Chapter II is occupied with the forms, rules, regulations, &c. of the

THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

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

_Crebillon's Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.

RICHMOND:

T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.

1835-6.

{461}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II. RICHMOND, JULY, 1836. NO. VIII.

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

MSS. OF JOHN RANDOLPH.

[We have obtained, after much difficulty, from a personal friend of

the late JOHN RANDOLPH of Roanoke, the MSS. of the annexed _Letters_,

and are permitted to publish them in the Messenger. We know our

readers will receive them with interest. They throw much novel light

on the character of a man whose genius, however great, has been mostly

an enigma, and show his views on the most interesting of subjects in

the maturity of his life and in the zenith of his reputation.]

LETTER I.

As well as very bad implements and worse eyes will permit me to do it

by candlelight, I will endeavor to make some return to your kind

letter, which I received, not by Quashee, but the mail. I also got a

short note by him, for which I thank you.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

And now, my dear friend, one word in your ear—in the porches of thine

ear. With Archimedes I may cry Ἑυρηκα. Why, what have you found—the

philosopher's stone? No—something better than that. Gyges' ring? No. A

substitute for bank paper? No. The elixir vitæ then? It is; but it is

the elixir of eternal life. It is that peace of God which passeth all

understanding, and which is no more to be conceived of by the natural

heart, than poor St. George[1] can be made to feel and taste the

difference between the Italian and German music. It is a miracle, of

which the person upon whom it is wrought alone is conscious—as he is

conscious of any other feeling—e.g. whether the friendship he

professes for A or B be a real sentiment of his heart, or simulated to

serve a turn.

[Footnote 1: His nephew, who is deaf and dumb.]

God, my dear friend, hath visited me in my desolation; in the hours of

darkness, of sickness, and of sorrow: of that worst of all sickness,

sickness of the heart, for which neither wealth nor power can find or

afford a cure. May you, my dear friend, find it, where alone it is to

be found! in the sacred volume—in the word of God, whose power

surpasseth all that human imagination (unassisted by his grace) can

conceive. I am now, for the first time in my life, supplied with a

motive of action that never can mislead me—the love of God and my

neighbor—because I love God. All other motives I feel, by my own sad

experience, in my own person, as well as in that of numerous

“_friends_,” (so called) to be utterly worthless. God hath at last

given me courage to confess him before men. Once I hated

mankind—bitterly hated them—but loved (like that wretched man Swift)

“John or Thomas.” Now, my regard for individuals is not lessened, but

my love for the race exalted almost to a level with that of my

_friends_—I am obliged to use the word. I pretend to no sudden

conversion, or new or great lights. I have stubbornly held out, for

more than a Trojan siege, against the goodness and mercy of my

Creator. Yes—Troy town did not so long and so obstinately resist the

confederated Greeks. But what is the wrath of the swift-footed

Achilles to the wrath of God? and what his speed to the vengeance of

Heaven? and what are these even, to the love of Jesus Christ, thou son

of David? I had often asked, but it was not with sufficient humility;

or, perhaps, like the Canaanitish woman, God saw fit to try me. I

sought, but not with sufficient diligence—at last, deserted in my

utmost need, (not indeed like Darius, great and good—for I could

_command_ service, such as we too often pay to God—lip service and eye

service,) desolate and abandoned by all that had given me reason to

think they had any respect and affection for me, I knocked with all my

might. I asked for the crumbs that otherwise might be swept out to the

dogs, and it was opened to me, the full and abundant treasury of his

grace. When this happened I cannot tell. It has broken upon me like

the dawn I see every morning, insensibly changing darkness into light.

My slavish fears of punishment, which I always knew to be sinful, but

would not put off, are converted into an humble hope of a seat, even

if it be the lowest, in the courts of God. Yes, at last I am happy—as

happy as man can be. Should it please God to continue his favor to me,

you will see it—not only on my lips, but in my life. Should he

withdraw it, as assuredly he will, unless with his assistance I humbly

endeavor by prayer and self-denial, and _doing_ of his word as well as

hearing it, to obtain its continuance, _mine_ will only be the deeper

damnation. Of this danger I am sensible, but not afraid. I mean

slavishly afraid. He that hath not quenched the smoking flax, who has

snatched me as a brand from the burning, will not, I humbly yet firmly

trust, cast me back into the furnace. I now know the meaning of words

that before I repeated, but did not comprehend. I am no Burley of

Balfour, but I have been, as I thought, on the very verge and brink of

his disease; but I prayed to God to save me, and not to suffer me to

fall a prey to the arts and wiles of Satan, at the very moment I was

seeking his reconcilement.

I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak the words of truth and

soberness. I have thrown myself, reeking with sin, on the mercy of

God, through Jesus Christ his blessed Son and our (yes, my friend,

_our_) precious Redeemer; and I have assurance as strong as that I now

owe nothing to your Bank, that the debt is paid—and now I love God,

and with reason. I once hated him, and with reason too, for I knew not

Christ. The only cause why I should love God is his goodness and mercy

to me _through Christ_. But for this, the lion and the sea-serpent

would not be more appalling to my imagination, than a being of

tremendous and indefinite power, who made me what I am—who wanted

either the will or the ability to prevent the existence of evil, and

punishes what is inevitable. This is not a God, but a Devil, and all

unbelievers in God tremble and believe in this Devil that they

worship—such worship {462} as it is, in his place. I have been looking

over some of my marginal pencilled notes on Gibbon, and rubbing them

out. I had thought to burn the book, but the Quarterly Review and

Professor Porson have furnished the antidote to his poison, whether in

the shape of infidelity or obscenity. See Review of Gibbon's

posthumous works.

Chains are the portion of revolted man,

Stripes and a dungeon: and his body serves

The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,

Opprobrious residence he finds them all.

_Cowper's Task_.

God hath called me to come out from among them—worshippers of Mammon

or of “Moloch-homicide,” or “Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's son,”

“Peor his other name:”

“Lust hard by Hate,”

and I will come, so help me God!

Is it madness to prefer your new house in fee simple, to a clay

cottage, of which I am tenant at will, and may be turned out at a

moment's warning, and even without it, and out of which _I know_ I

must be turned in a few years certainly?

