'is a mere incubus on the already bloated back of England. The
profits derived from the trade of that colony scarcely defray the
enormous expenses of her establishments. Nor is this the worst.
The question of her boundary will one day involve us in a most
bloody and expensive war, demanded, perhaps, by national pride, but
repugnant to our most vital interests; a war, too, with a nation
of brothers, with whom we ought to have but one common view; that
of peaceably extending our laws, language, and commerce, over the
most distant part of the globe. Should there be a war, whether
England emerges from that contest vanquished or triumphant, the
consequences must be equally fatal. Alienation of the present strong
and growing friendship will result, which must tend, more or less,
to restrict the extensive commerce between the two countries, to
the great injury of Great Britain; for though the United States may
easily obtain from other countries the manufactures which she now
obtains from us, at, in the first instance, a triflingly-enhanced
price, yet the grand staple article of cotton cannot be purchased
any where so good, or on such advantageous terms, as in the United
States. The necessity imposed by war on that country of procuring
manufactured commodities elsewhere, would, no doubt, continue in a
great measure, by choice, after peace. The best thing England can do
with Canada, is to present her (with her own consent) to the United
States, or to manumit her from all colonial trammels, and declare her
independent. Thus, by enlisting the pride of the Canadians on the
side of a separate government, she may perhaps succeed in preventing
a junction between this colony and the United States--if indeed
England can be said to have any real interest in the hindrance of
such a junction. Fifty thousand men sent over to Canada, in case of
war with the United States, at the expense of twenty-five millions,
will not suffice to keep Canada from being overrun by her powerful
neighbours; all military speculations on the subject, to the contrary
notwithstanding.'
* * * * *
WHERE is the mortal who has expatriated himself, without feeling
a yearning after home? Home! magical word! bringing with it vivid
recollections of the sweetest scenes of childhood, and those days
of youth, when the mind, freed from care, bounds with joy at the
slightest favorable event! Every man, in considering his home, looks
only to the most pleasing events which occurred during his residence
there, and is apt to consider all the disagreeable circumstances of
his existence as receiving a still darker tinge from his stay abroad.
Mitford was no exception to the general rule. He determined to return
to London, at all hazards.
This resolve was confirmed by another motive. He had long
loved--ardently loved. The life of dissipation, and even of riot,
which he had led, had not been able to efface the holy passion from
his soul. There it burned, at once a safeguard to, and a promoter of,
other virtues. The fair Marguerite was lovely, rich, and constant in
her attachment to him. Neither the sneers of friends, nor the ill
reports of enemies, were able to efface his image from her mind.
Friendship may be dissolved; fortune may desert us; but woman's love
blossoms in eternal spring, and only blooms the more, amid the wintry
blasts of adversity.
A late correspondence apprized him that her hand and fortune awaited
him. This determined his movements, and he found himself in London.
But the necessary preparatives for a marriage, however fortunate,
require money--without which the wings of Cupid are clogged; and
though Mitford might have relieved himself by an application to his
lady-love, whose purse was at her own disposal, yet he could not bear
to owe a favor before marriage.
He bethought himself of an expedient. Whenever a man wants money in
London, the surest way to obtain it, is by offering to lend it, or by
offering some great prospective advantage for the sum required. Many
a man parts with what he has, to one whom he thinks will increase his
store when he requires it; but no man parts with his money to one
whom he thinks has none.
A dashing advertisement graced the pages of the 'Post' and 'Herald'
newspapers:
'EXTRAORDINARY FACILITY.--The advertiser, possessing great
influence in a certain high quarter, would feel disposed to
promote the interest of any gentleman of standing and talent,
who has a thousand pounds at his disposal. Address 'A. M.,'
Standish's Rooms, Regent-street.
'N. B. No indiscretion need be apprehended.'
We need scarcely say, that our hero answered to the initials of
'A. M.' The applications were numerous. Mitford made a special
appointment with one whom he thought likely to answer his purpose. He
had chambers for the occasion in Lincoln's Inn.
The applicant had recently arrived from the East Indies, and had
some property. The idea of obtaining a respectable post, with a
good salary, at once to increase his income and employ his leisure,
attracted him. Our hero received him in a dimly-lighted apartment.
His back was toward the window. When you are afflicted with a
diffidence, over which you have no control, on important occasions,
always turn the dorsal vertebræ toward the light.
The business was soon opened. The applicant was anxious to embrace
the ideal advantage offered.
