deserted street, in the city of ——. No longer a look of proud despair
flashed from his eyes; but want and suffering sat upon his pale, wan
features. This noble form was bowed, and from his starting eyes there
gleamed, bitter, heart-rending misery.
Two days had he sought employment, and sought in vain. There he stood,
without a home—without food—without shelter. Beg he could not. A step
is heard—a horrid thought darts through his brain; despair nerves him,
and, as the unknown passes, he demands his money. The stranger
resists—with one stroke of his powerful arm, he fells him to the
earth—rifles him of his purse—and fleeing, leaves him for dead.
Reader, now we have witnessed the last step to ruin of the miserable
young man. Why follow him in his downward career? Why enter with him
into the abodes of vice and infamy? Why present the blackened picture to
the mind of innocence? The guilty can imagine it but too well.
* * * * *
For a moment Ellen seemed transfixed to the spot whereon she stood. “I
think it is all over with him,” said the woman, who had followed her to
the bed-side.
Ellen, stooping, took one of the cold hands that lay upon the coverlid,
and pressing her fingers to his pulse, discovered by its faint, slow
movement, that the soul yet lingered this side the portals of eternity.
Kneeling, she breathed one intense, imploring supplication, which,
caught by the listening angels, was on wings of rapture borne to the
throne of Grace.
Rising, she said to the woman, who stood gazing wonderingly upon
her—“Where is the clergyman who belongs to this institution?”
“Oh! madam, he’s gone a traveling after his health!”
“And the physicians?”
“If it’s the doctors you mean, ma’am, _they_ gave him up long ago.”
At this moment Mr. Norton, who had been conversing aside with Mr.
Barker, entered.
“Ellen, my child, you here!” And seeing her gaze intently fixed upon the
corpse-like form before her, he looked inquiringly upon Mr. Barker, who
said,
“Oh, the poor fellow! he’s gone then—I don’t know that I ever pitied
any one so much in my life. He appears to have seen better days.”
“Has he no friends?” asked Ellen.
“We do not know,” was the reply. “He was picked up in the street, almost
frozen to death, about six months ago—and has been, until about three
weeks since, confined in one of the cells. He raves a great deal about
his mother, who, as he seems to suppose, was frozen to death—and a
sister—and appears to be one of those maniacs who fancy all kinds of
demons pursuing them. But, poor fellow! it’s all over with him now.”
“He is not dead,” said Ellen, “his pulse moves!” And as she again
stooped to take his hand his lids raised, and his large ghastly eyes
bent full upon her. Involuntarily laying her hand upon his marble brow,
she said in sweet tones of sympathy, while the tears filled her
eyes—“You are better now.”
Shrinking from her touch, while a lurid glare momentarily fired his
eyes, in a hoarse whisper he said—
“Don’t, don’t come near me! They will drag you down to this horrible
place where they have me. Don’t you see how their eye-balls glare at
you!”
“They can’t hurt us,” said Ellen, in soothing accents—“and we have come
to take you from them!” And calling for some cold water, she seated
herself by his bed, and commenced bathing his temples.
“You are an angel,” murmured the poor maniac, gazing wildly upon her.
“My mother, did she send you to release me? And Amy!”
“They are all happy,” said Ellen, following the poor creature’s
vagaries, “and you shall be happy too! God will send away those demons
from you.”
“Is there a God?” murmured he, a ray of reason for one moment, seeming
to dart across his brain.
“It was he who sent us to you,” answered she.
“Sweet angel! can you give me tears to quench this raging fire?” he
said, laying his hand upon his heart, “naught but tears can do it! They
took them all away when Amy died.” Here nature yielded, and he sank
exhausted.
The purity of Ellen’s heart threw around her every act a halo of beauty;
and Mr. Barker, who had been accustomed to see the fair ones of earth
shrinking with horror and disgust from the poor fettered wretch deprived
of reason, thought, as he gazed on Ellen as she knelt beside the unhappy
sufferer and bathed his temples, that she was indeed an angel! And she
had risen and spoken to him the second time, ere he was conscious of
being addressed.
“Mr. Barker,” she continued, without noticing his embarrassment, “cannot
this poor man be removed to a more comfortable apartment? I am sure that
he is perfectly harmless!” Seeing him hesitate, she continued—“Or, at
least, till he can be removed to the insane hospital.”
“I will consult Dr. L.,” and he turned to retire, when Lucy entered
accompanied by that gentleman.
“Oh, papa, I could not think what had become of you and Ellen—I waited
till my patience was quite exhausted, when meeting Doctor L. I taxed his
gallantry to help me find you.”
“We are very glad, cousin, that you have brought the doctor hither,”
said Ellen, “for Mr. Barker was just going in search of him, to see if
this poor man cannot be removed to a more comfortable apartment in the
main-building.”
“I thought the poor fellow dead. He was sinking very fast two days ago.”
“And have you not seen him since?” asked Ellen in surprise.
“Oh, no! I think the sooner such people die the better. They have no
enjoyment themselves, and are a burden to others. And as to his being
removed to the main-building, a raging maniac—that cannot be thought
of.”
“I do not see,” persisted Ellen, “what objection can possibly be urged
to removing a dying man to a comfortable room, even if he be a raging
maniac.”
“Really! Miss Lincoln,” said Doctor L. with a meaning smile, “you seem
to have taken a very deep interest in the handsome stranger.”
Ellen raised her full eyes upon him, and while a smile of pitying
contempt cradled about her mouth, said calmly—“The suffering, doctor,
always excite the sympathies of the _humane_, and I trust I am of that
class.”
And turning to the unconscious sufferer, she continued bathing his
wrists and temples, as if to hide her emotion, while a tear trembled
upon her downcast lids.
“Let us go from here, Cousin Ellen,” whispered Lucy, “we can do the poor
man no good.”
“Dear Lucy,” said Ellen rising, “I cannot go and leave this poor
creature without a soul near him in his last moments—and this good
woman tells me that he has been pleading for some one to pray for him,
which proves that reason has, at times, resumed her throne. And if uncle
will consent, I will remain here, while Mr. Barker sends for the Rev.
Mr. P., whose ear is ever open to the call of distress.”
“But, Ellen, it is growing late, and you will be subject to remark.”
“Lucy,” she continued, “it is well to regard the world’s opinion when it
combats not with duty, but if the world remark unjustly, when I do my
duty, be it even so. But what say you, uncle, shall I not stay?”
“Ellen, my child,” said Mr. Norton, “I think with Lucy, you had better
not stay.”
“Oh! uncle,” cried Ellen, her eyes filling with tears, “think, for one
moment, if this were your own son. Think if it were Lucy or myself,
dying alone, without one being to pity, or hand a drop of cold water to
soothe the parched lips—and in its last agonies, when the poor soul is
about to take its flight, perhaps to the presence of an offended God,
without one sympathizing soul to breathe a prayer for mercy!” And here,
overcome by her feelings, she bowed her head upon his arm and wept.
“My noble girl!” said Mr. Norton, folding her to his heart, “you shall
not only stay, but Lucy and myself will stay with you.”
At length, raising her head, she said—“This place, uncle, is cold and
damp, and would, I fear, increase your rheumatism—and Cousin Lucy, you
know, dear uncle, is not strong; and I fear his sufferings might affect
her too sensibly. But I am well and healthy, and if you will send nurse
and John to me, I will watch here to-night, if Mr. Barker will permit.”
“You shall send for no one,” said Mr. Barker, much affected. “Mary and
myself will share your labors. You have taught us our duty, Miss
Lincoln.”
* * * * *
As a fragrant honeysuckle raised its tiny head to the soft caress of the
dewy night winds, a rude blast swept it from its trellised home, through
an open window, until caught in the ample folds of a snowy curtain.
The unbidden breeze extinguished a flickering light, rousing the nurse
from her recumbent position beside a couch whereon reposed a pale
unconscious form. Re-lighting the taper, she advanced to close the
window, and hastily throwing aside the curtain, the little floweret
found a resting-place below, upon the bosom of a sweet bouquet formed of
its beauteous sisters. And, as the little flower-spirit gazed upon the
sleeper’s form, the same mysterious atmosphere was there that erst had
hovered round the fairy child, but greatly changed.
No longer basked in golden beams the brilliant beings of the mind, nor
those of flesh wove chains; but with each other waged a mortal strife.
Among the latter might another form be seen, grim, shadowy, and severe.
Within his hand a barbed shaft he bore, and whatsoever it rested on was
rendered powerless. Above, far in the hazy atmosphere, there shone a
radiant light! mysteriously beautiful and fair it seemed; too pure for
earth’s conception—and there was seen an angel form bearing a golden
vessel.
And the little spirit asked the angel guide, who with uplifted pinions,
looks of love, and rapturous adoration, gazed on that glorious
vision—what these things meant.
“Yon radiant vision is the cause of all you see. It is the soul’s true
aliment—the emanations of a dying Saviour’s love, reflected from the
noble hearts of those who have so prayerfully watched around the
sufferer’s couch. This, the bright spirits of the soul perceive, and
strive to free themselves from earth’s dull chains, to plume their
pinions to yon glorious light.
“The grim and shadowy form you see moving amid the ministers of flesh,
is fell Disease, offspring of laws transgressed—the direst fee and
curse of earthly life. Already have the ministers of flesh felt his
barbed shaft—and this it is, that sunk that noble form so low and
powerless.
“That angel bright, bearing a golden vessel, is hither drawn from
Calvary’s mount, by the united efforts, prayers, and tears of those who,
weariless, have at the Throne of Grace implored that soul’s release. He
bears the purifying fount of Love, to wash and cleanse that blackened,
tainted heart from every trace of sin—nearer it must not, _cannot_
come, until _his will_ shall plead.”
The spirit of flowers turned to the sleeper. His large eyes raised—one
deep, imploring gaze—and then his hands were tightly clasped in earnest
supplication! A cry of joy ecstatic burst from the angel-guide, ascended
heavenward, and caused the seraphs round the Lamb’s pure throne to tune
their harps anew!
Heavy, convulsive sobs burst from the bosom of the penitent; and as the
watcher raised his head, the light of heaven played around his
brow—while from his heaving heart was washed away the name, with every
blackened trace of sin! But still, at times, dim shadows flitted past,
shading the lustre of its purity. And the little spirit asked, in much
surprise, why this should be?
“These are _regrets_,” the angel said, “shadowed from wings of _memory_,
as she flits o’er the past. On earth these ne’er can be effaced.”
* * * * *
It was a beautiful morning in autumn. The mellow, golden light of an
Indian summer shed its soft rays over the pensive earth, as arrayed in
her magnificent robe of a thousand varied hues, she seemed to cling with
fond remembrance to departed joys, while with melancholy repose she
awaited the chilling approach of the stern and rigid form of winter.
Her sweet breath, wafted by gentle zephyrs through an open casement,
filling the apartment, and kissing the pale, sad features of a beautiful
invalid, as wrapped in a morning-dress, resting in a large easy-chair,
his head supported by snowy pillows, he gazed thoughtfully upon the
winding river as it flowed beneath, not a ripple resting upon its placid
surface, save, ever and anon, when some fairy sailboat moved gracefully
along, reflecting the bright sunbeams from its dazzling sails. At last,
raising his eyes to the benevolent countenance of a matron, whose plain,
neat attire, and light cautious movement, bespoke the office of nurse,
he said—
“Is it not time for some of Mr. Norton’s family to be here?”
“I saw the carriage stop, sir, a short time since, below the hill, and
some persons get out. I think the ladies,” she replied. A rap upon the
door, and Mr. Norton entered.
The invalid reached forth his emaciated hand, while a smile of pleasure
lit up his features. Grasping it warmly within his own, Mr. Norton
said—
“I am delighted to see you so much better, Mr. Edridge. Dr. Warner tells
me, if this fine weather continues, we may take you home with
us—although, I don’t know that you will thank me for carrying you away
from this beautiful place, for every time I ascend this hill and breathe
its pure atmosphere, I feel like a young man again. It is, indeed, a
delightful situation, just the place for a hospital.”