It is now midnight. May God watch over our sleep—over our helpless,

naked condition, and protect us as well from the insect that carries

death in his sting, as from the more feared but not so obvious dangers

with which life is beset; and if he should come this night (as come he

will) like a thief, may we be ready to stand in his presence and plead

not our merits, but his stripes, by whom we are made whole.

J. R. of R.

P. S. I was not aware of the length to which my sermon would extend.

Let me entreat you again to read Milton and Cowper. They prepared me

for the “Sampson” (as Rush would say) among the medicines for the

soul.

_Roanoke, August 25, 1818_.

LETTER II.

MY GOOD FRIEND—I am sorry that Quashee should intrude upon you

unreasonably. The old man, I suppose, knows the pleasure I take in

your letters, and therefore feels anxious to procure his master the

gratification. I cannot, however, express sorrow, for I do not feel

it, at the impression which you tell me my last letter made upon you.

May it lead to the same happy consequences that I have experienced,

which I now feel in that sunshine of the heart, which the peace of

God, that passeth all understanding, alone can bestow.

Your imputing such sentiments to a heated imagination, does not

surprise me, who have been bred in the school of Hobbes, and Bayle,

and Shaftesbury, and Bolingbroke, and Hume, and Voltaire, and Gibbon;

who have cultivated the sceptical philosophy from my vain-glorious

boyhood—I might almost say childhood; and who have felt all that

unutterable disgust which hypocrisy, and cant, and fanaticism, never

fail to excite in men of education and refinement, superadded to our

natural repugnance to Christianity. I am not, even now, insensible to

this impression; but as the excesses of her friends (real or

pretended) can never alienate the votary of liberty from a free form

of government, and enlist him under the banners of despotism, so

neither can the cant of fanaticism, or hypocrisy, or of both—for so

far from being incompatible, they are generally found united in the

same character, (may God in his mercy preserve and defend us from

both!) disgust the pious with true religion.

Mine has been no sudden change of opinion. I can refer to a record

showing, on my part, a desire of more than nine years standing to

partake of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper; although, for two and

twenty years preceding, my feet had never crossed the threshold of the

house of prayer. This desire I was restrained from indulging, by the

fear of eating and drinking unrighteously; and although that fear hath

been cast out by perfect love, I have never yet gone to the

altar—neither have I been present at the performance of divine

service, unless indeed I may so call my reading the Liturgy of our

Church and some chapters of the Bible to my poor negroes on Sundays.

Such passages as I think require it, and which I feel competent to

explain, I comment upon, enforcing as far as possible, and dwelling

upon those texts especially that enjoin the indispensable

accompaniment of a good life as the touchstone of the true faith. The

sermon from the mount, and the Evangelists generally—the Epistle of

Paul to the Ephesians, chap. vi,—the general Epistle of James, and the

first Epistle of John—these are my chief texts.

The consummation of my _conversion_—I use the word in its strictest

sense—is owing to a variety of causes, but chiefly to the conviction,

unwillingly forced upon me, that the very few friends which an

unprosperous life (the fruit of an ungovernable temper) had left me,

were daily losing their hold upon me in a firmer grasp of ambition,

avarice, or sensuality. I am not sure that to complete the

anti-climax, avarice should not have been last; for although, in some

of its effects, debauchery be more disgusting than avarice, yet as it

regards the unhappy victim, this last is more to be dreaded.

Dissipation, as well as power or prosperity, hardens the heart, but

avarice deadens it to every feeling but the thirst for riches. Avarice

alone could have produced the slave trade. Avarice alone can drive, as

it does drive, this infernal traffic, and the wretched victims of it,

like so many post-horses whipped to death in a mail-coach. Ambition

has its cover-sluts, in the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious

war; but where are the trophies of avarice? The handcuff, the manacle,

and the blood-stained cowhide! What man is worse received in society

for being a hard master? Who denies the hand of a sister or daughter

to such monsters?—nay, they have even appeared in “the abused shape of

the vilest of women.” I say nothing of India, or Amboyna—of Cortes, or

Pizarro.

When I was last in your town I was inexpressibly shocked, (and perhaps

I am partly indebted to the circumstance for accelerating my

emancipation,) to hear, on the threshold of the temple of the least

erect of all the spirits that fell from heaven, these words spoken:

“I don't want the Holy Ghost (I shudder while I write,) or any other

spirit in me. If these doctrines are true, [St. Paul's] there was no

need for Wesley and Whitfield to have separated from the church. The

Methodists are right, and the Church wrong. I want to see the old

church,” &c. &c.—that is, such as this diocese was under Bishop

_Terrick_, when wine-bibbing {463} and buck-parsons were sent out to

preach “a dry clatter of morality,” and not the word of God, for

sixteen thousand pounds of tobacco. When I speak of _morality_, it is

not as condemning it. Religion includes it, but much more. Day is now

breaking, and I shall extinguish my candles, which are better than no

light—or if I do not, in the presence of the powerful king of day they

will be noticed only by the dirt and ill-savor that betray all human

contrivances—the taint of humanity. Morality is to the Gospel not even

as a farthing rush-light to the blessed sun.

By the way, this term Methodist in religion is of vast compass and

effect—like _Tory_ in politics—or _Aristocrate_ in Paris, “with the

lamp-post for its second,” some five or six and twenty years ago. _Dr.

Hoge?_—“a Methodist parson.” _Frank Key?_—“a fanatic,” (I heard him

called so not ten days ago,) “a Methodistical whining,” &c. &c.

_Wilberforce?_—“a Methodist.” _Mrs. Hannah More?_—“ditto.” It ought

never to be forgotten, that real converts to Christianity on opposite

sides of the globe, agree at the same moment to the same facts. Thus

Dr. Hoge and Mr. Key, although strangers, understand perfectly what

each other feels and believes.

If I were to show a MS. in some unknown tongue to half a dozen

persons, strangers to each other, and natives of different countries,

and they should all give me the same translation, could I doubt their

acquaintance with the strange language? On the contrary, can I, who am

but a smatterer in Greek, believe an impostor, who pretends to a

knowledge of that tongue, and who yet cannot tell the meaning of

τυπτο?