'But, my dear Sir,' said Mitford, 'it will be necessary to have
some security in hand, before you are inducted. Without at all
doubting your punctuality, you are aware that in matters of business,
particularity is necessary: beside, I must consult the wishes of my
principal.
The stranger paused! He slowly drew forth his pocket-book, took out a
post bill for £1000, and handed it to Mitford.
* * * * *
HOW may not a man, by false sophistry, tame his mind to the
commission of a tortuous act! Honesty in man, is like virtue in
woman. The possibility of violating it must not for a moment enter
the imagination. In either case, deliberation is destruction.
Mitford, who would not for any consideration have omitted the payment
of a debt of honor; who would have resisted the slightest imputation
on his character unto death; thus reasoned with himself: 'I am on the
point of marrying a fortune; why should I hesitate to appropriate
this money, for a few days, when I shall have ample means to repay
it? To be sure, I must endorse the note; but then the certainty
of refunding the amount takes away any moral obliquity that might
otherwise attach to the act.'
Thus soliliquized Mitford; and, endorsing the note, he committed
forgery.
* * * * *
A SPLENDID party had assembled at Sidmouth-Terrace, to celebrate a
bridal festival. Lights beamed far into the park, illuminating all
around. Revelry and joy breathed throughout.
Mitford was there. The sanction of the church was about to seal
the happiness of our hero for ever, when suddenly three officers
interrupted the bridal ceremonies, and seizing Mitford on a warrant
for forgery, conducted him to prison.
To describe the distress of the bride--the confusion of the
guests--would be impossible. We leave it to the imagination of our
readers.
The process of the law was rapid. The day of trial arrived. Mitford
pleaded not guilty.
All that the most able counsel could effect, was done for him. The
witnesses were brow-beaten; the jury harangued; but he was found
guilty.
The judge passed sentence of death.
* * * * *
'LA!' said Mrs. Minikin, the haberdasher's wife, 'to-morrow is the
day when that there gen'leman is to be hung for forgery. Let's go see
him.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Minikin, 'you know I never likes them there sort
of things. If it was a reg'lar mill, then I might go; but I never
likes to see no one tucked up.'
'Oh, but, my dear,' said the gentle Mrs. Minikin, 'it is not
entertaining, I grant, to see them there riff-raffs which is usually
hung; but this is a gen'leman. Only consider,' said she, in her
most endearing manner, 'how delightful to see one of them there
'igh-flyers hung!' And the pliant Mr. Minikin consented.
* * * * *
LET us now turn to the dungeon which contained this ill-fated man.
There, on a scanty supply of straw, a dim light glimmering through
the bars of his cell, rendering the interior still more desolate, by
revealing its wretchedness, lay Mitford--pale, emaciated, and bearing
on his countenance the conviction, that the world and himself were
now disjointed. Ever and anon the echoing wheels of some patrician
chariot conveyed to his ear the mirth and gayety that reigned
without. But what was all this to him? His heart was never more
to beat at the sight of beauty; ambition could no longer convey
elevation to his mind. A few short hours, and he must be brought
forth to satisfy the stern severity of the law, and furnish food to
the gaping curiosity of thousands. And was this to be the termination
of his career? Was it for this a mother's holy tears had blessed his
advent to the world?--that a father's toil had left him reposing amid
the luxuries of wealth? All, all was now shortly to terminate in the
scaffold's terrors, and worse than the scaffold's terrors, in the
scaffold's shame.
While these thoughts passed through his mind, scalding tears coursed
down his cheeks, moistening the straw on which he lay; not tears
extracted by craven fear, but holy drops of penitence.
From this state of mind he was soon awakened by the reverend
clergyman, whose duty it was to prepare him for his approaching awful
change. He whispered to him the hope of divine mercy, so unquenchable
that the most heinous offences failed to suppress it; that it was
true he must suffer a public punishment, at once as an example, and
an earthly atonement for his crime; but the benign Saviour of mankind
had passed through all the ignominy of a public execution, with a
resigned spirit, as an offering for the sins of others; and in virtue
of that offering, he must himself hope for forgiveness, and suffer
with resignation.
The holy man left Mitford more collected in mind, and resolved to
submit to his inevitable fate with piety and courage.
* * * * *
THE morning dawned. The fatal bell had struck; the scaffold had been
erected; the gaping multitude, anxious for some horrid show to awaken
their morbid sensibilities, clogged up in thousands every avenue to
the sacrificial altar. Those whom the doom of the law had fixed that
morning to be their last, stood upon the scaffold; but Mitford was
not there; and the great unwashed, who had that day gone to enjoy the
luxury of seeing a gentleman hung, returned disappointed of half the
show.
