elephants and dogs are especially 
liable; and to run stark, staring, raving mad, periodically. The great 
distinction between the animals and the trades is, that the former run 
mad with a certain degree of propriety—they are very regular in their 
irregularities. You know the period at which the emergency will arise, 
and provide against it accordingly. If an elephant run mad, you are 
all ready for him—kill or cure—pills or bullets—calomel in conserve of 
roses, or lead in a musket-barrel. If a dog happen to look 
unpleasantly warm in the summer months, and to trot about the shady 
side of the streets with a quarter of a yard of tongue hanging out of 
his mouth, a thick leather muzzle, which has been previously prepared 
in compliance with the thoughtful injunction of the Legislature, is 
instantly clapped over his head, by way of making him cooler, and he 
either looks remarkably unhappy for the next six weeks, or becomes 
legally insane, and goes mad, as it were, by act of Parliament. But 
these trades are as eccentric as comets; nay, worse; for no one can 
calculate on the recurrence of the strange appearances which betoken 
the disease: moreover, the contagion is general, and the quickness 
with which it diffuses itself almost incredible.

We will cite two or three cases in illustration of our meaning. Six or 
eight years ago the epidemic began to display itself among the 
linen-drapers and haberdashers. The primary symptoms were, an 
inordinate love of plate-glass, and a passion for gas-lights and {459} 
gilding. The disease gradually progressed, and at last attained a 
fearful height. Quiet, dusty old shops, in different parts of town, 
were pulled down; spacious premises, with stuccoed fronts and gold 
letters, were erected instead; floors were covered with Turkey 
carpets, roofs supported by massive pillars, doors knocked into 
windows, a dozen squares of glass into one, one shopman into a 
dozen,—and there is no knowing what would have been done, if it had 
not been fortunately discovered, just in time, that the Commissioners 
of Bankrupts were as competent to decide such cases as the 
Commissioners of Lunacy, and that a little confinement and gentle 
examination did wonders. The disease abated; it died away; and a year 
or two of comparative tranquillity ensued. Suddenly it burst out again 
among the chemists; the symptoms were the same, with the addition of a 
strong desire to stick the royal arms over the shop-door, and a great 
rage for mahogany, varnish, and expensive floor-cloth: then the 
hosiers were infected, and began to pull down their shop-fronts with 
frantic recklessness. The mania again died away, and the public began 
to congratulate themselves upon its entire disappearance, when it 
burst forth with ten-fold violence among the publicans and keepers of 
“wine vaults.” From that moment it has spread among them with 
unprecedented rapidity, exhibiting a concatenation of all the previous 
symptoms; and onward it has rushed to every part of town, knocking 
down all the old public-houses, and depositing splendid mansions, 
stone balustrades, rosewood fittings, immense lamps, and illuminated 
clocks, at the corner of every street.

The extensive scale on which these places are established, and the 
ostentatious manner in which the business of even the smallest among 
them is divided into branches, is most amusing. A handsome plate of 
ground glass in one door directs you “To the Counting-house;” another 
to the “Bottle Department;” a third, to the “Wholesale Department;” a 
fourth, to “The Wine Promenade,” and so forth, until we are in daily 
expectation of meeting with a “Brandy Bell,” or a “Whiskey Entrance.” 
Then ingenuity is exhausted in devising attractive titles for the 
different descriptions of gin; and the dram-drinking portion of the 
community, as they gaze upon the gigantic white and black 
announcements, which are only to be equalled in size by the figures 
beneath them, are left in a state of pleasing hesitation between “The 
Cream of the Valley,” “The Out and Out,” “The No Mistake,” “The Good 
for Mixing,” “The real knock-me-down,” “The celebrated Butter Gin,” 
“The regular Flare-up,” and a dozen other equally inviting and 
wholesome _liqueurs_. Although places of this description are to be 
met with in every second street, they are invariably numerous and 
splendid in precise proportion to the dirt and poverty of the 
surrounding neighborhood. The gin-shops in and near Drury-lane, 
Holborn, St. Giles', Covent Garden, and Clare-market, are the 
handsomest in London—there is more filth and squalid misery near those 
great thorough-fares than in any part of this mighty city.

We will endeavor to sketch the bar of a large gin-shop, and its 
ordinary customers, for the edification of such of our readers as may 
not have had opportunities of observing such scenes; and on the chance 
of finding one well suited to our purpose, we will make for Drurylane, 
through the narrow streets and dirty courts which divide it from 
Oxford-street, and that classical spot adjoining the brewery at the 
bottom of Tottenham-court-road, best known to the initiated as the 
“Rookery.” The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of London 
can hardly be imagined by those (and there are many such) who have not 
witnessed it. Wretched houses, with broken windows patched with rags 
and paper, every room let out to a different family, and in many 
instances to two, or even three: fruit and “sweet stuff” manufacturers 
in the cellars; barbers and red-herring venders in the front parlors; 
cobblers in the back; a bird-fancier in the first floor, three 
families on the second; starvation in the attics; Irishmen in the 
passage; a “musician” in the front kitchen, and a char-woman and five 
hungry children in the back one—filth every where—a gutter before the 
houses and a drain behind them—clothes drying at the windows, slops 
emptying from the ditto; girls of fourteen or fifteen, with matted 
hair, walking about bare-footed, and in old white great coats, almost 
their only covering; boys of all ages, in coats of all sizes, and no 
coats at all; men and women, in every variety of scanty and dirty 
apparel, lounging about, scolding, drinking, smoking, squabbling, 
fighting, and swearing.