I now read with relish and understand St. Paul's Epistles, which not

long since I could not comprehend, even with the help of Mr. Locke's

Paraphrase. Taking up, a few days ago, at an “Ordinary,” the Life of

John Bunyan, which I had never before read, I find an exact

coincidence in our feelings on this head, as well as others.

Very early in life I imbibed an absurd prejudice in favor of

Mahomedanism and its votaries. The Crescent had a talismanic effect on

my imagination, and I rejoiced in all its triumphs over the Cross,

(which I despised,) as I mourned over its defeats; and Mahomet the 2d

himself did not more exult than I did when the Crescent was planted on

the dome of St. Sophia, and the Cathedral of the Constantines was

converted into a Turkish Mosque. To this very day I feel the effects

of Peter Randolph's Zanga on a temper naturally impatient of injury,

but insatiably vindictive under insult.

On the night that I wrote last to you, I scribbled a pack of nonsense

to Rootes, which serves only to show the lightness of my heart. About

the same time, in reply to a question from a friend, I made the

following remarks, which, as I was weak from long vigilance, I

requested him to write down, that I might, when at leisure, copy it

into my diary. From it you will gather pretty accurately the state of

my mind.

“It is my business to avoid giving offence to the world, especially in

all matters merely indifferent. I shall therefore stick to my old

uniform, blue and buff, unless God see fit to change it for black. I

must be as attentive to my dress and to household affairs, as far as

cleanliness and comfort are concerned, as ever—and indeed more so. Let

us take care to drive none away from God, by dressing Religion in the

garb of Fanaticism. Let us exhibit her as she is, equally removed from

superstition and lukewarmness. But we must take care, that while we

avoid one extreme, we fall not into the other—no matter which. I was

born and baptized in the Church of England. If I attend the Convention

at Charlottesville, which I rather doubt, I shall oppose myself then,

and always, to every attempt at encroachment on the part of the

Church—the Clergy especially—on the rights of conscience. I attribute,

in a very great degree, my long estrangement from God, to my

abhorrence of Prelatical pride and Puritanical preciseness; to

Ecclesiastical tyranny, whether Roman Catholic or Protestant—whether

of Harry V, or Harry VIII—of Mary or Elizabeth—of John Knox, or

Archbishop Laud—of the Cameronians of Scotland, the Jacobins of

France, or the Protestants of Ireland. Should I fail to attend, it

will arise from a repugnance to submit the religion, (or church) any

more than the liberty of my country, to foreign influence. When I

speak of my country, I mean the Commonwealth of Virginia. I was born

in allegiance to George III—the Bishop of London (_Terrick!_) was my

diocesan. My ancestors threw off the oppressive yoke of the mother

country, but they never made me subject to _New_ England in matters

spiritual or temporal—neither do I mean to become so, voluntarily.”

I have been up long before day, and write with pain from a sense of

duty to you and Mrs. B., in whose welfare I take the most earnest

concern. You have my prayers. Give me yours, I pray you. Adieu!

J. R. of R.

P. S. You make no mention of Leigh. I was on the top of the pinnacle

of Otter this day fortnight—a little above the Earth, but how far

beneath Heaven!

_Roanoke, Sept. 25, 1818_.

LETTER III.

Your obliging promptitude deserved my speedier thanks, but you will

excuse me I am sure, my dear sir, when you learn that I have been for

several days confined to my chamber by something very like _angina

pectoris_. It is the most distressing sensation I ever felt, although

not the most painful. It is during a remission of its attack that I

take up my pen to put some of my nothings upon paper.

Yesterday was a sore day (as I hear) for the War Department. The

official statements from that bureau were exposed in a most mortifying

manner, and on the question in committee of the whole to strike out

the first section of the obnoxious bill [i.e. to reject it] the court

mustered but five or seven affirmatives—and this after the combined

exertions of several of the leading members, as they are called, in

favor of the motion.

My question to Mrs. B. related to a book that I had lately read with

some amusement—Melincourt. It is not new, but I had not happened to

meet with it before. I have been trying to read Southey's Life of

Wesley for some days. Upon the whole, I find it a heavy work, although

there are some very striking passages, and it abounds in curious

information. From 279 to 285, inclusive, of the second volume is very

fine. Yesterday I was to have dined with Frank Key, but was not well

enough to go. He called here the day before, and we {464} had much

talk together. He perseveres in pressing on towards the goal, and his

whole life is spent in endeavors to do good for his unhappy fellow

men. The result is, that he enjoys a tranquillity of mind, a sunshine

of the soul, that all the Alexanders of the earth can neither confer

nor take away. This is a state to which I can never attain. I have

made up my mind to suffer like a man condemned to the wheel or the

stake—and, strange as you may think it, I could submit without a

murmur to pass the rest of my life “in some high, lonely tower, where

I might outwatch the Bear with thrice great Hermes;” and exchange the

enjoyments of society for an exemption from the plagues of life. These

press me down to the very earth, and to rid myself of them I would

gladly purchase an annuity and crawl into some hole, where I might

commune with myself and be still.

* * * * *

I am glad that the pretty Mrs. F——h is so comfortably established at

Mrs. Kemp's. Do I understand you correctly that the C——'s, Rootes,

Gilmer, and Mr. Burwell are of the same party? I should like very much

to join it, for (to say nothing of the ladies) R. and G. are two of my

favorites. I could be somewhat less miserable there, I am sure, than I

find myself here.

* * * * *

If I possessed a talent that I once thought I had, I would try and

give you a picture of Washington. The state of things is the strangest

imaginable, but I am like a speechless person who has the clearest

conception of what he would say, but whose organs refuse to perform

their office. There is one striking fact that one can't help seeing at

the first glance—that there is no faith among men: the state of

political confidence may be compared to that of the commercial world

within the last two or three years.

I read Mr. Roane's letter with the attention that it deserves. Every

thing from his pen on the subject of our laws and institutions excites

a profound interest. I was highly gratified at the manner in which it

was spoken of in my hearing by one of the best and ablest men in our

house. It is indeed high time that the hucksters and money-changers

should be cast out of the Temple of Justice. The tone of this

communication belongs to another age; but for the date, who could

suppose it to have been written in this our day of almost universal

political corruption? I did not read the report on the lottery case.