The mystery must be solved. The betrothed of Mitford had forwarded
a petition to the king, and another to the queen, requesting a
commutation of punishment; but these documents had to pass through so
many avenues of the palace, that they never reached the royal eye.
Receiving no answer, and almost despairing of success, she flew to
the Secretary of State.
Sir Robert Peel then filled the responsible situation of the Home
Department. And here let us pause, to do justice to one of the
greatest men of modern times; to one who, at no distant day, is
destined to fill a large space in the world's eye. His father, sprung
from the canaille, by the aid of the spinning-jenny, left his son in
possession of one of the most ample fortunes, even in the wealthiest
country in the world. The father, of rank tory principles, was
farther recommended to royal notice, by the gift of twenty thousand
pounds to carry on a war, which, however unpopular with the nation,
a profligate ministry had induced that nation to believe its honor
interested in prosecuting. The son was thus introduced to royal
favor; and it is well known, that George the Third entertained
great personal partiality for him. He commenced life as a statesman,
having, in the outset of his political career, been inducted into the
office of Under Secretary of State. His whole public life has been a
life of office. His experience is thus greater than that of any man
now living. Unfortunately, having commenced his career as an advocate
for tory principles, his party have always pursued his leaning
toward more liberal principles as a crime, while the more liberal
party have always looked with suspicion on his aid, and viewed him
as an enemy in their camp. As a debater, he is unrivalled; and if
many surpass him in those burning and flowery sentences by which
eloquence is distinguished, none equal him as a ready and always a
sensible debater. But in our times, it unfortunately happens, that if
a man commences his life by advocating bad principles, consistency
forces him to adhere to them. The present world of politics, unlike
the divine world to come, admits of no repentance. Once take your
course in evil, you must adhere to it, if you wish to preserve your
reputation. To change for the better, is certain perdition. Thus
because Sir Robert Peel advocated Catholic emancipation, which he
had all his previous life opposed, every contumelious epithet that
rancor could invent, was hurled at him by his old friends; while
the advocates of that measure viewed his accession to their ranks,
not merely with distrust, as but a late convert, but with jealousy,
as tending to rob them of some portion of the merit of carrying it
on the very point of their success. And John Bull refused, from the
hands of Sir Robert Peel and his colleagues, a greater measure of
reform and retrenchment than even the original advocates held forth.
Thus it is, a thief may reform, or become a useful member of society,
if he will only amend; but a politician must look to nothing but
consistency.
* * * * *
THE fair Marguerite found no difficulty in gaining access to Sir
Robert. Her beauty, her distress, her tale at once simple and
affecting, all conspired to move him. He laid her petition and
her woes at the foot of the throne. Majesty was pleased to find
extenuating circumstances in Mitford's case, and a reprieve was
granted to him.
The bitter draught of grief had been too much for the gentle
Marguerite. Her faculties had been too nervously awakened. While
her lover required her aid, reason had kept its throne. His safety
insured, she became a maniac, and the inmate of a mad-house.
Still farther mercy awaited our hero. After some detention in prison,
he was liberated, on condition that he should leave the kingdom,
never to return.
* * * * *
YEARS had now elapsed. Mitford's error and his shame had alike been
forgotten; and it was supposed he was dead. It was not until the
tempest of a new revolution awoke regenerated France to a sense of
the wrongs endeavored to be inflicted on her by a Bourbon, whose
family a million of foreign bayonets had seated on the throne, and
until Paris taught all the capitals of Europe how easily a large
city could resist a well-appointed army, that a ray of light was shed
upon his fate.
The barriers of the Rue Richelieu had been erected by the people, and
were furiously attacked by squadrons of infantry and cavalry. The
Parisians, led by a most intrepid young man, evidently a foreigner,
defended it to the very utmost. Three charges had been made, and
successfully repulsed. A fourth threatened to carry the barriers.
Some of the pickets were overthrown; and already had a few of the
light cavalry penetrated within. A few stout hearts strove hand to
hand with the military, but numbers had given way. In this emergency,
the gallant leader of the people, waving his tri-colored flag, sprang
in front of the wavering multitude. His gestures, his example,
rëanimated them. Again they pressed forward, and bearing with them
the tide of victory, they successfully repulsed the military;
but their leader had sealed his conquest with his life. He fell,
fighting hand to hand and foot to foot with the leader of the hostile
soldiery, and their bodies lay close together, in the sleep of death.