Tears filled the dark eyes of the invalid, as returning the pressure of
Mr. Norton, he said—“Kindness such as has been bestowed upon an object
as unworthy as myself, Heaven alone can repay. Could I once have
received but one ray, I should not now have to mourn over misspent time
and degraded talents.”
“Oh, don’t think of the past,” interrupted Mr. Norton, “you have many
long years of usefulness yet before you. You must not be sad. I left
Ellen and Lucy at the foot of the hill to gather flowers, they preferred
ascending on foot—but here they are, and they must cheer you.”
At this moment nurse ushered them in; and as the former approached, an
expression of holy joy irradiated his noble features, as with extended
hand, she said—“Mr. Edridge—well then, Arthur if you will—we are,
indeed, pleased to see you so much better.”
“But he seems to have a slight touch of the _blues_! You must not let
that be, girls,” said Mr. Norton, laughingly.
“Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy, with a merry smile, “if you did not know it
before, you certainly will learn by this,” (presenting him a bouquet of
gay wild flowers,) “that I am an inveterate enemy to every thing of a
sombre hue.”
“And myself, also,” responded Ellen.
“Miss Lincoln,” he continued, with a still deeper tone of sadness, “if
you had the same power to renew the wasted energies of the mind, and
blot out from the pages of memory the dark characters of the past, as
you seem to possess, to lead the rebellious, blackened heart to the
fount of purifying Love, no gleam but that of joy, should ever emanate
from my grateful heart.”
“Don’t say _I_, Mr. Edridge, but the humble, holy man who led you to a
Saviour’s arms.”
“I do not know which had the greater influence, Miss Lincoln—your
sympathy—your earnest pleadings to remain with a poor abandoned wretch
in that loathsome room, to soothe his dying agonies, who conscious, yet
powerless, listened in wonder—your prayerful watchfulness during that
awful night, amid ravings of despair and cries for mercy, intermingled
with the yells of the chained maniacs; or the unwearied kindness and
holy teachings of the Rev. Mr. P. If one led me to this fount, the other
had created in my soul a thirst for its purifying waters. From the
moment you first knelt beside my couch, a new light seemed to dawn upon
my darkened soul, though at first faint and indistinct, and this
morning, as I gaze upon this beautiful landscape, all, all comes up so
vividly before my mental vision, accompanied with the sad picture of my
wasted time and degraded powers, that, although it may give you pain, I
cannot deny myself the pleasure of some slight expression of gratitude,
even though shaded by my own sombre reflections. Oh! could I but regain
my lost health and strength, how would I labor to show forth the love,
mercy, and wisdom of the glorious Being whom I have so blasphemed. Then,
Miss Lincoln, would you see that your sympathies and kindness have not
been thrown away.”
“Resignation to the will of Heaven,” said Ellen, endeavoring to regain
her wonted composure, “has power, if not to obliterate the dark
characters upon the pages of memory, to take from them their
bitterness.”
“That you have yet to teach me, Miss Lincoln,” said he with a melancholy
smile.
“_I_ shall teach, Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy laughingly, (perceiving the
embarrassment of her cousin, and wishing to relieve her from the
conversation,) “that when I present to you a bouquet, you are not to
pull it to pieces.”
Arthur smiled, and commenced re-arranging the scattered flowers. While
the little flower-spirit saw his bright guardian, now radiant with
heavenly smiles, hovering near. In its hand it bore a chalice, from
which it poured sweet odors upon the pure heart of the noble Ellen.
* * * * *
’Twas midnight—every sound was hushed. The earth lay slumbering in her
fleecy robe of white. The diamond-gemmed trees, the tall spires, and the
distant hills, all reflected back the smiles of the queen of night, as
she rode majestically above, presenting a scene of enchanting
loveliness.
In an elegant apartment, reposed a little flower-spirit upon the soft
bosom of the lily of the Nile. The same strange, delicious music filled
the atmosphere, that erst had burst from cherub choir that hovered round
the sleeping babe—save that its strains were louder, more triumphant.
Forth floated the little flower-spirit. There lay upon a couch, round
which gathered weeping friends, a form of manly beauty. The ministers of
earth lay cold and lifeless—their work was done. The bright beings of
Intellect and Adoration rested upon the shadowy pinions of the celestial
guardian—while _Love_ floated in the ethereal beams of other worlds
reflected from the golden wreaths of light, encircling the snowy brows
of a seraph band, upon which the full dark eyes of the dying man were
fixed; while far above, beyond the deep blue vaults, there burst forth
strains of sublime, entrancing melody—as if the revolving spheres had
joined the joyous anthem that echoed round the throne of God—a soul
redeemed.
“Arthur, are you willing to die, are you happy?” whispered a sobbing
voice, while a pearly tear fell upon his brow.
“Oh, joy inconceivable! Happiness that mortals ne’er can know! But
see’st thou that bright seraph? It is Amy—her arms stretched forth to
meet me. And my mother—she is pouring blessings on thy head! Ellen,
sister—friends farewell—we meet again.”
And as they grasped his icy hands, the spirit freed, was borne upon the
rapturous wings of the awaiting angels to the realms of bliss.
* * * * *
“Dear Ellen,” said Lucy, as they were seated together one pleasant morn,
“why did you refuse the hand of Dr. Warner? I am sure he is talented,
pious, and every thing one’s heart could wish. Then, you know, he loves
you for your own worth, and not your wealth, for he has enough of that
already.”
“What makes you suppose that I have refused him, coz?” said Ellen, a
bright blush suffusing her cheek.
“Simply, appearances. As you say _such_ secrets should not be revealed,
I do not expect to get much information from yourself,” was Lucy’s
reply. “But, in the first place, there used to be a peculiar looking
bouquet sent here every morning for Miss Lincoln—then papa’s consent
was asked! And lastly, he is among the missing, bouquets and all.”
“Really, Lucy!” said Ellen laughing, “you form very rapid conclusions.”
“But not always unjust ones,” she persisted.
“Well then, Lucy, if you will have it so, suppose I did refuse the hand
of Dr. Warner; it was simply, that I neither wish nor intend to marry.”
“Do not intend to marry, cousin!” said Lucy, laying down her work.
“Why, coz!” said Ellen smiling, “you seem surprised.”
“Cousin Ellen,” continued Lucy, in a more serious tone, “I wish to ask
you another question—will you answer me candidly?”
“Certainly,” said Ellen, “if it be in my power.”
“Then Ellen, did you love the beautiful penitent?”
“Arthur! Lucy. What could have induced you to ask such a question?”
“I have two reasons. The one, because the world says so. The other,
because I was half in love with him myself, before he became so
etherial.”
“The world says so,” responded Ellen.
“Yes, it says that you fell violently in love with his handsome face at
the alms-house; then, afterwards, had him removed to the insane
hospital, where he remained at your expense, (though papa did pay the
bills!) and since his death, that you have formed the resolution to
devote your life to _single_ blessedness.”
Here Ellen burst into a peal of merry laughter “Dr. L. must have
reported that story. Poor fellow! his soul is so given to earth, that he
cannot conceive one idea above it—and it is but natural that he should
form such conclusions. But to be serious, Lucy,” continued she, a sad
smile lighting up her expressive countenance, “I never felt for Arthur
one ray of earthly love! What I did for him at the alms-house, I would
have done as you well know, and would still do, for the most hideous
wretch who possesses an immortal soul. His deep contrition, and early
history, made me feel for him the love of a sister for an erring, but
penitent brother; but, to say that his uncommon beauty, and superior
powers of mind, did not heighten that interest would be false. We are
all formed to love what is beautiful and sublime, and I know of nothing
more beautiful, than beautiful features lit up by purity of heart—or
more God-like and sublime, than great powers of mind rightly directed;
for, even when fallen and degraded from their high estate, we cannot
divest them of interest. And when he came to reside with us, his pious
resignation under suffering, and his deep absorbing love for our blessed
Saviour, made me feel as in the presence of a pure spirit! and as such,
I loved him. And now, every spot that he loved—every flower which he
cherished—the room in which he died—all have to me a holy charm!”
“Is this a new resolution, cousin?” said Lucy, after a pause; “or do you
suppose yourself incapable of feeling any attachment for Dr. Warner?”
“No, Lucy, the resolution was formed long since. And as for my
affections, were I to permit them to rest upon an object as worthy as
he, I doubt not they would cling to it—as the heart must cling to
something.”
“You speak of permission, Cousin Ellen. Do you think we have any power
over our affections?”
“Certainly, Lucy. It is the greatest insult to reason to suppose
otherwise. For why are we punishable for misplaced affections, if we
have no power to govern those affections? As I said before, we are
created to love all that is lovely, pure, and noble; and if the heart
turns to aught else, it arises, not from the laws of the Deity, but from
the transgression of those laws.”
“Then, cousin,” said Lucy, “if the heart is formed to love all that is
good and noble, why do you speak of not permitting your affections to
rest upon a worthy object—since they would naturally cling to it?”
“Dear Lucy,” answered she, her pure countenance radiating with an
expression of heavenly beauty, “there is a higher and holier object of
love than is found on earth, and to which all human affections should be
subservient—the love for a crucified Redeemer! In possessing this, we
love all that his eternal Father has created—all for whom that Saviour
died.”
“Then do you mean to say, Cousin Ellen, that in order to make ourselves
acceptable in the sight of Heaven, we must all devote ourselves to a
life of single-blessedness?”
“Far from it, dear Lucy. Matrimony as instituted by God, and blessed by
the presence of his divine Son, can but be holy, and consequently
acceptable. But since, dear Lucy, we have seen the ‘Revealings of a
Heart,’ I feel that there could be so much misery relieved—so many
hearts gained for Heaven, by a knowledge of _self_, and the perfections
of the Deity—not taught in dry, dogmatical truths, addressed only to
the reason, but in words and acts of sympathy and love, which soothe the
torn and lacerated heart, and bind in sweet captivity the young and
pure. And since, dear cousin, I feel convinced of this truth, I have
resolved to devote the fortune, together with the few talents intrusted
to my care, to the relief of the unfortunate and distressed. And the
reason _I_ do not wish to marry, is, that my duties, my affections,
would claim much of my energies, and where the force is weak, dear coz,
you know that it were better not divided.”
“My dear, my noble cousin,” said Lucy, throwing her arms around her, “I
fear that I shall never understand you. It was Dr. Warner himself who
told me of his rejection. He is so good, so noble, and was so kind to
poor Arthur from the first, that I promised to intercede for him. Then
papa was anxious you should marry him; for he thinks, as he must part
with you some day, that Dr. Warner is the only person he has ever met
worthy of you. And now, dear Ellen, shall I not tell them of your noble
resolution? They must love you for it as I do!”
Ellen was silent.
At length, while a mischievous smile danced through her tears, Lucy
cried—“I wonder if _I_ wouldn’t do for the doctor! and then papa can
retain all his treasures. There he comes! I must run to tell him of this
new plan!” And away she flew to meet her father.
* * * * *
FANCIES ABOUT A PORTRAIT.
BY S. D. ANDERSON.
O SWEET the dreams that gather now,
Around me with their magic power,
The years are falling from my brow,
And hope, and joyousness, and thou,
Are back again with childhood’s hour.
Thou, thou, a bright-eyed laughing girl,
With voice as sweet as summer glee,
And hair upon whose clustering curl
The sunbeams rested gloriously.
Footsteps, as light as legends tell,
By moonlight gather on the lawn,
Scarce shake the dew-drops from the cell
Of some down-looking lily bell,
That opens to the ardent dawn.
A nature mild as summer’s cheek,
On which the smile of beauty lingers;
But glowing as some mountain peak,
That’s tipt with sunlight’s dying fingers.
And now I look far down the vale,
Through which our weary steps have come,
And memory tells me many a tale,
Of hopes that perished in the gale,
Since last we looked on home.
I think of one around whose form
Thy arms have clung in fond caress,
Whose bark amid the world’s wild storm
Was guided by thy tenderness.
And fancy brings thy home again
Back as it was in years ago,
The robin by the window-pane,
Amid the woodbine pours his strain,
In murmurs soft and low.
The meadow, with its singing stream,
Is stretched before the door,
And in its crystal depths the bream
Plays on the pebbled floor.