The print of the Enquirer is too much for my eyes: and besides I want

no argument to satisfy me that the powers which Congress may exercise

where they possess exclusive jurisdiction, may not be extended to

places where they possess only a limited and concurrent jurisdiction.

The very statement of the question settles it, and every additional

word is but an incumbrance of help.

And now, my dear sir, you may be glad to come to an end of this almost

interminable epistle. Shut up in my little “chair-lumbered closet”

this cold day, without a soul to speak to or a book to read, you have

become the victim of my desolate condition. Indeed, if I had a book I

could not read it, having exercised my eyes so unmercifully on John

Wesley, that I do not see what I am writing—at least not distinctly.

My best regards to Mrs. B. I wish I could provoke her to talk. When

you see Dudley, tell him I have been trying to write to him for

several days; and when you see Mr. Cunningham, present me most kindly

to him and _his house_.

Sincerely yours,

J. R. of R.

_Washington, January, 1821_.

TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

BY J. DOGGETT, Jr.

Bright auburn lock! which like the wing

Of some kind angel sweeping by,

Shinest in the sun a glossy thing,

As soft as beams from beauty's eye,

Thou dost recall, sweet lock, to me,

All of the heaven of memory.

Thou once did'st shade a marble brow,

Where beauty raised her polish'd throne;

Methinks I gaze upon it now

And listen to a silver tone—

Which floats from lips in notes as sweet

As angel's greetings when they meet.

Fair lock! I'd rather hold with thee

A silent, blissful, strange commune,

Than join that boisterous gaiety

Which seems of happiness the noon:

For thou dost whisper, shining hair,

Peace comes not, rests not, _is_ not there.

_Philadelphia, June, 1836_.

EXAMPLE AND PRECEPT.

BY J. K. PAULDING.

A fine fashionable mother, one beautiful spring morning, walked forth

into the city, leading by the hand a little child of five or six years

old. The former was dressed in all the fantastic finery of the times;

she had a pink bonnet, ornamented with a bird of paradise, shaded with

huge bows of wide ribbon; sleeves which caused her taper waist to

appear like lean famine supported on either side by overgrown plenty;

her gown was of such redundancy of plaits and folds, that a whole

family might have been clothed from its superfluities; and while with

one hand she led the little girl along, in the other she held a

cambric handkerchief worked with various devices, and bordered with

rich lace, reported to have cost fifty dollars. The little child was

dressed as fine as its mother, for she unfortunately had light curly

hair, and was reckoned a beauty.

They passed a toy-shop, and the child insisted on going in, where she

laid out all the money she had in various purchases that were of no

use whatever, in spite of the advice of her mother, who alternately

scolded and laughed at her for thus wasting her allowance on things so

useless. The child seemed to reflect for a few moments, and thus

addressed her mother:

“Mother, what is the use of those great sleeves you wear?”

The mother was silent, for the question puzzled her.

“Mother, what is the use of that fine bird on your hat?”

The mother was still more at a loss for a reply.

{465} “Mother, what is the use of having a worked handkerchief,

bordered with lace, to wipe your nose?”

“Come along,” cried the mother somewhat roughly, as she dragged the

little girl out of the toy-shop, “come along, and don't ask so many

foolish questions.”

MISERIES OF BASHFULNESS.

A modest woman dressed out in all her finery is the most tremendous

object of the whole creation.—_She Stoops to Conquer_.

Of all the evils which harass the human family, none is perhaps more

tormenting or more difficult to be removed, than bashfulness—a feeling

sufficient in itself to blast the most promising hopes, and render

comparatively useless the most brilliant abilities. To this evil, from

earliest recollection, I have been painfully subject, and to its

influence upon my character and habits, may be traced the many

difficulties I have met with in my passage through life. Gifted by

nature with a mind of no ordinary caste, which my modest and retiring

disposition, while it precluded me from the enjoyment of society,

induced me to cultivate, at an early age I had acquired a large fund

of useful and polite information. This circumstance induced my parents

to send me to the University of ——, then the most flourishing

institution in the country. The first term after my arrival passed off

drearily enough, but after becoming familiarized to the habits of my

fellow students, and to the customs of the institution, I became

better satisfied with my situation. Nothing of importance occurred

until the time appointed for the examinations came on. I had applied

myself with assiduity and vigilance, and flattered myself that I had

completely mastered the exercises appointed for the occasion. Among

the candidates for graduation there was an individual whom I shall

designate by the name of C——, and whose connection with my narration

compels me to mention him. He was the son of a southern planter, of

immense fortune, and to a person of almost faultless beauty united

great liberality, which his princely fortune enabled him to stretch to

its farthest limits. As may be imagined he was quite a lion among the

students and ladies.

Towards this individual I conceived a certain feeling of dislike from

my first introduction, which a more intimate acquaintance with his

character ripened into hatred. He was proud and overbearing in his

deportment towards his inferiors, and even amidst his immediate

friends and acquaintance he possessed a certain haughty and imperious

bearing, indicative of the exalted opinion he entertained respecting

his own merits. His mind was not remarkable for strength, nevertheless

he had some shrewdness or cunning, which the vulgar are apt to mistake

for talents. As I have before observed, the time for the annual

examination had arrived, and no culprit in the gloomy walls of Newgate

dreaded the fatal toll of St. Sepulchre's bell—the gloomy herald of

many a sinner's entrance into eternity—more than I did the arrival of

the hour when our exercises were to commence. A large number of ladies

and gentlemen had been invited, and among the number was my father.