The strife of the three days past, honorable interment was awarded
the fallen and patriotic brave. Among the latter was not forgotten
the youthful stranger, who had so well defended the barriers of
the Rue Richelieu. The papers on his person proved him to be an
Englishman. That Englishman was FRANCIS MITFORD.
SERENADE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF BÜRGER.--BY J. J. CAMPBELL.
I.
WITH song and lyre let sleep now fly;
To song and lyre take bounden heed!
The wakeful minstrel, that am I,
Fair sweetheart! ever true at need.
O, open thou the clear sunshine
Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!
II.
Through night and gloom I hither tramp,
At hour when spirits are in view;
Long since, there glimmers not a lamp
The hush'd-up cottage-window through:
Long since has rested, sweet and blest,
What love and fond desire let rest.
III.
On his wife's bosom cradled keeps
His weary head, the husband dear;
While to his favorite hen close creeps,
Upon the roost, good chanticleer;
And sparrow on the eaves is eyed,
Couching with true-love by his side.
IV.
Oh! when will these dull times be sped,
Until I too creep close to thee;
Until in sweet repose my head
Upon thy bosom nestled be?
When lead'st thou me unto the side
O, priest! of my sweet little bride?
V.
How would I then so heartily,
So dear, so very dear, thee hold!
How would I, oh! how would then we
Each other in our arms enfold!
Yet patience! time, too, slippeth on--
Be thou but true, my darling one!
VI.
And now, dear soul! good-night once more;
God keep thee with his shelt'ring might!
What God keeps, that is well watch'd o'er,
And kept from danger and affright.
Adieu!--now close the sunny shine
Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!
MOHEGAN LANGUAGE AND GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES.
TO THE EDITORS OF THE KNICKERBOCKER:
_Michilimackinack, August 2, 1837._
IN making some inquiries recently of a party of the Mohegan
tribe--the remnant of whom have made their way to this quarter within
a few years--I find that they have preserved their traditionary
history for the last two centuries, or more, with a degree of
accuracy which is not common to the native tribes in this region.
It is very well known, from published data, that this ancient tribe
occupied Long-Island and the contiguous main land, on the discovery
of the country, whence in process of time they withdrew eastwardly
into Connecticut, and afterward went west into Massachusetts. They
appear, from the first, to have had the means of instruction, which
have been continued up to the present time, with perhaps less
interruption than among most of the other tribes. This may account in
part for the better preservation of their traditions. Many of them
being able to read, could refer to some things in printed documents.
Others appear to have retained with tenacity that traditionary lore
which the aged among the tribes generally employ the leisure of their
superannuated days in handing down to the young.
During the long residence of this tribe at Stockbridge, (Mass.,) they
were commonly Stockbridges, and after the revolutionary war, when
they transferred their residence to Oneida, in western New-York, they
naturally retained this name, and finally bore it with them to their
present location in Wisconsin territory. I disclaim any intention
to sketch their history; and wish no farther to allude to it, than
appears to be necessary to bring forward a few facts in the character
of their language, and particularly their names for the places of
their former residence, on the lower parts of the Hudson. And as this
is a matter of which but little is generally known, it has appeared
to me of sufficient local interest, to justify the liberty I take in
addressing these remarks to you.
The Mohegan is readily recognised as a type of the Algonquin or (as
Mr. Gallatin has recently denominated it,) the 'Lenapee-Algonkin'
family, and bears a strong resemblance, both in sound and syntax,
to the dialects of some of the existing lake tribes. This affinity
is very striking in its grammatical structure, and its primitive
words. Derivatives, with all our tribes, are subject to interchange
their consonants, or drop them entirely, which creates a necessity of
being constantly on the alert to detect these exchanges. Moreover,
the accent is uniformly moved, or doubled, often creating primary
and secondary accents in the same phrase, which, in an unwritten
language, is alone sufficient to account for numerous mutations. But
what, more than any other principle, affects the _sound_ of Indian
words, in their concrete and derivative states, is the large stock
of (so to say) floating particles, which come into these words in
the shape of prefixes and suffixes. These are, in their offices,
almost as numerous as the purposes of person, tense, number, quality,
position, etc., may require. But while their respective office
remains precisely the same, in almost any given number of dialects
in a mother language, it is found that the several tribes pique
themselves in giving these auxiliary particles a sound peculiar to
themselves, by which something like _nationality_ is kept up. Thus
in two dialects indicating the least change in the primitives or
derivatives, to be found among all the tribes, namely, the Chippewa
and Ottowa, these particles, which, in the animate class for plural,
are denoted by UG, and in the local inflections by ONG, and ING, in
the one dialect, are respectively changed to UK, ONK, and INK, in the
other.