I hear the songs of infancy,
At evening, in that peaceful cot,
And the young mother in her glee
Echoes them back in mimicry,
And cares and fears are all forgot.
Love’s sunlight pours beneath that roof
Its beams upon the path of all,
Threading with golden hopes the woof
Of life’s bright festival.
But time goes on, and far away,
Beneath another sun and sky,
Two graves are opened, and the day
Looks down into them mild and gay,
With scarce a murmur or a sigh.
And that young mother kneeling there,
Heart-broken, desolate and lone,
Hears nothing in that summer air
But grief would fashion to a moan.
Her heart is lying ’neath the flower
She planted on that quiet sod,
And memory with her magic power
Goes back, at evening’s holy hour,
With pilgrim’s staff and rod.
One morning, when the corn was green,
And song-birds warbled forth their glee,
A wan and faded form was seen
Beneath the church-yard tree.
A pale moss rose was in her breast,
Wet with the dew of burning tears;
And wandering words and looks confessed
That she, amid her wild unrest,
Was living o’er the by-gone years.
And thus with names she loved so well
Still lingering on her clay-cold lips,
Speaking affection’s fadeless spell,
She sunk beneath death’s dark eclipse.
This is a dream from which I start,
And wonder if it can be so—
For there, with ruby lips apart,
And sunny youthfulness, thou art,
As in those years long, long ago.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GEN^{L}. JOSEPH WARREN.
_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]
LIFE OF GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN.
BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC.
ETC. ETC.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
THIS illustrious champion of liberty was born in Roxbury, near Boston,
in the year 1741. His father was a respectable farmer, and employed much
of his time in raising fruit. He was the person that produced that
species of apple called the _Warren Russet_. The house in which his
father resided is still standing, near the centre of the village, in a
street which has received his name. One day in autumn, as he was in his
orchard, he saw an apple remaining on the top of a tree, which, by its
uncommon beauty tempted him to climb the tree to pluck it, but as he was
reaching the apple, the branch upon which he stood broke under him, and
precipitated him to the ground a lifeless corpse. His youngest son, the
late Dr. John Warren, of Boston, then four years old, who had been sent
by his mother to the orchard to call him to dinner, met the body borne
by two laborers. By this fatal accident the mother of Warren was left a
widow, with the charge of four boys, of whom the eldest, Joseph, was
then about sixteen years of age. The fidelity with which she executed
this arduous trust, is sufficiently attested by the eminent virtues and
talents of her children. She lived to a very advanced age at the house
in Roxbury, surrounded by the younger members of the family, and reaping
in their affectionate attention, the best reward for her exemplary and
maternal duties. Joseph commenced his education at the grammar-school of
Roxbury, which at that time had great celebrity from the superior
attainments of its teachers. At fourteen he entered college at Harvard,
and passed his examination with such satisfaction to his preceptors,
that drew from them expressions of surprise and admiration. The whole
term of his collegiate life was marked by a generous, independent
deportment, fine manners, with indomitable courage and perseverance.
In 1759, Warren graduated with the highest honors, and on leaving
college, signified his wish to study medicine; this was complied with by
his maternal parent, who placed him under the care of a personal friend
of his father. His professional studies were alike prosecuted with
energy and success.
At the age of twenty-three he established himself at Boston, and
commenced the practice of his profession, which he pursued with
distinguished success.
He had not been in practice more than two years when the town was
threatened with that direful disease, the small-pox, the treatment of
which was but little known at that day—it was considered the most
dreadful scourge of the human race. This disease continued to rage with
the greatest violence, baffling the skill and efforts of many of the
most learned of the faculty.
Our young practitioner soon distinguished himself by his successful
method of treating that disease, and from that moment was exalted to the
highest pinnacle of fame. He stood, week after week, untiringly by the
bed of his patient, using the necessary exertions with his own hands.
These noble and humane traits, apart from his laborious profession,
firmly attached him to the people; he stood high among his older
brethren in the profession, and his courtesy and his humanity won the
way to the hearts of all—and what he once gained he never lost.
A bright and lasting fame in his profession was now before him, whilst
wealth and influence were awaiting his grasp; his exalted talents had
secured the conquest it had always been his aim to achieve. But the
circumstances in which his beloved country was then placed necessarily
directed the attention of Warren from professional pursuits, and
concentrated it upon political affairs.
The same superiority of talents and ardor of temperament, which would
have given him an easy success in any profession, rendered him more than
ordinarily susceptible of the influences which then operated upon the
community, and threw him forward into the front rank of the asserters of
liberal principles. The fact, however, that men, like Warren, of the
finest talents, and in every respect the fairest promise, were among the
first to join in the opposition to the measures of the government, shows
sufficiently how completely the whole mind of the colonies had given
itself up to the cause, and how utterly impossible it was for the
ministry to sustain their pretensions by any power that could be brought
to bear upon the people of America.
In answer to a letter received from his late preceptor, advising him
against any action amounting to rashness, he says, “The calls of my
distracted country are paramount to every interest of my own. I
willingly leave fame and all its glories to aid in bursting the bonds of
tyranny, and giving freedom to a virtuous people.” And in another letter
to a friend, who had remonstrated with him on the same cause, he says,
“It is the united voice of America to preserve their freedom or lose
their lives in defense of it; their resolutions are not the effects of
inconsiderate rashness, but the sound result of sober inquiry and
deliberation. I am convinced that the true spirit of liberty was never
so universally diffused through all ranks and orders of people in any
country on the face of the earth, as it is now through all North
America.”
No sooner were Warren’s intentions made known, than he was appointed
surgeon-general of the army.
At the time of Warren’s appointment, the conclusion of the definitive
treaty of peace, which terminated the French war took place, and from
that period to the battles of Lexington and Bunker’s Hill, eleven years
intervened, which period was filled up by a succession of interesting
events, many of which occurred in the vicinity of Boston.
The Stamp Act; the tumults which followed it; its repeal; the Tea Act;
the troubles which attended its enforcement, and which terminated in the
celebrated Boston _Tea Party_; the military occupation of Boston by the
British army; the hostile encounters that occurred so frequently between
the troops and the citizens, including the fatal events of the 5th
March, 1770; these occurrences, with various others of less importance,
were the preludes to the tragedies of the 19th April and 17th June,
1775. In adverting to one or two of these occasions, it will be seen
that General Warren was the leading spirit of the colony during the
eleven years before mentioned.
Mr. Everett, in his biography of this distinguished officer, says, “The
great authority and influence which Warren exercised over his fellow
citizens, evidently show that he combined in a remarkable degree the
qualities requisite for excellence in civil pursuits, with a strong
taste and aptitude for war. In this particular he stood alone among the
leading patriots of Massachusetts; this, had his valuable life been
prolonged, would have contributed very much to establish and extend his
political influence.
He also possessed, in high perfection, the gift of eloquence, and in
exercising it, he is represented as having exhibited the discretion
which in all respects tempered so honorably the ardor of his character!
His voice was often raised in public, for the purpose of dissuading the
people from tumultuous movements, and exhorting them to seek redress for
their wrongs, as much as possible, according to the forms of law, and
without detriment to the rights of individuals, or a breach of the
public peace. The daily riots, which followed the attempt to enforce the
new revenue laws at Boston, produced, as must have been expected, the
military occupation of the town by British troops.
In the year 1768, two regiments from Halifax, and two from Ireland,
making together nearly four thousand men, were ordered to be stationed
at Boston, under the command of General Gage, an officer who had
honorably distinguished himself in the preceding French war. This gave
great dissatisfaction to the inhabitants, and the general found great
difficulty in erecting barracks for their accommodations, and
consequently hired houses for the greatest part, and the remainder were
quartered in tents upon the common.
This military occupation of Boston led to continual animosity between
the soldiers and the citizens. In these very frequently the latter were
in the wrong, which was certainly the fact on the tragical 5th of March,
1770.
On the evening of that day, while the soldiers were on guard at the
Custom House, King Street, now State Street, a mob of citizens, armed
with every description of weapons, insulted, and finally assaulted them.
The guard exhibited great forbearance, until one of their number had
been actually knocked down by one of the mob, and ill-treated; they then
precipitately fired and killed three persons on the spot, and wounded
two others. So satisfied were the patriots that the citizens were in the
wrong, that John Adams and Josiah Quincy volunteered their services as
counsel for Captain Preston, the commanding officer of the guard who had
been brought to trial for the offence. He was honorably acquitted. This
unhappy affair left in the bosoms of the citizens an impression that
seemed impossible to erase; and they determined to set apart that day
for an annual celebration; and it was accordingly so observed for
several years, until the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence
was finally substituted for it. On the second of these celebrations,
Samuel Adams was invited to deliver the address. He declined the task,
and it was then committed to Dr. Warren, who acquitted himself with
great ability. On another anniversary, three years afterward, he again
delivered another and last address, which, from the mutual exasperation
between the troops and the citizens, was considered rather a critical
duty. The day arrived, however, and the weather remarkably propitious;
the old South Meeting-House was the place appropriated for the delivery
of the oration, and so crowded was the building at an early hour, that
on the arrival of our young orator, there was no way of access but by
the pulpit window, which his friends effected for him by means of a
ladder. The British officers occupied the aisles, and the stairs leading
to the pulpit. Each man felt the palpitation of his own heart, and
watched the pale but determined face of of his neighbor. The speaker
began his oration in a firm tone of voice, and proceeded with great
energy and pathos.
Warren and his friends were prepared to chastise contumely, prevent
disgrace, and avenge an attempt at assassination. The scene was sublime.
A patriot in whom the flush of youth and the grace and dignity of
manhood were combined, stood armed in the holy sanctuary to animate and
encourage the sons of liberty, and to hurl defiance at their oppressors.
The orator commenced with the early history of the country, described
the tenure by which we held our liberties and property; the affection we
had constantly shown the parent country, and boldly told them how, and
by whom these blessings of life had been violated.
There was in this appeal to Britain—in this description of suffering,
agony and horror, a calm and high-souled defiance, which must have
chilled the blood of every sensible foe. Such another hour, perhaps, has
seldom happened in the history of man, and is not surpassed in the
records of nations. An able writer, commenting on the oration, says,
“The thunders of Demosthenes rolled at a distance from Philip and his
host—and Tully poured the fiercest torrent of his invective when
Catiline was far off, and his dagger no longer to be feared; but
Warren’s speech was made to proud oppressors, resting on their arms,
whose errand it was to overawe, and whose business it was to fight. If
the deed of Brutus deserved to be commemorated by history, poetry,
painting and sculpture, should not this instance of patriotism and
bravery be held in lasting remembrance? If he
‘That struck the foremost man of all this world,’
was hailed as the first of freemen, what honors are not due to him, who,
undismayed, bearded the British lion, to show the world what his
countrymen dared to do in the cause of liberty? If the statue of Brutus
was placed among those of the gods, who were the preservers of Roman
freedom, should not that of Warren fill a lofty niche in the temple
reared to perpetuate the remembrance of our birth as a nation?”
The late Rev. Dr. Homer, of Newton, Massachusetts, recently deceased,
who was present on this ever memorable occasion, related the following
incident, which we consider worthy a place on these pages. He says,
“while the oration was in progress, a British officer, seated on the
pulpit-stairs, raised himself up and held one of his hands before the
speaker, with several pistol-bullets on the open palm. Warren observed
the action, and without discontinuing his discourse, dropped a white
handkerchief upon the officer’s hand.”
How happy had it been for the country, if this gentle and graceful
admonition could have arrested the march of violence, and averted the
fatal presage afforded by this sinister occurrence of the future fate of
the patriotic speaker—a presage too soon and too exactly realized on
the following 17th of June. The first position of a public character in
which Dr. Warren took a part, were those which grew out of Governor
Gage’s determination to fortify the southern entrance of Boston, by
lines drawn across the isthmus or Neck, which unites it to Roxbury. On
this occasion a convention was held, of delegates from all the towns in
the county of Suffolk, which then comprehended the present county of
Norfolk, for the purpose of endeavoring to prevent this measure from
being carried into effect. Dr. Warren was a delegate to this convention,
and was made chairman of the committee which was appointed to prepare an
address to the governor upon the subject. The governor replied in a
brief and unsatisfactory manner.