At length the University bell tolled the appointed hour, and we were

drawn up on a stage in front of the assembly, from which we were

concealed by a curtain, as yet down. At a given signal the curtain

rose and presented to our view a numerous concourse of both sexes,

among whom I distinguished my father seated on the front row of seats,

prepared no doubt to witness his son's triumph. A sight of his

countenance served to increase the confidence I had in my powers, and

to dispel the embarrassment I felt on the occasion. The student at the

head of the class answered the question put to him with perfect ease

and composure—so did the second. I stood third; as soon as my name was

called by the examining professor, I felt the blood rush with such

velocity to my face as nearly to cause blindness—my brain reeled—my

eyes swam—and although I perfectly understood the question, my

confusion was so great as to hinder utterance. The question was passed

to the next, who was C——; he answered it. The mingled shame,

mortification, and rage I suffered, are indescribable. I retired from

the contest, and the prize which I could have gained was awarded to my

abominated enemy. I returned home with my mortified father, who

persuaded me to endeavor to overcome the painful and unfortunate

failing, which he perceived would blight my future prospects, by

mixing largely in society. In pursuance of this advice, soon after my

arrival in my native town, I determined to attend a large party, at

the residence of one of my mother's fashionable friends. I suffered

acutely from the time I received the invitation till the appointed

night. At length it arrived, and I, attired in my best suit, with no

aristocratic touch, rung the door bell. The servant ushered me into a

large and splendidly furnished room but partially filled. The courage

I had summoned for the occasion, like Bob Acre's, “oozed as it were

from the palms of my hands,” and I remained standing in the door-way

as immovable as if (instead of the gay and fashionable assembly who

were gazing at my strange appearance with so much astonishment,) the

Gorgon Medusa had turned upon me her petrifying look. The harmonious

note which at that moment stole from Bennett's eloquent cremona,

diverted their attention from my person and restored me to something

like consciousness. I advanced into the room, and was cordially

greeted by mine host and his lady, who were old friends of my family.

The dancing now commenced, and the rooms gradually filling placed me

in a rather more comfortable situation. I was, however, far from being

easy. In order, as I thought, to calm my perturbed spirits, I seated

myself on a sofa, situated in a corner of one of the rooms. I had

remained there but a short time, when the voice of some one engaged in

earnest conversation striking upon my ear, I turned my attention in

that direction and perceived my late triumphant enemy C——, conversing

in an animated strain with Miss ——, the only daughter of the wealthy

and hospitable owner of the mansion in which we were passing the

afternoon. Miss —— was evidently much pleased with the subject as well

as the manner of the speaker, and he seemed inclined to make the best

possible use of the advantage he had gained. They were however joined

by a large number of ladies, who in their anxiety to reach Miss ——

completely surrounded me. Yes—I who would sooner march to the cannon's

mouth, or attempt to scale the fortress of Gibraltar, than face a

female, was literally blockaded—totally {466} surrounded by decidedly

“the most awful things in nature,” a company of full dressed women.

C—— was perfectly at ease, and enjoyed heartily the dismay and

confusion under which I labored. Perceiving that the only possible

chance of escaping, would be speedy action, I endeavored instinctively

to effect a retreat, but in vain. As I arose, I encountered the huge

sleeve of a female attired “in all the glaring impotence of dress,”

which impeded my egress. On attempting to return, I ran foul of a

talkative little creature, and left her minus of about half of her

head dress. The little lady was in a rage; however, there was no time

for delay—so I gave her no apology. At length I reached my seat on the

sofa, on which several ladies had seated themselves. After some time,

I endeavored to enter into conversation with the damsel who sat next

me, hoping that it would afford me some alleviation; but the attempt

was abortive. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and refused

to utter whatever ideas I might have had in my brain—through which

passed in rapid succession, the last opera—the fancy

ball—Shakspeare—Moliere, &c. &c., without affording its wretched owner

a theme on which to commence a conversation. In vain I made strenuous

exertions to collect my scattered thoughts—the attempt increased my

confusion. At last the approach of a servant with a waiter of

refreshments opened a passage through which I dashed. The exulting

laugh of C—— reached my ear, as I cleared the little crowd collected

around him. In my passage through the room I met a servant bearing a

freshly opened bottle of Champaigne. Seizing a glass brimfull with the

sparkling liquor I tossed it off—another, and another—and then “a

change came o'er the spirit of my dream.” I was immediately changed

from the bashful and timid character in which I had hitherto appeared,

to the bold, impudent, easy man of the world. An almost irresistible

desire to make female acquaintances seized me, and I was determined to

indulge it. Meeting a friend at the moment, I requested him to give me

an introduction to every lady in the house. At this sweeping request

my friend was surprised beyond measure, knowing well my former

disposition. However, not being able to refuse, he led me up to a

fresh, rosy-looking Miss, and gave the necessary introduction. I

bowed, and in doing so nearly lost my equilibrium. I, however,

succeeded in gaining my footing, and commenced conversing. By this

time, I had given such unequivocal indications of the effect my

Champaigne potation had produced, as to induce my friend to withdraw

me from my fair acquaintance and insist upon my taking leave of the

“festive scene.” But what man has been known to take good advice when

he is at all inebriated. I refused to retire, and to disprove the

suspicions of my friend, I determined to dance the next cotillion. In

accordance with this resolve I wended my way through the crowd till I

discovered the lady to whom I had been introduced, and solicited the

pleasure of her hand. We stood up to a double cotillion, and at that

moment the music struck up. The animating and delightful sensations

produced by the wine began to subside, and my mind commenced gradually

to comprehend the almost insurmountable difficulties of the situation

in which my rashness had placed me. I had no more idea of dancing than

a bear just caught from the woods, and as for the figure of the dance,

I would sooner have attempted to solve the hieroglyphics inscribed

upon an Egyptian obelisk. Every moment developed new difficulties, and

fresh obstacles were cast in my way by every second's reflection. Oh!

how bitterly did I repent the many opportunities I had omitted of

learning the trifling (in the abstract, yet important in reality,)

accomplishment which I so much needed then. However, it was now too

late to retreat, and I was about to dash forth and perform some random

capers, when my companion checked me with the information that my time

to dance had not yet come on. To increase the awkwardness of my

situation, I discovered myself to be corporeally tipsy, though

mentally sober. I was therefore afraid to move, lest I should evince

my unlucky and disagreeable situation. As a _dernier resort_, I

resolved to watch the graceful and easy movements of my companions in

the dance, and, if possible, to gain some slight information

concerning my unenviable employment. At last my turn came round, and

with bent knees and clenched hands I advanced. In attempting to make a

flourish which was to have been followed by a bow, I lost my balance,

and tumbled at full length upon the floor. The roar of laughter which

this feat called forth still rings in my ears, and a recollection of

the scene always covers my cheeks with blushes. I arose from my

incumbent posture and hastily excusing myself to my partner, rushed

from the house, heartily wishing for “a lodge in some vast

wilderness.”