You turn the corner. What a change! All is light and brilliancy. The 
hum of many voices issues from that splendid gin-shop which forms the 
commencement of the two streets opposite; and the gay building with 
the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated clock, the 
plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco rosetts, and its profusion of 
gaslights in richly gilt burners, is perfectly dazzling when 
contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior 
is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished mahogany, 
elegantly carved, extends the whole width of the place; and there are 
two side-aisles of great casks, painted green and gold, inclosed 
within a light brass rail, and bearing such inscriptions as “Old Tom, 
549;” “Young Tom, 360;” “Samson, 1421.” Behind the bar is a lofty and 
spacious saloon, full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery 
running round it, equally well furnished. On the counter, in addition 
to the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets of 
cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at the top with 
wicker-work, to prevent their contents being unlawfully abstracted. 
Behind it are two showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces, 
dispensing the spirits and “compounds.” They are assisted by the 
ostensible proprietor of the concern, a stout, coarse fellow in a fur 
cap, put on very much on one side to give him a knowing air, and 
display his sandy whiskers to the best advantage.

Look at the groups of customers, and observe the different air with 
which they call for what they want, as they are more or less struck by 
the grandeur of the establishment. The two old washerwomen, who are 
seated on the little bench to the left of the bar, are rather overcome 
by the head-dresses, and haughty demeanor of the young ladies who 
officiate; and receive their half quartern of gin-and-peppermint with 
considerable deference, prefacing a request for “one of them soft 
biscuits,” with a “Just be good enough, ma'am,” &c. They are quite 
astonished at the impudent air of the young fellow in the brown coat 
and white buttons, who, ushering in his two companions, and walking up 
to the bar in as careless a manner as if he had been used to green and 
gold ornaments all his life, winks at one of the young ladies with 
singular coolness, and calls for a “kervorten and a three-out-glass,” 
just as if the place were his own. “Gin for you, sir,” says the young 
lady when she has drawn it, carefully looking every way but the right 
one to show that the wink had no effect upon her. “For me, Mary, my 
dear,” replies the gentleman in brown. “My name an't Mary as it 
happens,” says the young girl, in a most insinuating manner, as she 
delivers the change. “Vell, if it an't, it ought to be,” responds the 
irresistible one; “all the Marys as ever I see was handsome gals.” 
Here the young lady, not precisely remembering how blushes are managed 
in such cases, abruptly ends the flirtation by addressing the female 
in the faded feathers who had just entered, and who, after stating 
explicitly, to prevent any subsequent misunderstanding that “this 
gentleman” pays, calls for “a glass of port wine and a bit of sugar,” 
the drinking which, and sipping another, accompanied by sundry 
whisperings to her companion, and no small quantity of giggling, 
occupies a considerable time.

Observe the group on the other side: those two old men who came in 
“just to have a dram,” finished their third quartern a few seconds 
ago; they have made themselves crying drunk, and the fat, comfortable 
{460} looking elderly women, who had “a glass of rum-_srub_” each, 
having chimed in with their complaints on the hardness of the times, 
one of the women has agreed to stand a glass round, jocularly 
observing that “grief never mended no broken bones, and as good 
people's wery scarce, what I says is, make the most on 'em, and that's 
all about it;” a sentiment which appears to afford unlimited 
satisfaction to those who have nothing to pay.

It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and children, who 
have been constantly going in and out, dwindles down to two or three 
occasional stragglers—cold wretched-looking creatures, in the last 
stage of emaciation and disease. The knot of Irish laborers at the 
lower end of the place, who have been alternately shaking hands with, 
and threatening the life of, each other for the last hour, become 
furious in their disputes; and finding it impossible to silence one 
man, who is particularly anxious to adjust the difference, they resort 
to the infallible expedient of knocking him down and jumping on him 
afterwards. Out rush the man in the fur cap, and the pot-boy: a scene 
of riot and confusion ensues; half the Irishmen get shut out, and the 
other half get shut in: the pot-boy is knocked in among the tubs in no 
time; the landlord hits every body, and every body hits the landlord; 
the bar-maids scream; in come the police, and the rest is a confused 
mixture of arms, legs, staves, torn coats, shouting and struggling. 
Some of the party are borne off to the station-house, and the 
remainder slink home to beat their wives for complaining, and kick the 
children for daring to be hungry.