The committee rejoined in another address, of greater length, which was
transmitted to the governor, to which he did not think proper to reply.
These papers were written by Warren, and give a very favorable idea of
his literary taste and talent, as well as of his courage and patriotism.
The correspondence was communicated by Dr. Warren, as chairman of the
committee, to the Continental Congress; and that body, in their reply,
notice, in terms of high approbation, the part taken in it by the
committee. The high sense, which was now entertained by his
fellow-citizens, of the value of the services of Warren to the cause of
liberty, was strikingly evinced on this occasion, first by his election
as a delegate from Boston to the Congress, and secondly, by his
designation as President of that body, and chairman of the committee of
public safety. By virtue of these situations, he united in his person
the chief responsibility for the conduct of the whole civil and military
affairs of the new commonwealth, and became a sort of popular dictator.
The Congress was organized at Salem, but shortly after removed to
Concord, and, a few days before the battle of Lexington, adjourned to
meet again at Watertown, on the 10th May, 1775. The Committee of Safety
held its meetings, at this time, in a public house at West Cambridge,
and seems to have been in session every day. It was soon apparent that
the station now occupied by Warren, in the councils of Massachusetts,
would be no sinecure. The events of the 19th of April, including the
battles of Lexington and Concord were of such a character, that no
individual could well occupy a very conspicuous position in the field.
There was no commander-in-chief, and, properly speaking, no regular
engagement or battle. The object of the British was to destroy the
military stores at Concord; that of the Americans, to prevent this, if
possible, and to show that, in this quarter of the country, every inch
of ground would be desperately contested. For the vigor and
determination which marked the conduct of the people on this important
day, it is not too much to say, that the country is mainly indebted to
the vigilance, activity and energy of Warren.
It had been the intention of the British commander to surprise the
Americans, and so severe were the precautions taken for this purpose,
that the officers employed in the expedition were only informed of it on
the preceding day. Information of a meditated attack had been, however,
for some time in possession of the Americans; the first intimation
having been given by a patriotic lady of Boston, the wife of a royalist
officer. A most vigilant observation was, in consequence, maintained
upon the movements of the British; and, in this operation, great
advantage was derived from the services of an association, composed
chiefly of Boston mechanics, which had been formed in the autumn of the
preceding year. The late Col. Paul Revere was an active member of this
society, and was employed by Dr. Warren, on this occasion, as his
principal confidential messenger. Some preparatory movements took place
among the British troops on the 15th of April, which attracted the
attention of Warren. It was known that the principal object of the
contemplated expedition was to seize the stores at Concord. Presuming
that the movement would now be made without delay, the committee of
safety took measures for securing the stores by distributing a part of
them among the neighboring towns. John Hancock and Samuel Adams were
then at the house of the Rev. Mr. Clark, in Lexington, and Colonel
Revere was dispatched as a special messenger to inform them of the
probable designs of General Gage. On his return to Boston, he made an
agreement with his friends in Charlestown, that, if the expedition
proceeded by water, two lights should be displayed on the steeple of the
North Church, if it moved over the neck, through Roxbury, only one. The
British commander finally fixed upon the 19th for the intended attempt;
and, on the evening of the 18th he sent for the officers whom he had
designated for this service, and communicated to them, for the first
time, the nature of the expedition upon which they were to be employed.
So strict had been the secrecy observed by the governor in regard to
this matter. The same discretion had not been maintained in other
quarters, for Lord Percy, who was to command the reserve, on his way
home to his lodgings, heard the expedition talked of, by a group of
citizens, at the corner of one of the streets.
He hastened back to the governor’s headquarters, and informed him that
he had been betrayed. An order was instantly issued to prevent any
American from leaving town, but it came a few minutes too late to
produce effect. Dr. Warren, who had returned in the evening from the
meeting of the Committee of Public Safety, at West Cambridge, was
already informed of the movement of the British army, and had taken the
necessary measures for spreading the intelligence through the country.
At about nine o’clock on the evening of the 18th the British troops
intended for the expedition were embarked, under the command of Colonel
Small, in boats at the bottom of the Common. Dr. Warren inspected the
embarkation in person, and having returned home immediately after, sent
for Colonel Revere, who reached his house about ten o’clock. He had
already dispatched Mr. Dawes overland as a special messenger to
Lexington, and he now requested Colonel Revere to proceed through
Charlestown on the same errand. The colonel made arrangements, in the
first place, for displaying the two lights on the steeple of the North
Church, agreeably to the understanding with his friends in Charlestown,
and then repaired to a wharf, at the north part of the town, where he
kept his boat. He was rowed over by two friends, a little to the
eastward of the British ship of war _Somerset_, which lay at anchor in
this part of the channel, and was landed on the Charlestown side.
He pursued his way through Charlestown and West Cambridge, not without
several perilous encounters with British officers, who were patroling
the neighborhood, and finally arrived safely at Lexington, where he met
the other messenger, Mr. Dawes, whom he had, however, anticipated.
After reposing a short time, they proceeded together to Concord,
alarming the whole country as they went, by literally knocking at the
door of almost every house upon the road. They had of course been in
part anticipated by the signals on the North Church steeple, which had
spread intelligence of the intended movement, with the speed of light,
through all the neighboring towns. By the effect of these well-judged
and well-executed measures, Hancock and Adams were enabled to provide in
season for their personal safety, and the whole population of the towns,
through which the British troops were to pass, were roused and on foot
before they made their appearance. On reaching Lexington Green, they
found a corps of militia under arms and prepared to meet them. At
Concord, they found another; and when, after effecting as far as they
could, the objects of their expedition, they turned their steps
homeward, they were enveloped, as it were, in a cloud of the armed
yeomanry, which thickened around them at every step, and did such
fearful execution in their ranks, that nothing but their timely meeting
with the reinforcements under Lord Percy, at West Cambridge, could have
saved them from entire disorganization and actual surrender. Colonel
Revere, many years afterward, drew up a very curious and interesting
account of his adventures on this expedition, in the form of a letter to
the corresponding secretary of the Massachusetts Historical Society,
which is printed in the Collections of that body, and is now familiar to
the public. Warren who was now in attendance on the Committee of Safety
at West Cambridge, expecting the British troops to pass that way on
their return from Concord, awaited their arrival.
On their approach he armed himself and went out in company with General
Heath to meet them.
On this occasion he displayed his usual fearlessness, by exposing his
person very freely to the fire of the enemy; and a bullet passed so near
his head, as to carry away one of the long, close, horizontal curls,
which, agreeably to the fashion of the day, he wore above his ears.
This accident was regarded by the superstitious as an ill-omen, or a
presage of an early doom that awaited him. But Warren himself, even in a
superstitious age, never yielded to such notions, his frank and generous
spirit would rather sympathize with the gallant Trojan hero, who when he
was advised to await, before he entered upon a battle, till the omens
deduced from the flight of birds should become favorable, exclaimed,
“What care I for the flight of birds, whether they take their course to
the right or to the left? I ask no better omen than to draw my sword in
the cause of my country.”
It is a remarkable fact, on examining the composition of the New England
army of 1775, how many names we find of men, either previously or
subsequently illustrious in the history of the country.
The fact is one among many other proofs, how completely the spirit of
the times had taken possession of the whole mind of the colonies, and
drawn within the sphere of its influence the most eminent professional,
political, and military characters, as well as the mass of the people.
In regard to the character of the troops, it is sufficient to say that
they were the flower and the pride of our hardy yeomanry. They were not
like the rank and file of the regular armies of Europe, the refuse of
society, enlisted in the worst haunts of crowded cities, under the
influence of a large bounty, or perhaps an inspiration of a still
inferior kind. They were, as they are correctly described by our
enemies, “the country people.”
Though generally unaccustomed to regular service, their continual
conflicts with the Indians made them expert in the use of arms. Of the
officers, who commanded in this army, Warren has been rendered, by
subsequent events, by far the most conspicuous. Prescott and Putnam,
both veterans of the former wars, occupied with him at the time, the
highest place in the confidence of the country. But, in addition to
these, there were many others whose names are not much less extensively
known throughout the world than theirs. It will not be irrelevant we
trust, to touch some of the leading characters in connection at that
time, without this, the character of him who figures in this memoir must
be incomplete. To Mr. Everett, the able historian of Warren, we are
indebted for much of the history following.
Prescott, the colonel of one of the Middlesex regiments, was the
officer, who, on the 16th of June, received the orders of the
commander-in-chief to occupy and fortify the heights of Charlestown, and
who commanded in the redoubt on the day of the battle. He was a native
of Pepperell, in the county of Middlesex, where his family, one of the
most distinguished and respected in the State, still reside during a
part of the year. Prescott inherited an ample fortune from his father;
but he seems to have possessed a natural aptitude for military pursuits,
and, at the opening of the war of 1756, he, with so many others of the
noble spirits of New England, joined the expedition against Nova Scotia,
under General Winslow, with a provincial commission. He served with such
distinction, that, after the close of the war, he was urged to accept a
commission in the British line; but he declined the honor, and preferred
returning to the paternal estate. Here he resided, occupied in the
peaceful pursuits of agriculture, and in dispensing a frank and liberal
hospitality to his neighbors, many of whom were his old companions in
arms, until the opening of the Revolution called him, already a veteran,
to the council and the field. During the progress of the battle of
Bunker’s Hill, he was frequently seen on the top of the parapet, attired
in a calico frock, with his bald head uncovered to the sun, observing
the enemy, or encouraging his men to action. Governor Gage, who, at one
of these moments, was reconnoitering the American works through a
telescope, remarked the singular appearance of Prescott, and inquired of
Willard, one of the council, who he was. “My brother-in-law Colonel
Prescott,” was the reply. “Will he fight?” returned the governor. “Ay,”
said Willard, “to the last drop of his blood.”
Putnam, another veteran of the French wars, was not less bold in action,
and equally regardless of unnecessary show and ceremony.
In the war of 1756 he commanded a company of provincial rangers, and, in
this capacity, rendered the most essential services; passing through a
series of adventures, the details of which, though resting on
unquestionable evidence, seem like a wild and extravagant fable. After
the close of the seven years’ war, Putnam returned to the plough, and
was in the act of guiding it, when he heard the news of the battle of
Lexington.
Like Cincinnatus of old, he left it in the furrow, and repaired at once
to Cambridge, though now more than sixty years of age. He was
particularly earnest, in the council of war, in recommending the measure
of fortifying Bunker’s Hill; a part of his regiment was detached for the
service, and he was present and active himself on the field, through the
night of the battle, and during the action.
Whether, as some suppose, he was charged by the Council of War with a
general superintendence of the whole affair; or whether, like Warren, he
appeared upon the field as a volunteer, is not known with certainty; for
the official record of the orders of the day is lost, and the want of it
is not supplied, for this purpose, by any other evidence.
It is certain, however, from all the accounts, that his agency in the
action was great and effectual. It may be here remarked, that the
principal British and American officers were personally known to each
other. They had served together in the French wars, and in some
instances, had contracted a close and intimate friendship.
Not long after the battle of Lexington, there was an interview at
Charlestown, between some of the officers on both sides, to regulate an
exchange of prisoners; and Governor Brooks, who was present, was
accustomed to relate that General Putnam and Major Small, of the British
army, no sooner met, than they ran into each other’s arms.
In this state of the hostile preparations of the two parties, and with
the strong feeling of mutual exasperation, which, notwithstanding
occasional instances of a different character, prevailed generally
between the masses of both, it was apparent, that a trial of strength on
a more extensive scale, and of a much more serious and decisive kind,
than any that had yet occurred, must soon take place.
The Americans had been for some time employed in fortifying the heights
of Charlestown, and in preparing to defend them against the enemy; the
British on their part had commenced preparing for an attack.
At an early hour in the morning, Governor Gage summoned a council of war
at the City Hall. They were all agreed as to the propriety of dislodging
the Americans from their work; but there was some difference of opinion
upon the mode of making the attack. Generals Clinton and Grant were for
landing at Charlestown Neck, and attacking the works in the rear, but
this plan was considered too hazardous.