MARLOW.

FIRST LOVE.

BY J. C. McCABE.

There is a thought, still beautiful, though years have roll'd along,

Which stirs the wave of memory, and wakes her wonted song—

Which rustles 'mid the heart's dead flowers like midnight's mournful

breeze,

And dove-like spreads its soothing wing o'er passion's stormy seas.

No crime can dim its purity—no cloud obscure its ray;

But like the temple's altar light, its steady beams will play,

All sweetly hovering o'er the soul, like spirit from above——

O, 'tis the thought—the holy thought—of boyhood's early love!

When years have wrinkled o'er his brow, and furrows traced his

cheek,

And his once glad voice is trembling now in lapses faint and weak;

How thoughtful is his glance, as on his slowly rolling tears,

There floats along that fairy form he loved in boyhood's years.

And then—O then, that heart (like harp hung up in ruined hall,

Untouch'd, save when the night-winds sweep along the mould'ring

wall,)

It gives a wild tone from its chords, the pilgrim lone to tell,

Though desolate it still can yield to melody's sweet spell. {467}

Oh, cast him on the stormy sea, when Death rides on the surge,

And sea-nymphs chant around his head a melancholy dirge,

While struggling with the giant waves, from their embrace to flee,

That lov'd one's voice is whispering of halls beneath the sea.

And as far down he swiftly sinks, and billows o'er him foam,

A thousand phantasies appear, and o'er his vision come;

But _one will_ keep its vigil there, though storm and tempest sweep,

Unmoved, though burst upon by all the billows of the deep.

Go place him in the battle's front, where death and carnage meet,

And his country's flag unsullied is his warrior-winding sheet;

When from his heart is oozing fast the darkly purple tide,

And victory's shout a moment fills his dying eye with pride—

The wild and lingering look he casts, as heaven's own arch of blue,

Like the vision of a summer dream, fades slowly from his view,

Speaks—clearly speaks—of vision'd joys—of home beheld once more—

Of the image of the one-loved form in sorrow bending o'er.

EROSTRATUS.

I.

Early in the afternoon of an autumn day, in the first year of the

hundred and fifth Olympiad, the keeper of the light-house which then

marked the entrance of the harbor of Ephesus, announced the approach

of a vessel, which, from its size and proportions, he decided to be

from Corinth or Athens. Crowded, as the port of Diana's favorite city

at that time was, with sails from every maritime town in the

Mediterranean, where commerce was cultivated, the arrival of a vessel

was an event of hourly occurrence, yet the news of the approach of

this spread rapidly through the city. The magistrate left the bench,

the merchant forsook his warehouse, and the mechanic dropped his

tools. All hastened to the quay. It was expected that this vessel

brought the news of the results of the Olympic games. With such

rapidity the lusty rowers plyed their oars, that the most experienced

eye could scarcely decide whether the approaching bark carried three

or four banks. The helms-man was singing the prize verses of the

games, in which all the oars-men joined at intervals as a chorus. Soon

she neared sufficiently for the pilots, who stood upon an eminence, to

decide that she was the Sphynx of Corinth. She presently came within

speaking distance, and the name of the victor in the poetic contest

was demanded. “Leonidas of Mægara,” was the reply. Other questions

succeeded until the Sphynx was moored in the harbor, and then

followed, amidst the embraces of friends and relatives, more minute

inquiries and particular replies touching the events of the games,

which then excited an interest in every land where the Greek tongue

was spoken, of which the moderns can form but little conception.

Preparations for the customary sacrifices to Diana of the Ephesians,

Neptune, and the Winds, in grateful return for the prosperous voyage,

were quickly made.

II.

The crowds which shortly before covered the spacious quays had nearly

all dispersed, when a young man for whom no one appeared to wait, and

who had sought no one in the joyful multitude, stepped on shore,

bearing all his baggage in a small scrip. His countenance wore an

expression of the deepest melancholy, which could not have escaped

notice, had not the sighs which broke from his breast, and the half

dried tears which stained his cheeks, sufficiently testified that his

bosom shared none of the general joy. Instead of seeking his home, he

bent his steps along the quays, and shortly gained the suburbs,

passing rapidly through which, he sought the open country. Here

throwing himself upon the ground, he gave way to the most passionate

expressions of sorrow. “Cursed folly” he exclaimed “that induced me to

believe that glory was to be obtained by merit, and that the applauses

of the crowd could be won by him who has no gold in his purse to

purchase their praises. Cursed be the books of the Philosophers which

teach”—“Erostratus,” exclaimed a young man who, unobserved, had

approached and gazed on him with astonishment, “what mischance has so

disordered you, that instead of seeking your friend's house, I find

you embracing our mother earth, and outshining our first tragedians?

Is this a specimen of some successful drama which you have been

composing, or”—“Metazulis,” said Erostratus, “cease these ill-timed

pleasantries. I have just returned from the Olympic games”—“I know

it,” interrupted Metazulis. “I was from home when the Sphynx arrived,

and had I not learned from our neighbor Polisphercon that you and he

had been fellow passengers, I should have assured myself that the

charms of Corinth had proved stronger than your patriotism. Excuse my

interruption, and pardon a friend's inquiring why these tears? why

this anguish? Have you returned without that heart, which you once

vowed to Diana should never leave your keeping, and without the

blue-eyed maiden who has robbed you of it?” “No Metazulis,” replied

his friend, forcing a melancholy smile, “my heart is safe as though

blue-eyed maidens had never been—but I went to Olympia, puffed up with

the senseless expectation of gracing my brow with the wreath of

poetry, which now encircles the head of a wealthy churl who feasted

the judges. _His_ name is celebrated through the cities of Greece;

_mine_ is unmentioned, save as that of the deluded Ephesian who dared

to put his doggrel in competition with the rich strains of the rich

Leonidas. But I forever forswear”—“Forswear nothing” cried Metazulis.