Similar to this process, seems to have been the result of change
between the ancient Algonquin and the Mohegan, the latter, like the
Ottowa, constantly substituting K for G, and P for B, etc., but in
other respects, it exhibits numerous gutturals, and some aspirates,
which are but rarely found in the liquid flow of the Algic. It also
embraces the (perhaps) Gothic sound of TH, which is wholly unknown
(the Shawnee excepted) to the modern lake dialects.
Geographical terms, with the Indians, are found generally to unite
some natural quality in the features or productions of the country
with an indication of the locality; so that their names are not, as
with us, simple nominatives, but (as in all other cases in these
peculiar languages) the quality, action, etc., transfers itself to
the object, and is expressed in a consolidated phrase. This is one
of the most constant and distinguishing traits of these languages.
Their nouns and adjectives, therefore, as well as their verbs, are
transitives. Even their prepositions take a transitive character, and
link themselves, as with 'hooks of steel,' to the objects to which
they are applied. Thus their name for the island from which this
letter is dated, is Place of the Gigantic Faëries, or, by another
interpretation, Place of the Great Turtle. Detroit is, (literally
translated,) Round-ward, or Rounds-by Place, denoting the sinuosities
of the river in its approach. Sault St. Marie, 'At the Shallow Water
with Rocks.' In another class of derivative words, the union of the
substantive and adjective is without a local inflection, as in their
name for Lake Superior, which is simply called, The Sea Waters;
Mississippi, The Great River; Michigan, The Great Lake, etc.
This principle is found most fully to pervade the Mohegan. I
requested one of the chiefs of the party above referred to, to
pronounce their name for Long-Island. He replied, PAUM-NUK-KAH-HUK,
signifying, Place of the Long Land. The name of the coast opposite to
this island, at the mouth of the Hudson, or rather, across the Sound,
he pronounced MON-AH'-TON-UK. Dropping the local inflection UK,
meaning place, or land, we have the elements of Manhattan, the latter
of which preserves the original quite as well as the generality
of Indian names transmitted by English enunciation. Philologists
will perceive, farther, that the aspirate H would be very naturally
prefixed to the second syllable, while the sound of O, being the
sound of O in the French word _ton_, might be expressed, nearly as
well, by some of the modified sounds of A.
Judged by similar means of analysis, Sing-Sing is a corruption
of OSIN-SINK, _i. e._, Place of Stones, or Rocks; Neversink from
NAWAISINK, a phrase descriptive of highlands equi-distant between
two waters, as Raritan Bay and the Atlantic. Minisink is, literally,
Place of the Island. Tappan Sea _appears_ to be a derivative from a
band of the Mohegans, who dwelt there, called TAPONSEES, or rather
from the name of their village. After getting through the Highlands,
names of Mohawk derivation occur. Poughkeepsie, Warwarsing, and
Coxsackie, are, however, clearly of Mohegan origin. So far as I
recollect, the ancient name of Albany, SKE-NEK-TA-DA, is the first
term of the Iroquois type of languages, in ascending the Hudson,
of which any notice is preserved. In proceeding east, west, or
south-west from that point, geographical names of this character
universally prevail. But it is to be remarked, that but few sonorous
names occur, until reaching the districts of country formerly
possessed by the Oneidas, Onondagas, and other western branches of
this confederacy.
I am, gentlemen, very respectfully,
Your Obedient Servant,
HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT.
A FAREWELL.
FARE thee well!--the word is spoken,
That makes the past a dream to me;
The long delicious spell is broken--
Yet fare thee well, since thou art free!
Yes! thou art free; but oh, how shatter'd
This faithful heart thou couldst not know,
Nor see each crush'd affection scatter'd,
And yet with chilling coldness go!
Perchance unto this bosom's yearning,
Thou'dst answer with some kindred sigh,
Or seek to quell its secret burning,
With one glance from thy pitying eye.
Yet were it so, how would it cherish
That tender look, 'a death in life;'
Oh! better far at once to perish,
Than linger through hope's fever'd strife!
Then fare thee well!--mid others ranging,
Thou carest not to look on me;
Nor heedest the true love, unchanging,
That like a beacon, shines for thee.
Yet when the meteor has departed,
That lur'd thee to the world's caress,
When languid, drooping, broken-hearted,
Thou sinkest back in weariness;
Then come to one, who, though forsaken,
Still loved thee on, through weal and wo;
Nor would one memory awaken,
That o'er thy path a shade could throw.