It would place the British between two armies, one superior in force,
and the other strongly intrenched, by which they might be attacked at
once in front and rear, without the possibility of a retreat.
The plan preferred by the council was to attack the works in front.
Accordingly, at about noon, twenty-eight barges left the end of Long
Wharf, filled with the principal part of the first detachment of the
British troops, which consisted of four battalions of infantry, ten
companies of light infantry, and ten of grenadiers. They had six pieces
of artillery, one of which was placed in each of the six leading boats.
The barges formed in single file, and in two parallel lines.
The day was without a cloud, and the regular movement of this splendid
naval procession, with the glow of the brazen artillery, and the scarlet
dresses and burnished arms of the troops, exhibited to the unaccustomed
eyes of the Americans a brilliant and imposing spectacle. The barges
proceeded in good order, and landed their freight at the south-eastern
point of the peninsula, commonly called Morton’s Point. Immediately
after they had landed, it was discovered that most of the cannon-balls,
which had been brought over, were too large for the pieces, and that it
was necessary to send them back and obtain a fresh supply. A British
writer of that day gives the following ludicrous account of this blunder
of over-sized balls, he says: “This blunder arose from the dotage of an
officer of high rank, who spends all his time with school-masters’
daughters.” It seems that General Cleveland, “who,” as the same author
says, “though no Samson, must have his Delilah,” became very much in
love with the beautiful daughter of Master Lovell, and, in order to gain
favor with the damsel, had given her young brother, a mere boy, an
appointment in the ordnance department, for which he was not qualified.
His inexperience was the cause of the error, for which General Cleveland
was much censured by his commanding officer, as it created some delay
and diminished the British fire during the first two attacks. While the
British commander was preparing to send off his second detachment, the
first remained unmolested at Morton’s Point, and quietly dined from the
contents of their knapsacks. At about two o’clock, the second detachment
followed in barges to join the first at Morton’s Point, soon after a few
companies of grenadiers and light infantry, with a party of mariners,
the whole amounting to about four thousand men, who were commanded by
General Howe. He had under him General Pigot, and Colonels Nesbit,
Abercrombie, and Clark.
Such, then, were the respective forces and positions of the two armies
immediately preceding the battle. General Burgoyne, in a letter written
some days after the battle, has given a spirited sketch of the splendid
panorama, seen by the British officers from the heights at the northern
extremity of Boston. He says, “the spectacle which was exhibited at this
time by the two peninsulas and the surrounding waters, was of a highly
varied and brilliant character; for immediately below flowed the river
Charles,” (not, as now, interrupted by numerous bridges,) “pursuing a
smooth, unbroken way to the ocean. Between this and Charlestown shore,
lay at anchor, the ships of war, the _Somerset_, the _Lively_, and the
_Falcon_; and further on the left, within the bay, the _Glasgow_. Their
black and threatening hulks poured forth at every new discharge, fresh
volumes of smoke, which hung like fleecy clouds upon the air, till
cleared by the northern breezes, when the spectator could perceive on
the opposite side of the river, rising from the shore by a gentle
ascent, the sister hills of Charlestown, clothed in the green luxuriance
of the first flush of vegetation, excepting where their summits were
broken by the low and hasty works of the Americans.” While both the
armies and the assembled multitude were hushed in breathless
expectation, might be seen our gallant fathers, eagerly awaiting the
signal for the action, ready to rush to the rescue of freedom and their
country. Their homely apparel had but little to attract the eye, but
frequently, when some favorite officer made his appearance, a shout of
gratulation passed along the ranks, which showed the zeal that inspired
them for the cause. During this silent suspense, a horseman was seen
advancing at full speed toward the American works. As he crossed the
hill, General Putnam rode forward to meet him, and perceived it was
General Warren.
“General Warren!” exclaimed the veteran, “is it you? I rejoice and
regret to see you. Your life is too precious to be exposed here; but,
since you are arrived, I take your orders.”
“General Putnam, I have none to give. You have made your arrangements,
therefore proceed. I come to aid you as a volunteer. Tell me where I can
be useful.”
“Go, then,” said Putnam, “to the redoubt; you will there be covered.”
“I came not to be covered,” replied Warren, “I came to do my duty; tell
me where I shall be most in danger, and where the action will be
hottest.”
“The redoubt,” said Putnam, “will be the enemy’s object; if that can be
defended, the day is ours.”
General Warren at once hastened to the redoubt, and his approach to the
troops, who recognized him, though he wore no uniform, was welcomed with
loud acclamations. When he reached the redoubt, Colonel Prescott
requested him to give him his orders.
“No, Colonel Prescott,” he replied, “give me yours—give me a musket; I
have come here to take a lesson of a veteran soldier in the art of war.”
These particulars, including the dialogue, are given substantially, as
reported afterward by General Putnam and Colonel Prescott, and may be
depended on as authentic. General Warren was originally opposed to the
plan of fortifying the Heights of Charlestown; but when he found the
Council of War had decided in favor of it, he told them he should aid
them personally in carrying it into effect. Against this he was strongly
urged, but his resolution was immovable. Warren had officiated the
preceding day at Watertown, as President of Congress; that body being in
session there, and had passed the whole night in transacting business.
At daylight he mounted his horse, and rode to headquarters at Cambridge,
where he arrived much indisposed from fatigue; he was urged to take some
repose, which he did; but he had retired to bed but a short time, when
information was received from General Ward that the British were moving.
He rose immediately, said he was quite well, and attended the meeting of
the Committee of Safety as chairman. During this meeting, Elbridge
Gerry, who entertained the same opinion as Warren upon the prudence of
the attempt, earnestly requested him not to expose his person.
“I am aware of the danger,” replied the young and ardent soldier, “but I
should die with shame, if I were to remain at home in safety, while my
friends and fellow-citizens are shedding their blood, and hazarding
their lives in the cause.”
“Your ardent temper,” replied Gerry, “will carry you forward into the
midst of peril, and you will probably fall.”
“I know that I may fall,” returned Warren; “but where is the American
who does not think it a glory to die in defense of his country?”
After the adjournment of the committee, he mounted his horse, and rode
to Charlestown, where he arrived but a short time before the battle
commenced.
General Pomroy, of Northampton, reached headquarters at this time, as a
volunteer; he had served, with the rank of captain, under Sir William
Johnson, in the war of 1756; and was distinguished in the celebrated
battle with the French and Indians, under Baron Dieskau. When the sound
of the artillery rattled in his ears, he felt it as a summons to action,
and could not resist the temptation to repair to the field. He
accordingly requested General Ward to lend him a horse, and taking a
musket, set off at full speed for Charlestown. On reaching the Neck, and
finding it enfiladed by a hot and heavy fire of round, bar, and
chain-shot from the _Glasgow_, he began to be alarmed, not, as may be
supposed, for his own safety, but for that of General Ward’s horse.
Horses were at this time almost as rare and precious as the nobler
animals that rode them. Too honest to expose his borrowed horse to “the
pelting of the pitiless storm,” and too bold to dream of shrinking from
it himself, the conqueror of Baron Dieskau dismounted, delivered the
horse to a sentry near, shouldered his musket, and marched on foot
across the Neck. On reaching the hill, he took his station near the
redoubt; and he had no sooner been recognised by the soldiers, than his
name rang with repeated shouts along the line. About three o’clock in
the afternoon, every necessary preparation being made, the signal for
action was given by a general discharge of artillery along the whole
British line.
The troops advanced in two divisions, General Howe, in person, led the
right, toward the rail-fence; General Pigot, with the left, aimed
directly at the redoubt. At this time, it appears, the order for the
exchange of balls sent in mistake, had not yet been answered, which
caused a suspension of the fire from the British artillery very soon
after it had commenced. It was, however, renewed with grape-shot. The
little battery, stationed at the opening between the redoubt and
breastwork, in the American lines, replied with great effect. In the
meantime, the American drums beat to arms. General Putnam, who was still
at work on the redoubt, quitted the intrenchment, and led his men into
action. “Powder is scarce,” said the veteran, addressing them in his
usual laconic style; “powder is scarce, and must not be wasted; reserve
your fire till you see the whites of their eyes, then take aim at the
officers.” These laconic remarks were repeated as an order along the
line; but when the British had come within gunshot of the works, a few
sharp-shooters disobeyed the injunction, and fired. “Fire again before
the word is given at your peril,” exclaimed Prescott; “the next man that
disobeys orders shall be instantly shot.” The British were now at only
eight rods distance. “Now, men, now is your time!” said Prescott. “Make
ready! take aim! fire!”
So effectually was this order obeyed, that when the smoke disappeared,
the whole hill-side was covered with the fallen. The British returned
the fire, and attempted to rally and advance, but without success. After
a moment’s irresolution, they turned their backs, and hurried from the
hill.
Such was the futile attempt to storm the works; and had the
reinforcements of artillery and supplies of ammunition, which had been
ordered from Cambridge, arrived, a brilliant success must have followed.
It was at this moment that the mischief resulting from Colonel Gridley’s
ill-judged exhibition of parental partiality, in giving the place of
major in the artillery to his son, in preference to Count Rumford, was
severely felt. This young officer, as his subsequent conduct proved, was
entirely incompetent to the duty assigned him.
Could the long-tried and energetic character of Rumford been employed,
there would have been no want of ammunition; powder and balls enough
would have found their way into their works, and the day might still
have been ours. But America paid the penalty of Colonel Gridley’s
fatherly weakness, as Great Britain did that of General Cleveland’s
superannuated gallantry. The American artillery was badly served through
the whole action. Early in the day the officer, who was stationed with
his company and two field pieces at the opening between the redoubt and
breastwork, drew off his pieces from the post assigned, in order, as he
said, to prepare his ammunition in safety. General Putnam was obliged to
employ Captain Ford to drag the pieces back; by him and Captain Perkins,
they were served the whole day. Major Gridley, who had been ordered with
his battalion from Cambridge to the lines with all speed; had advanced
only a short distance beyond the Neck, and halted, as he said, in order
to wait and cover the retreat, which his inexperience deemed inevitable.
At that moment, Colonel Frye, a veteran of the old French wars, whose
regiment was in the redoubt, perceived Major Gridley with his artillery
in the position described. Frye galloped up to him, and demanded what it
meant.
“We are waiting,” said Gridley, “to cover the retreat.”
“Retreat!” replied the veteran, “who talks of retreating? This day
thirty years ago I was present at the first taking of Louisburg, when
your father, with his own hand, lodged a shell in the citadel. His son
was not born to talk of retreating. Forward to the lines!”
Gridley proceeded a short distance with his artillery, but overcome with
terror, and unequal to such a task, he ordered his men to re-cross the
Neck, and take a position, where they were to fire with their three
pounders upon the _Glasgow_. The order was so absurd that Captain
Trevett refused to obey it, and proceeded at once toward the lines.
Major Gridley was tried for neglect of duty, and dismissed from service.
A few hours had now passed in silence, when General Howe determined upon
a second attack, and, having rallied and re-organized his men, gave the
order to advance. This was complied with, and the artillery pushed
forward to within three hundred yards of the rail-fence, to prepare the
way for the infantry. During these movements, a solemn silence brooded
over the American lines.
The men were ordered not to fire till the enemy were within six rods
distance. While every thing was in agitation, a new spectacle burst upon
the eyes of the assembled multitude, and added another feature more
startling, if possible, than the rest, to the terrible sublimity of the
scene. Clouds of smoke were seen to overspread the air, from which
flashed sheets of fire. It soon became apparent that Charlestown was in
flames. The British General had been annoyed, at his first attack upon
the works, by the fire of a detachment stationed in the town, and had
given orders that it should be burned. For this purpose, combustibles
were hurled into it from Boston, which commenced the conflagration; and
a detachment of marines from the _Somerset_, were directed to land, and
aid in its destruction. The flames spread with devastating rapidity,
till street on street, and house on house, were even with the ground.