“Be not discouraged by a single failure. The next judges may be

honester, and in four years the strengthened wings of your muse will

achieve higher flights.” “And Leonidas may become richer,” said

Erostratus. “How often, how often,” {468} said Metazulis, “have I had

to censure my friend's faint heart, discouraged at the slightest

disappointment! Who ever swam a river at a single stroke? Make my

house your home. Let poetry continue your study. My sister's lyre

shall accompany your odes. We will strive to put off the partiality of

friends, and play the critics upon your works. I warrant not a spot

shall meet the eye in the next production you lay before the Olympic

Judges.” Putting his arm into that of Erostratus, who offered no

resistance, he led him to the city.

III.

Henceforth the streets of Ephesus rarely echoed to the footsteps of

Erostratus. Immured in the house of the friendly Metazulis, his whole

soul was occupied with the ardent hope of gaining the prize for poetry

at the next Olympic games. The encouragement of Metazulis and Lesbia,

had fanned into a flame the spark of ambition not to be extinguished

in his breast. Every day did his impatience increase, and nightly,

upon retiring to his couch, would he reckon that a day less was

between him and immortal glory. The poems and odes which fell from his

pen, fell not faster than they were wedded to music by the

enthusiastic Lesbia. Unhappy Lesbia! it was not in thy nature to

behold such kindred genius and remain unmoved! A fire was in thy

breast, bright and unquenchable, save by death! Poor Lesbia! Her

admiration of the poet blinded her to the most glaring defects of the

poetry, and the living Erostratus, whom she daily saw, seemed to her

superior to all the poets who had sung since the days of Deucalion.

Four years rolled by in poetry, music, and, though neither seemed

conscious of it, in—love. The hymn to Ceres, upon which Erostratus now

builds his hopes, is completed, and pronounced perfect by Metazulis,

and Lesbia. Lesbia gives her brother and his friend the parting

embrace, and with her scarf, waves them again and again farewell from

the terraced roof. She is not to see Erostratus again until his brows

are shaded with the crown of victory. Prosperous winds wafted on their

course Erostratus and his friend, who had left his home and his

sister, to share with his adopted brother the first triumphs of

success. A few days were spent in luxurious Corinth by the travellers,

and postponing a more ample view until their return, they departed for

Olympia, where they arrived after a journey, which to Erostratus

seemed to occupy an age.

IV.

With the usual ceremonies the games were opened, and the first,

second, and third days devoted to chariot races and the athletic

exercises. The fourth day was assigned to the claimants of the palm

for poesy. Erostratus was the first competitor who rose. His feelings

at first overpowered him, but a look from Metazulis, a burst of

applause from the countless multitude, and more than all, a thought of

the moment when he should lay the meed of victory at the feet of

Lesbia, encouraged him. His voice was at first low and indistinct, but

as the plaudits increased, he became more animated, and towards the

close, the delivery was worthy of the poem. The hymn being ended, the

lengthened shouts dispelled all fear of failure from his mind, and he

fancied he already felt the olive wreath upon his temples. A single

competitor appeared to contest with him the prize, many having

withdrawn upon the conclusion of his ode. Cratinus of Platæa arose, as

soon as the applause began to subside. Four times had the crown been

decreed to Cratinus, and he now aspired the fifth time to that honor.

The hitherto unconquered Cratinus began, and scarcely had he recited

twenty lines, when even Metazulis admitted in his heart the

superiority of this poem to that of his friend. Cratinus was loudly

cheered, and in justice would have been more so, had not a large

proportion of the audience been prepossessed in favor of Erostratus.

Applause well merited followed the conclusion of the Judgment of

Paris, (such was the theme of Cratinus) and then a breathless silence

succeeded, whilst the judges compared their opinions. We cannot

describe the anxiety of Erostratus in this interval. He trembled, a

cold sweat bedewed his body, and leaning upon the breast of his

friend, his life seemed to hang upon the decision. The presiding judge

at length arose and delivered the award. The crown was decreed to

Cratinus; and Erostratus fell senseless in Metazulis' arms. For a long

time he remained insensible, and his friend was beginning to fear that

his hopes and his life had terminated together, when he began to

revive; but having murmured “the crown, the crown,” he fell into a

second swoon. So great an effect had the destruction of his long

cherished hopes produced upon him, that for some days there appeared

scarcely a possibility of his recovery. During this time Metazulis

wrote to his sister the following letter.

“Weep with me Lesbia. Our friend has failed, Cratinus, of Platæa has

obtained the prize, Erostratus is dangerously ill. The physicians bid

me hope—I have none. Should he recover from the fever which now

threatens to terminate his life, what a life will be his! If, contrary

to my expectations, he should survive this shock, may our love to him

be redoubled! Let it be our care to smooth his path to the grave,

which, broken hearted as he is, can be but short. Farewell.”

V.

The medical attendants were not disappointed. A month having elapsed,

Erostratus left the couch of sickness; but another passed by before

Metazulis thought his strength sufficient to warrant his proposing

their return. Erostratus made no opposition. The love he felt for

Lesbia, (with which the ravings of his delirium had acquainted

Metazulis,) urged his return, although he felt that he scarcely dared

appear before her. The task of diverting his mind from the sad

recollections which occupied it, was painful and difficult. Metazulis

proposed visiting the curiosities of nature, and the celebrated works

of art, which lay contiguous to their route. To this Erostratus made

no objection, but his eye, ones so delighted with all that was

beautiful and sublime, now gazed upon them without pleasure. Metazulis

left Corinth in the first vessel which departed, anxious to see his

sister, and to bear his friend from Greece, where every thing

conspired to bring to his mind his failures. Far different were the

feelings with which Erostratus had entered Corinth, and now bade it a

final farewell. They reached Ephesus. Metazulis found none of his

domestics awaiting his return; but what was their anxiety, their

horror, upon finding the house closed, and the door-posts marked with

the insignia of death! They hastily opened the door. All is silence

and desolation. Erostratus rushes to the sitting room, where he had

{469} parted from Lesbia. Mctazulis following, arrives to see him fall

senseless upon the couch, whereon reposed the dead body of his sister,

at whose head sat the motionless domestics, murmuring the prayers for

the departed.