We have sketched this subject very lightly, not only because our 
limits compel us to do so, but because, if it were pursued further, it 
would be painful and repulsive. Well-disposed gentlemen and charitable 
ladies would alike turn with coldness and disgust from a description 
of the drunken, besotted men, and wretched, broken-down, miserable 
women, who form no inconsiderable portion of the frequenters of these 
haunts; forgetting, in the pleasant consciousness of their own high 
rectitude, the poverty of the one, and the temptation of the other. 
Gin-drinking is a great vice in England, but poverty is a greater; and 
until you can cure it, or persuade a half-famished wretch not to seek 
relief in the temporary oblivion of his own misery, with the pittance 
which, divided among his family, would just furnish a morsel of bread 
for each, gin-shops will increase in number and splendor. If 
Temperance Societies could suggest an antidote against hunger and 
distress, or establish dispensaries for the gratuitous distribution of 
bottles of Lethe-water, gin-palaces would be numbered among the things 
that were. Until then, their decrease may be despaired of.


FLORA AND THALIA.

_Flora and Thalia; or Gems of Flowers and Poetry: being an 
Alphabetical Arrangement of Flowers, with appropriate Poetical 
Illustrations, embellished with Colored Plates. By a Lady. To which is 
added a Botanical Description of the various parts of a Flower, and 
the Dial of Flowers. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard._

This is a very pretty and very convenient volume, on a subject which, 
since the world began, has never failed to excite curiosity and 
sympathy in all who have a proper sense of the beautiful. It contains 
240 pages, and 24 finely colored engravings, which give a vivid idea 
of the original plants. These engravings are the _Meadow Anemone_—the 
_Harebell_—the _Christmas Rose_—the _Dahlia_—the _Evening 
Primrose_—the _Fox-Glove_—the _Heliotrope_—the _Purple Iris_—the 
_Jasmine_—the _King-Cup_—the _Lavender_—the _Mezereon_—the 
_Narcissus_—the _Orchis_—the _Clove Pink_—the _Quince_—the _Provence 
Rose_—the _Solomon's Seal_—the _Tobacco_—the _Bear Berry_—the _Violet 
Pansy_—the _Wall-Flower_—the _Yellow Water-Flag_, and the _Zedoary_. 
The bulk of the volume is occupied with poetical illustrations 
exceedingly well selected. We do not believe there is a single poem in 
the book which may not be considered above mediocrity—many are 
exquisite. The _Botanical description of the various parts of a 
Flower_, is well conceived—brief, properly arranged, and sufficiently 
comprehensive. The _Dial of Flowers_, will be especially admired by 
all our fair readers. The following extract from page 227, will give 
an idea of the nature of this _Dial_—the manner of composing which, is 
embraced entire, in the form of a Table, on page 229.


These properties of flowers, and the opening and shutting of many at 
particular times of the day, led to the idea of planting them in such 
a manner as to indicate the succession of the hours, and to make them 
supply the place of a watch or clock. Those who are disposed to try 
the experiment, may easily compose such a dial by consulting the 
following Table, comprehending the hours between three in the morning 
and eight in the evening. It is, of course, impossible to insure the 
accurate going of such a dial, because the temperature, the dryness, 
and the dampness of the air have a considerable influence on the 
opening and shutting of flowers.


We copy from the _Flora and Thalia_ the following anonymous lines.

  Alas! on thy forsaken stem
    My heart shall long recline,
  And mourn the transitory gem,
    And make the story mine!
  So on my joyless winter hour
  Has oped some fair and fragrant flower,
    With smile as soft as thine.

  Like thee the vision came and went,
    Like thee it bloomed and fell;
  In momentary pity sent,
    Of fairy climes to tell:
  So frail its form, so short its stay,
  That nought the lingering heart could say,
    But hail, and fare thee well!

       *       *       *       *       *

We are sorry to perceive that our friends of the “_Southern Literary 
Journal_” are disposed to unite with the “_Knickerbocker_” and “_New 
York Mirror_” in covert, and therefore unmanly, thrusts at the 
“_Messenger_.” It is natural that these two Journals (who refused to 
exchange with us from the first) should feel themselves aggrieved at 
our success, and we own that, bearing them no very good will, we care 
little what injury they do themselves in the public estimation by 
suffering their mortification to become apparent. But we are embarked 
in the cause of _Southern_ Literature, and (with perfect amity to all 
sections) wish to claim especially as a friend and co-operator, every 
_Southern_ Journal. We repeat, therefore, that we are grieved to see a 
disposition of hostility, entirely unprovoked, manifested on the part 
of Mr. Whittaker. He should reflect, that while we ourselves cannot 
for a moment believe him otherwise than perfectly upright and sincere 
in his animadversions upon our Magazine, still there is hardly one 
individual in ninety-nine who will not attribute every ill word he 
says of us to the instigations of jealousy.