The last structure which seemed to strive with holy efforts against the
devouring element, was the large church; sublime indeed was the
spectacle! the crackling flames ascending from the body of the spacious
building, and playing around its lofty spire. Solemn indeed was the
continuous toll of the large bell, as the beams that suspended it were
vibrating, till they fell with one tremendous crash. Scenes like these
in ordinary times, which would have driven the most inanimate soul to
madness, were entirely overlooked by both armies, who coolly prosecuted
their work.
The British troops ascended the hill by slow and regular approaches,
firing without aim, in platoons, with all the precision of a holyday
review.
The Americans, agreeably to their orders, reserved their fire till the
British were within six rods distance. The word was then given, and the
discharge took place with more fatal effect than the former attack.
Hundreds of the British soldiers fell—General Howe remained almost
alone, for he lost almost every officer belonging to his staff. His
aids, Colonels Gordon, Balfour and Addison; the last was a member of the
family of the author of the “Spectator.”
So tremendous was the havoc, that, the second time on this eventful day,
did the British army retreat from the hill. At this period in the
progress of the battle, a little incident occurred, which shows that the
American officers were fighting for their country, not for the sake of
blood and carnage, and that they never forgot that high-souled feeling
for which they were ever distinguished. After the fire from the American
works had taken effect, Major Small, (who has been named before as a
personal friend of Putnam,) like his commander, remained almost alone on
the field.
His companions in arms had been all swept away, and standing thus apart,
he became, from the brilliancy of his uniform, a conspicuous mark for
the Americans within the redoubt. They had already pointed their
unerring rifles at his heart, and the delay of another minute would
probably have stopped its pulses forever.
At this moment Putnam recognized his friend, and perceiving the imminent
danger in which he was placed, sprang upon the parapet, and threw
himself before the levelled rifles.
“Spare that officer, my gallant comrades, he is my friend; do you not
remember our affectionate meeting at the exchange of prisoners?”
This appeal from the favorite old chief was successful, and Small
retired unmolested.
This anecdote, poetical as it appears, is attested by undoubted
authority.
General Howe, undaunted by the second repulse, felt determined to
venture a third attack, but thought best to adopt a more judicious plan
than before. He this time concentrated his whole force upon the redoubt
and breastwork, instead of directing a portion of it against the
rail-fence.
He also directed his men to reserve their fire, and trust wholly to the
bayonet. He had discovered the vulnerable point in the American
defenses, and pushed forward his artillery to the opening between the
redoubt and breastwork, where it turned our works and enfiladed the
whole line. By this time the Americans were nearly reduced to the last
extremity. Their ammunition was exhausted; they had no bayonets; no
reinforcements appeared. Colonel Gardiner, who had been stationed with
his regiment at Charlestown Neck, but had received no orders to march,
reached Bunker’s Hill with three hundred men. He had no sooner reached
the lines, when he received a wound from a musket ball, which afterward
proved fatal. As his men were carrying him from the field, his son, a
youth of nineteen, second lieutenant in Trevett’s artillery company,
which had just come up, met and recognised his father. Distracted at
seeing him in this condition, he offered to aid in conducting him from
the field.
“Think not of me,” replied the gallant patriot, “think not of me—I am
well. Go forward to your duty!”
The son obeyed his orders, and the father retired from the field to die.
The Americans awaited with desperate resolution the onset of the
British, prepared to repel them, as best they could, with the remaining
charges of powder and ball, with the stocks of their muskets, and with
stones.
Having reached the works, the foremost of the British attempted to scale
them. Richardson, a private in the Royal Irish regiment, was the first
to mount the parapet. He was shot down at once. Major Pitcairn followed
him, and as he stepped on the parapet was heard to exclaim, “The day is
ours!” But the words had no sooner escaped his lips, than he was shot
through the body; his son caught him in his arms as he fell, and carried
him from the hill.
He led the detachment which first encountered our troops upon Lexington
Green, on the 19th of April; he had a horse shot under him on that day,
and was left upon the field for dead. General Pigot, who had mounted the
redoubt by means of a tree left standing there, was the first person to
enter the works. He was followed by others. The Americans, however,
still held out, till the principal of their officers were badly wounded.
Perceiving, at length, that further resistance would be a wanton and
useless sacrifice of valuable life, Colonel Prescott ordered a retreat.
The Americans left the hill with very little molestation. General Warren
had come upon the field, as he said to learn the art of war from a
veteran soldier. He had offered to take Colonel Prescott’s orders, and
it was with extreme reluctance that he quitted the redoubt. He was
slowly retreating from it, only a few rods distance, when the British
obtained full possession, which exposed his person to imminent danger.
Major Small, whose life, as has been mentioned in the preceding chapter,
had been saved in a similar emergency, by the interference of General
Putnam, attempted to requite the service by rendering one of a like
character to Warren. He called out to him by name from the redoubt, and
begged him to surrender, at the same time ordering his men around him to
suspend their fire. On hearing the voice of Major Small, Warren turned
his head, but the effort was too late. While his face was directed
toward the works, a ball struck him on the forehead, and inflicted a
wound which was instantly fatal. The magnanimous champion of liberty had
fallen.
The body of General Warren was identified the following day, and the
ball which terminated his life was taken from the body by Mr. Savage, an
officer in the Custom House, and was carried to England. Several years
afterward it was returned to the family, in whose possession it now
remains. The remains of Warren were buried on the spot where he fell,
but the following year they were removed to a tomb in the Tremont
Cemetery, and subsequently deposited in the family vault, under St.
Paul’s church, Boston.
In the official account of the battle of Bunker’s Hill, the character of
Warren is noticed in the most honorable terms.
“Among the dead,” says the account, “was Major General Joseph Warren, a
man whose memory will be endeared to his countrymen, and to the worthy
in every part and age of the world, so long as virtue and valor shall be
esteemed among mankind.”
General Warren left four children, two sons and two daughters. Within a
year after the death of Warren, it was resolved, by the Continental
Congress, that his eldest son should be educated at the public expense;
and two or three years after, it was further resolved, that public
provision should be made for the education of the other children, until
the youngest should be of age. The sons both died in their minority; the
daughters were distinguished for their amiable qualities, and personal
beauty; one of them married the late General Arnold Welles, of Boston,
and died without issue; the other married Richard Newcomb, of
Greenfield, Massachusetts, whose children are the only surviving
descendants of the hero of Bunker’s Hill. In addition to the public
provision made by the Congress for the children of Warren, it was also
resolved by that body that a monument should be erected, at the national
expense, to his memory. This resolution, like similar ones to the other
officers of the Revolution, remains as yet without effect. Such are the
only particulars of interest that are known of the brief and brilliant
career of Joseph Warren. As Mr. Everett remarks:
“To Warren, distinguished as he was among the bravest, wisest and best
of the patriotic band, was assigned, in the inscrutable degrees of
Providence, the crown of early martyrdom. It becomes not human frailty
to murmur at the will of heaven; and however painful may be the first
emotions excited in the mind by the sudden and premature eclipse of so
much talent and virtue, it may perhaps well be doubted, whether by any
course of active service in a civil or military department, General
Warren could have rendered more essential benefit to the country, or to
the cause of liberty throughout the world, than by the single act of
heroic self-devotion which closed his existence. The blood of martyrs
has been in all ages the nourishing rain of religion and liberty. The
friends of liberty from all countries and throughout all time, as they
kneel upon the spot that was moistened by the blood of Warren, will find
their better feelings strengthened by the influence of the place, and
will gather from it a virtue in some degree allied to his own.”
* * * * *
THE DREAM OF YOUTH.
BY WM. P. BRANNAN.
O GIVE me back my dream of youth,
When every pulse throbbed wild and gay,
My heart’s sweet spring-time when life’s flowers
Bewildering bloomed along my way;
When all the world was Paradise,
And Pleasure held a sovereign sway;
When every change brought new delight,
And all the blessed year was May.
O give again those rapturous hours
When first my soul with beauty thrilled,
And mad with ecstasy I dared
To love, nor cared if loving killed
When every radiant face I saw
Flashed with enchantment on my brain,
Till earth seemed changing spheres with heaven;
O give to me that dream again.
Those aspirations for a fame
Immortal through all coming time;
That faith which soared on angel wings
From gladsome earth to heights sublime;
When every air a perfume breathed,
Melodious with the voice of song,
That swayed me with resistless power
And nerved my soul with purpose strong.
O give me back my boyhood’s dream,
Those gleams of glory from above,
That hope which grasped a deathless name,
And blest me with undying love;
O let me taste that joy again
Which riots in my thought to-day—
That earnest and exulting youth
When all the blessed year was May.
* * * * *
EDITOR’S TABLE.
[Illustration]
FREAKS OF THE PEN.
“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”
MY DEAR JEREMY,—I write you while a hail-storm is rattling at the
window-panes, as if anxious to get in and warm its nose, and while the
fire in my Radiator is roaring as angrily as a young lion, as if anxious
to get out and have a battle with the storm. The clouds without, too,
have a warlike aspect, look blue, and go tumbling about as if they had
taken whisky-toddy not over warm. Nature, after the sulks, is
hysterical. The wind goes moaning and howling around the house, as if
anxious to vent its temper in a blow at somebody. The solitary oysterman
in the street, is raising a cry as dolorous as if he had taken a
breeze—been on a gale—on his own account, was melancholy, and had not
the heart to sing-“away;” yet in fact he keeps singing away, in tones
rather inviting to blue-devils. He does not feel, evidently, as well as
his oysters, though he is their master. The vanity of riches is thus
made apparent,—wealth does not always produce happiness. Patient
industry in the storm is dismal—so another apophthegm is exploded.
Knowledge is not the grand specific either. Their ignorance of the
roasting which awaits them, is bliss. His knowledge of the roasting
which awaits him—if he goes home without market-money—is, perhaps, the
particular misery which weighs upon his soul, and renders his cry so
plaintive.
The philosophers say that contentment is happiness—but who is
contented? The very discoverers of this sovereign balm for restless
spirits, go toiling on over musty tomes in search of something new, and
grow fretful and peevish from indigestion, or irritable from age and
failing eyesight. Nature herself is not always calm and smiling. She has
her storms, her earthquakes, and her eruptions. The earth is not
satisfied with her own dull face, but must borrow her brightness and
beauty from the sun, she gets the dumps, and grows cold, if the loan is
reluctantly given. What, then, can she expect from her children, but a
thirst insatiate for change and glory of some sort? Philosophy is all
very well in its way, and so is the philosopher’s stone—but who is the
happy possessor of either? People talk of the insensibility of the
oyster—perhaps that is the great secret; but try him upon a hot stove,
if you wish to witness the open-mouthed, but mute, appeal of despairing
distress; try him upon your palate afterward, if you wish to paliate
conscience for his sufferings—but do not slander the fine feelings of
so good a fellow for the sake of an apophthegm. He is more worthy of
your regards than many men who put him to the torture on silver dishes.
Happiness, after all, is more active than passive, and depends a good
deal upon the bent which education, our own strong instincts, or the
fashion of the age or the day may inculcate. I’ll warrant me, that the
Crusaders thought it consisted in slicing off the heads of the
Saracens—the good old monks in fasting, prayer, and
hair-garments,—some of the old fathers again, in capon, burgundy, and
beauty. The curate of the English Church, thinks it is the mitre and the
bishop’s holy office—the bishop, in turn, the gold and the influence of
the station, yet he is not wholly satisfied. Some of the Spanish girls
think it consists in a rich old husband, and a handsome young cavalier;
others, who will none of them, turn nuns. John Bull finds his in
roast-beef, trade, and the aristocracy. Brother Jonathan in politics,
progression, gold, and the cuteness of the universal Yankee nation. But
what philosopher, to clinch his theory, will bring you an individual who
has no longings, no aspirings to be, or do, or have something more? Who
does not feel proud to excel in something?—goodness even becomes a
marketable article, for praise. Virtue in rags loves incense. Every man
does, or feels that he does, outdo his fellows in something. The
inflation of a mind conscious of superior powers; the thought of a purse
larger and deeper—of a cheek of purer roundness, whiteness, or bloom—a
voice of richer powers—a name, a position, the huzzas, or the stare of
the multitude—to be a lucky fellow, a great man, these make up the sum
of personal gratification. But who is contented, without taxing the
praise, the envy, the pockets of others? The fashionable woman, who
shines in brighter jewels and more brilliant parties than her opposing
friends—the merchant who chuckles over the feat of driving a sharp
bargain with a brother trader, each has a standard of happiness not set
down in philosophy—self-sufficiency—personal acquisition and
glory—vanity all, Jeremy.
Above the roar of my little fire, I hear, from my den editorial, the
tumult of the great world without, and fancy I can see the struggle
going on through all the avenues of life—from the church where we have
specimen preaching and fashionable morals, down to the poor boot-black,
who polishes your patent boots, and praises his patent blacking. You
will find all things made up to lure and dazzle the unsophisticated. At
every turn you must beware of man-traps and cajolings. In a moment, and
a shape you least anticipate, some brilliant fortune-seducer and
ensnarer, will start up opportunely in your very path; for what your own
brain does not suggest, your passion and self-love urge you to—will
spring, full-armed from the head of some daring genius, who is your dear
friend, and takes you in, for that reason only. The influence of a bad
example in morals or business, a determination not to be outdone or to
be bullied, a suggestion to excel and overtop our fellows, are poisons
very flatteringly administered to our self-esteem, but certain and
deadly, nevertheless. The disease is contagious, and you have been
slightly bitten already; be contented, my dear boy, if you can—but be
modest, be wary, be cool. Instead of trying to practice philosophical
apophthegms in a world made up as ours is, try a little self-denial. Let
the glitter and the huzzas of the supposed great and successful, sweep
by you, but stand firm—it is a luxury worth the testing. You shall look
from the banks of the stream of time, and see the dead of the slain of
this world float by you, and with your staff in hand, shall walk slowly
and surely onward and upward to the source of all inspiration and
happiness. You can have no chance in the bold games played in this
world, without a defilement of the heart—an utter loss of self-respect,
a total disregard or an annihilation of conscience.
Yet your sharp fellows—what a feast of enjoyment have they, in a world
made up expressly to their hands of duller clay? Men who, smiling
kindly, will cheat you before your very eyes, with a consciousness of
self-power, that you cannot, with all your acuteness, tell under which
thimble “the little joker” happens to be. Is there rare enjoyment in
this? There must be, you will think, or why is it so perseveringly
followed in nearly all the dealings of man with man. Your eyes are your
market, my friend—keep them open. I’ll warrant you, that my dismal
friend, who is singing so sadly out in the street over his bivalves,
says in his heart—“the world is mine oyster,” and has as high an
opinion of his own sagacity, as any dealer in broad-cloths or sugars,
and will trick you as nicely with a specimen oyster, as the best of
them. You shall buy them, upon looking at the one he opens for you—but
be not amazed, oh, weak and trusting purchaser, at the shrunken forms of
the shell-fish when thou openest the kettle! Call not hard names after
the departing vendor—it is the way of life—a specimen is the same, all
the world over. The departure from the _principle_ is the exception, not
the rule.
Not to say any thing about copper, a friend of mine was ruined by Patent
Pumps—not dancing shoes, for he was a Quaker—but a very plain
water-pump. He invested his all, as purchaser of the _right_, after
seeing the model, which was very ingeniously devised to supply the
famishing cattle of all the farm-houses in the country, at the shortest
notice, with a steady supply from never-failing wells. There were not
less than thirty thousand farmers anxiously waiting at that instant to
buy the article at twenty dollars each. The inventor was poor, and
needed ready money, or he never would have parted with it for ten times
the sum agreed to be given. The only difficulty, with the new owner, was
to find logs to be bored, and men as borers—it was a bore decidedly,
and nothing but energy and perseverance could have surmounted these
obstacles. But somehow, though the model worked bravely—even the ruin
of its owner, pumping him dry—the water was obstinate in coming above
its level in large bodies, and in consequence, the enterprise was
water-logged. And so failing in the water business, he became a member
of the Sons of Temperance, and took his revenge by putting down that
water, that wouldn’t come up. And this man was an editor, like yourself,
Jeremy, with a great fund of knowledge, and should have known better—at
least so his friends said, and that was all the comfort they gave him.
Tom Brown, too—you remember Tom? had a wisdom above his years, and
rather an ambition to do something extravagant and new. He therefore
became discontented with the slow and sure profits of a regular
business, and embarked his little fortune, great experience, and
goahead-a-tive-ness in a “swift-sure” line. He purchased “_The Patent
Steam Sand Excavator and Elevator_,” designed for the very laudable
purpose of taking superfluous sand from river-beds, and transferring it
to the mortar-beds of the builder. Tom had fortune now by the skirts,
and would not let go. People wondered what Tom and his friends were at,
ploughing up and down the river with their sand-scow, but supposed that
they must have a large contract from government for cleansing the beds
of the rivers—taking the initiative in navigation made easy. From the
quantity of sand carefully piled upon shore, it was manifest that the
business was to be done, and would be, thoroughly. Tom was cautious,
close, smiling, and enjoyed highly all manner of jokes, such as “Capt.
Sandy Tom”—Tom’s hair was red, but he wasn’t to be—and winked
knowingly to the engineer, when he came on board.
“It will never do,” said Tom, “to let the secret out to these fellows,
until we get our contracts with the builders, or we shouldn’t get
half-price. And in order to do that safely, on a large scale, we must
first get out the sand.”
Bright thought, shrewd Tom! The engine, therefore, went on puffing, but
not Tom—he kept quiet, but busy.
“If we can throw dust into their eyes,” said he, “until we get _a pile_,
we can come the bluff game on the river-side, with a hand full of
spades, ha! How do you like that, engineer?”
The engineer thought that Tom _was some_, at a pun.
The enterprise went on, but it came to a head too, as all enterprises
will, somehow; and Tom had spent his availables. But then he had the
sand, heaps—yes, mountains of it.
“It is time now,” said he, “that I made my contracts with these
builders. I’ll offer—let me see—ten thousand loads, at ten per cent.
below the market price; that will bring in the funds, and send out the
Excavator. They’ll snap at that, in no time. Then twenty thousand, at
fifteen per cent. discount—and I’ll contract to supply the market for
three years, at twenty-five per cent. off—and _do it_, too! Talk about
your Liverpool Steamers, and your Girards improving the river fronts,
will you? when you can scoup a fortune out of the dock, while these
merchant princes are asleep.”
Tom made his terms for the ten thousand loads, “to be delivered as
wanted.” He commenced, too, to fulfill his contracts, but the builders
“did not _want_ the article at all.” They had contracted for sand—not
mud and sand together—and _sand_ they insisted on having.
Alas! for the patent Excavator, neither it nor Tom’s genius could
separate the particles. An action was brought against him for
obstructing the river front, as soon as it was found he was not backed
by government, and was backing himself, out of his contracts.
Tom coolly replied, “that he was devilish sorry, the _Patent Steam Sand
Excavator and Elevator_ had not been originally designed to run on land,
as it might be used, now, to shovel it back again; but as for himself,
he had been thrown so high by the Elevator, that it was doubtful if he
would ever come down, in time to attend to it.”
I know another gentleman of the quill—who perpetrated errors of the
press of this sort—who, in addition to instructing mankind, took it
into his head to teach the hens something that nature never knew. An
invention of some gigantic Yankee genius, styled “_The Patent Chicken
Hatcher, and Grand Cluck to the whole Commonwealth_” was irresistible,
and he bought it. It was demonstrated upon paper, that a certain number
of chickens, ate but a given quantity of corn-meal. That any number of
hens laid any number of eggs. That these produced any number of
chickens, which, in a very short period of time, sold for any amount of
money, or produced other eggs, after eating the aforesaid corn-meal. Now
the “Chicken Hatcher,” proposed to improve upon nature by a sort of
double rule of three proposition, and to show the result by logarithms
as a sort of short-hand process, in the arithmetical progression of
profits. “Nature abhors a vacuum,” and she had therefore given up half
the argument to the Hatcher—for the proposition was, to keep the hens
continually at work, producing eggs for the Hatcher; while the Hatcher
was continually working for them, in a sort of compound ratio producing
chickens which should go on laying eggs to produce other chickens, _ad
infinitum_. The thing was as plain as the nose on your face. To reason
about it was to be absurd. To doubt, was to be scorned. Barbecues looked
cheap and plentiful in perspective—roasts abundant, but rather more of
a delicacy, as interfering somewhat more with progressive profits.
The eggs of a whole county were first to be submitted to experiment,
previous to taking the entire Commonwealth under the capacious wing of
the Hatcher. The first process of cubation completed, it was only
necessary to heat the Patent, and the business was done, and so were the
chickens; but instead of producing hens or roosters, it only roasted the
eggs—and very nicely it did it, too, it is said. Nature defied the
power of figures, and gave facts as arguments. The hens of the
neighborhood survived the innovation, and went on in the old way. Our
friend had burned his fingers as well as his eggs, and was sore when the
subject was touched. It was his bull, and he didn’t wish him horned. A
dilemma, neither horn of which he wished to take. He had hatched himself
a life-time remembrancer whenever he heard a cock crow—and he wanted no
crowing. He was no _eg_-otist on this subject; on the whole, he would
rather cry _peccavi_—and shell out—he would stand treats, but no
jokes.
But, my dear Jeremy, do not consider me as sneering at the ambition of
man to outdo his fellows, to surpass all previous knowledge, to wrest
nature from herself to fulfill his purposes—it is of the eternal law of
progress. Man can no more stop, and be contented, than the worlds which
are revolving in space, can rest and shine on. Each age makes a giant’s
stride onward. The past is strewn with theories toppled down, and with
systems exploded. The monuments of philosophy, the labor of ages, are
the marks now for the child’s finger of scorn. The voyage of Columbus is
now the work of a week. Work, did I say?—his toilsome and desolate path
over the waters, is now the holyday ramble of all nations. Thought
itself leaps a continent in a second, and by means of cipher, is
communicated to minds thousands of miles distant, putting the _speed_ of
steam, the glory of an age just gone, to shame; accomplishing its
purpose, even while the sonorous steam-whistle is but giving its note of
departure. The press, in a night, performs the labor of a year, in
multiplying printed thought, and a Commonwealth, a Nation is shaken in
the time requisite, formerly, to ink the rollers for Franklin’s heavy
edition. Who will say that man himself shall not yet be shot into the
air like a rocket, and diverge at pleasure to any point of the compass,
in defiance of the caprice of air-currents? That if he can now snatch
from the sun a likeness of himself in an instant of time, he shall not,
one day, look the sun itself in the face with unblinking eyes, take his
observations from the horn of some remote planet, and return to earth to
record his discoveries. “Philosophy,” you will say. But how much is
philosophy herself learning daily? How much of her previous knowledge is
shown daily to have been worthless? The chemist, the geologist, the
astronomer, torture nature continually for her secrets, but the
provident Mother is chary. It is but by a step at a time that her
children are allowed to enter into her mysteries, lest the full blaze of
her awful truths should suddenly strike them blind.
Shall we be contented, then, and pin our faith to the sleeve of that
philosophy, which sees happiness in the indolence and ignorance of the
savage, who
“Basks in the glare, and stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.”
Or shall we assert the rights of a diviner principle within us,
restless, yearning, unsatisfied, which if it is not allowed to soar up
and grasp after a goodness, like unto God, will attempt to absorb its
energies in the pursuit of evil, wreaking upon humanity around it, the
power of a fiend to make wretched, the cunning of a devil, to seduce and
destroy?
It is reserved for the Millenium, to give us all the knowledge, all the
good, all the perfection we are striving after; until then, who
will—_any, who can_—rest satisfied? When “the lion and the lamb shall
lie down together,” and man shall cease to war upon his brother, the
philosophy of Experiment and of Observation shall be perfect, man shall
cease from struggling, shall be contented and be HAPPY.
G. R. G.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Poems and Prose Writings. By Richard Henry Dana. New York:
Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo._
In reading these elegantly printed volumes one is surprised that a
collection of poems and essays, possessing excellencies so original and
striking as this, should not have been made before. Mr. Dana is,
unquestionably, in his own department, one of the deepest, most original
and most suggestive thinkers that the country has produced, and although
his writings may not be familiar to a large class of readers, his name
is generally known and honored. We think that the present work will
fully sustain his reputation, and that many who have heretofore been
content with acknowledging his fame as a poet and thinker, will now be
glad of an opportunity of testing it, by reading his productions. The
first volume contains his poems and the essays and narratives originally
published under the title of The Idle Man. These are better known than
the reviews and dissertations contained in the second volume, now for
the first time collected. It is curious that compositions of such
excellence and permanent interest should so long have slumbered
undisturbed in old magazines and reviews. They are marked by great force
and fertility of thought, singular felicity in discerning the spirit and
meaning of things, and singular sweetness, richness and harmony of
style. The reviews bear the unmistakable stamp of a poetic mind,
interpreting by the freemasonry of genius the intellectual excellence
and moral beauty of other minds, and flashing light into every corner of
the subject of which it treats. The articles on Allston, Hazlitt’s
Lectures on the English Poets, The Sketch Book, Pollock’s Course of
Time, Henry Martyn, not to mention others, are replete with sound and
searching judgment as well as imaginative beauty.
In a short notice of a work of such literary pretensions as the present,
it is more appropriate to indicate its positive merits than to allude to
its defects. A mind so vital, powerful and individual as Mr. Dana’s can
claim the privilege of being judged by its own laws of thought and
production, and an application to it of external rules, which it does
not profess to regard, would be little better than an impertinence.
Still there are some peculiarities in the volumes which are slightly
unpleasing, not because they are peculiar expressions of the author’s
nature, but because they occasionally manifest an ungenial development
of it. It is said that Mr. Carlyle’s opinion on any social reform can be
accurately calculated from the speeches of the Exeter Hall reformers—he
being sure to contradict them, whatever they may say. Accordingly, he
defends slavery when they denounce it, and is in favor of dealing powder
and shot to Ireland, when they are in ecstasies of philanthropic horror
at its misgovernment. Something of this reactionary disgust we discern
in a few of Mr. Dana’s compositions, and it gives to them as much
willfulness as can possibly have its seat in a mind so gentle and just
as his. His poems often have a roughness which is evidently intentional,
and which indicates not so much a desire to produce new musical tones as
to express contempt for old ones. Some of his speculations on society
and government appear to us not fair expressions of his really large and
solid intellect, but to spring from a morbid dislike, rather than from a
calm objective vision, of the present. With these slight drawbacks, we
hardly know of a recent work which contains so much to nourish the mind,
to develop its finer tastes and affections, and give breadth to its
thinking, than this collection of Mr. Dana’s poems and prose writings.
* * * * *
_Agnes Grey, an Autobiography. By the Author of “Jane Eyre,”
“Shirley,” etc. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson._
This is a charming novel, full of fine character painting, and strongly
marked by that exquisite development and analysis of the female heart,
which distinguishes all the novels of this writer. As an autobiography,
partaking of the nature of _confessions_, it has afforded fine scope for
the display of the peculiar powers of the author. Agnes Grey, the
heroine, herself, is one of the most vigorous and truthful drawings of
character—one of the finest pieces of pen-limning that we have
encountered any where, though not to young readers, perhaps, as
distinctive as that of “Shirley,” as it has less of the really romantic
to give it impressiveness. He gives in this novel a charm to love, in
the vulgar course of this world’s affairs, by laying bare the sentiment
of the heart—the exceeding beauty of pure love unadorned. As Hazlett
says of Shakspeare’s women, “We think as little of her face, as she does
herself, but are let into the secrets of her heart, and are charmed.” It
is not until she has fallen in love, that our hearts open kindly to
receive her, for the full beauty of the woman is then exposed to our
worshiping eyes.
Rosalie Murray is a different character, but drawn with a keen
discrimination, a nice discernment of coquetry, rarely met with. She is
the most finished flirt of all the class—nature, and a heart totally
uneducated, no less than the scheming of an ambitious mother, made her a
very beautiful fiend.
He who quarrels with the loves of Edward Weston and Agnes Grey, must
have read the novel, and studied human nature indifferently. We commend
the work cordially to our readers, admonishing them that they will
complain of its shortness; for we are mistaken if they do not find
themselves, on closing the book, desirous—as we felt—of following the
heroine in the holy duties and daily beauty of her life in her new
sphere.
* * * * *
_The Poetical and Prose Writings of Charles Sprague. Boston:
Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._
This edition of Sprague is beautifully printed, is published under the
sanction of the author, and contains a number of poems never before
collected. Although the current style in poetry has changed since
Sprague first won his reputation, and an entirely new class of poets has
caught the public ear, Sprague himself has been excepted from the
neglect which has fallen upon too many of his school. The reason is that
Sprague is really a poet, and the form of composition which a poet
assumes, whether it be that of Pope or Wordsworth, of Young or Browning,
is never of itself sufficient to consign him to oblivion. It is
impossible to read a page of the present volume without being impressed
with the conviction that you are communing with a strong nature, sound
in heart and brain, and piercing through the shows to the realities of
things by a native force and vividness of conception. Sprague appears
here as a satirist and humorist, as a lyrist and as a poet of sentiment.
In all of these he is successful. His curiosity is one of the best
occasional poems over written in the United States. When we consider how
wide a variety of humorous and pathetic pictures are called into being
in the unfolding of one teeming idea, and that amid all the variety, the
impression of unity is never lost, we must admit it to be not only
poetical in passages, but poetical in its whole spirit and execution.
The Odes we do not like so well. They are full of brain, but the feeling
and sentiment do not seem to us sufficiently hearty and impassioned. The
best pieces in the volume are the poems devoted to the affections. These
are expressions of tenderness, love, grief, and hope, coming from the
heart and imagination of a strong man, and their intensity is heightened
by their very reserve. They are arrows sent directly to the reader’s
heart. We never have been able to wear them out by frequent reperusal,
their pathos keeping always its morning freshness and searching
sweetness.
* * * * *
_Poems of Alice and Phœbe Carey. Philadelphia: Moss & Brother. 1
vol. 16mo._
There are few volumes more calculated to relax the rigidity of criticism
than this elegant octo-duodecimo, gilded without and golden within.
Sisters in song as in blood, the authoresses awaken the chivalric rather
than the critical sentiment, although they are abundantly capable of
bearing some of the most tormenting acquirements of the latter. There is
a family likeness in their minds, but in Alice the imaginative element
is predominant, while her sister displays more of the reflective. Both
are poets as distinguished from fluent versifers of accredited
commonplaces, and both manifest originality in their imagery and music,
but the mind of Alice is remarkably sensitive and imaginative, melting
at once into melody the moment her heart is filled with a poetical
object, and absolutely gushing out in song. A fine poetical instinct of
the most subtle and elusive character, seems to dwell at the very
life-spring of her nature, so that poetry seems the necessity of her
being, the inevitable mode in which her nature must be expressed, if
expressed at all. The poem entitled “Pictures of Memory,” is one of the
simplest and subtlest expressions of ethereal sentiment and refined
imagination we ever read: it being an exquisite embodiment of a mood of
mind rarely experienced in its purity by any intellect, and certainly
never pictured forth with more truth to the spirit of the subject. Phœbe
Carey hardly has this instinctive and unconscious certainty in the
action of her mind, but excels in thoughtfulness, tenderness, and fancy,
“leaning her ear” to catch “the still, sad music of humanity,” and
conscious of a moral purpose in her singing. Both deserve a hearty
recognition equally from their countrywomen and countrymen.
* * * * *
_The Boston Book. Being Specimens of Metropolitan Literature.
Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._
This beautiful volume contains prose and poetical pieces from some fifty
writers hailing from Boston, such as Willis, Dana, Hillard, Sumner,
Emerson, Sprague, Choate, Webster, Buckingham, Whittier, Fields, Lowell,
Longfellow, Hawthorne, Holmes, and the like. A number of the articles
are original contributions. Among the best of these are the poems by
Holmes and Parsons. The editor has exhibited great taste in his choice
of matter, both as regards excellence and variety, including, as he has,
in one duodecimo, not only fair specimens of Boston belles-lettres, but
selecting pieces addressed to almost every mood, satirical, humorous,
tender, thoughtful, impassioned, imaginative and didactive, and written
in all varieties of style and manner. We have poets lyrical, and poets
elegaic; poets of the school of Goldsmith and Gray, and poets of the
school of Wordsworth and Coleridge; prose writers with sentences long as
Hooker’s, and prose writers with sentences short as Macaulay’s; and the
general impression left by the book is, that the city it represents is
under the dominion of no clique of writers, but that all kinds find
“ample room and verge enough” for their peculiarities, and follow their
own sweet will without any fear of established canons. In looking
through the volume, one is surprised to find how few of the contributors
are men of letters by profession. There are literary clergymen, poetic
physicians, ethical merchants, and transcendental lawyers in abundance,
with a good representation of men who live on the interest of their
money, and only write from occasional impulse, but no _litterateurs_,
and no hacks.
The book is really creditable to Boston, and its interest is not merely
local. The publishers have issued it in that style of elegance for which
they are widely celebrated.
* * * * *
_The Pilot; a Tale of the Sea. By the Author of the Spy, etc.
Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated, with a new Introduction.
Notes, etc. by the Author. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol.
12mo._
We are glad to welcome this handsome volume, so soon following the lead
of “The Spy.” A collection of Cooper’s works, in a style worthy of their
merit and their position in American literature, we doubt not will be a
good speculation for author and bookseller. The present volume is one of
the most popular of the series, and will ever keep its position among
standard novels, whatever fate should befall some of the others.
* * * * *
_The Caravan; A Collection of Popular Tales. Translated from the
German of Wilhelm Hauff. By G. P. Quackenbos, A. M. Illustrated
by J. W. Orr. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._
This is a good translation of a good book. The stories are thoroughly
German, though the costume and manners are Asiatic, and from their
supernatural character, take a strong hold upon the feelings through the
imagination. The Spectre Ship is especially powerful.
* * * * *
MUSIC.—We have received from the publisher, Mr. Walker, a new song,
entitled _Saucy Kate_, the words by Henry H. Paul. Esq., which is very
beautiful in all respects, and reflects great credit upon both writer
and publisher. Mr. Walker is making the public indebted to him by almost
daily issuing new and fashionable music, in the most attractive style,
and we are glad to hear is doing a very handsome business. This store is
one of the elegant rooms immediately under Barnum’s Museum, where he
will be glad to see our friends.
* * * * *
LEVY’S _New and Elegant Store_—decidedly the handsomest in
Philadelphia, is daily crowded with beautiful and fashionable ladies,
presenting, during the holydays, a _Levée_ quite attractive and
enticing. The finest silks, the richest laces and shawls, and the most
splendid goods of all kinds fill the shelves and flood the counters of
this establishment, and all the town finds its way there to admire and
purchase. Messrs. Levy and Grugan are gentleman of exquisite taste and
tact, and in the management and general arrangement of their business,
have shown both. Our friends in any part of the country, may rely with
perfect assurance upon their judgment and integrity, to fill any orders
sent them satisfactorily and promptly.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
PARIS Boulevart S^{t}. Martin 61
_Chapeaux M^{me}._ Grafeton, _pl. de la Madeleine, 5—Dentelles de_
Violard, _r. Choiseul, 2^{bis}_;
_Robes et pardessus de M^{me}._ Bara Bréjard, _r. Laffitte, 5—Plumes de_
Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81_;
_Mouchoir de_ L. Chapron & Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7._
Graham’s Magazine.]
* * * * *
WISSAHIKON WALTZ.
ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO AND DEDICATED TO
MISS ELIZA L. HALL,
BY
CHARLES GROBE.
Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.
[Illustration: musical score]
[Illustration: continuation of musical score ]
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious type-setting and
punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may
be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for
preparation of the eBook.
page 144, in the _denouément_ ==> in the _dénouement_
page 149, room, pouring over books, ==> room, poring over books,
page 151, joy exstatic burst from ==> joy ecstatic burst from
page 158, not be irrelevent we ==> not be irrelevant we
page 167, mind, interpretating by the ==> mind, interpreting by the
[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 2, February 1850]