VI.

In a month after the ashes of Lesbia had been consigned to the tomb,

those of Metazulis were laid beside them. The wealth of Metazulis was

now the property of Erostratus, but could gold purchase peace for his

anguished soul? Never was he seen to smile, and his solitary hours

(and how few of his hours were not solitary?) were passed in grief and

lamentation. The love of immortality remained inextinguishable in his

breast, and he resolved upon an achievement which should give his name

a place in the page of history; and in the moments of his phrenzy, he

imagined that the name of Lesbia would appear in the record with his,

and that this would be accepted by her shade as an atonement on his

part, for the fate in which her love for him had involved her. In the

middle of a dark and tempestuous night, he applied a torch to that

temple, the boast of Ephesus, the wonder of the world! The Greek

historians of after days asserted that the goddess was in Macedon

attending to the birth of Alexander. Her fane was destroyed and

reduced to a mass of blackened ruin. Erostratus unhesitatingly avowed

himself the incendiary, and the rack could force no reply from him but

the cry “I did it for immortality.” He was condemned to be burnt to

death, and expired in the most dreadful torture, with a smile upon his

countenance and the name of Lesbia upon his lips. The magistrates,

lest his desire of an immortal memory should be gratified, denounced

death upon all who should pronounce his name, that it might be blotted

out forever.

* * * * *

* * * * *

About twenty years subsequently, a citizen of Ephesus, and his friend

from Athens, were walking upon the shore of the sea, a few miles from

the former city. There were a number of young Ephesians exercising

themselves in athletic sports upon the sands, at whom they looked for

a while, and then passed on. After a few steps they stopped to examine

something over which the sea was breaking near the shore. A few human

bones blackened and mouldering met their gaze. “Near this spot,” said

the Ephesian, “we burnt Erostratus.” “Who was he?” replied the

Athenian, “I do not remember to have ever heard of him.” The Ephesian

made no reply but hurried his friend on board a small fishing boat,

and put to sea. It was long before the Athenian could obtain an

explanation of this singular conduct from his agitated friend. The

Ephesian at length reminded him of the edict, and avowed that the

forbidden name had escaped his lip, and been overheard by the youths

who were near them. A vessel bound to Greece picked them up. The

Ephesian settled in Attica, never daring to return to his native

country. The greater portion of the incidents recorded above were

communicated by him to his friend, and the tale, corroborated by

others, became well known throughout Greece; but at Ephesus, no one

for centuries dared to utter the forbidden name of Erostratus.

BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

[We have rather accidentally met with these two poems, _The Belles of

Williamsburg_, and the _Sequel to the Belles of Williamsburg_, both

written and circulated in that place in 1777. These pieces are

believed to have been either composed by two different gentlemen, or

to have been the joint production of both. As we cannot, however,

assign to each his due share, we do not think ourselves at liberty to

mention their names—which (although the authors in question are now no

more,) are still distinguished names in Virginia.]

THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

Wilt thou, advent'rous pen, describe

The gay, delightful, silken tribe,

That maddens all our city;

Nor dread, lest while you foolish claim

A near approach to beauty's flame,

Icarus' fate may hit ye.

With singed pinions tumbling down,

The scorn and laughter of the town,

Thou'lt rue thy daring flight;

While every miss with cool contempt,

Affronted by the bold attempt,

Will, tittering, view thy plight.

Ye girls, to you devoted ever,

The object still of our endeavor

Is somehow to amuse you;

And if instead of higher praise,

You only laugh at these rude lays,

We'll willingly excuse you.

Advance then each illustrious maid,

In order bright to our parade,

With beauty's ensigns gay;

And first, two nymphs who rural plains

Forsook, disdaining rustic swains,

And here exert their sway.

Myrtilla's beauties who can paint?

The well turned form, the glowing teint,

May deck a common creature;

But who can make th' expressive soul

With lively sense inform the whole,

And light up every feature.

At church Myrtilla lowly kneels,

No passion but devotion feels,

No smiles her looks environ;

But let her thoughts to pleasure fly,

The basilisk is in her eye

And on her tongue the Syren.

More vivid beauty—fresher bloom,

With teints from nature's richest loom

In Sylvia's features glow;

Would she Myrtilla's arts apply,

And catch the magic of her eye,

She'd rule the world below.

See Laura, sprightly nymph, advance,

Through all the mazes of the dance,

With light fantastic toe; {470}

See laughter sparkle in her eyes—

At her approach new joys arise,

New fires within us glow.

Such sweetness in her look is seen,

Such brilliant elegance of mien,

So jauntie and so airy;

Her image in our fancy reigns,

All night she gallops through our veins,

Like little Mab the fairy.

Aspasia next, with kindred soul,

Disdains the passions that control

Each gentle pleasing art;

Her sportive wit, her frolic lays,

And graceful form attract our praise,

And steal away the heart.

We see in gentle Delia's face,

Expressed by every melting grace,

The sweet complacent mind;

While hovering round her, soft desires,

And hope gay smiling fan their fires,

Each shepherd thinks her kind.

The god of love mistook the maid,

For his own Psyche, and 'tis said

He still remains her slave;

And when the boy directs her eyes

To pierce where every passion lies,

Not age itself can save.

With pensive look and head reclined,

Sweet emblems of the purest mind,

Lo! where Cordelia sits;

On Dion's image dwells the fair—

Dion the thunderbolt of war,

The prince of modern wits.

Not far removed from her side,

Statira sits in beauty's pride,

And rolls about her eyes;

Thrice happy for the unwary heart,

That affectation blunts the dart

That from her quiver flies.

Whence does that beam of beauty dawn?

What lustre overspreads the lawn?

What suns those rays dispense?

From Artemisia's brow they came,

From Artemisia's eyes the flame

That dazzles every sense.

At length, fatigued with beauty's blaze,

The feeble muse no more essays

Her picture to complete;

The promised charms of younger girls,

When nature the gay scene unfurls,

Some happier bard shall treat.

SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

Ye bards that haunt the tufted shade,

Where murmurs thro' the hallowed glade,

The Heliconian spring—

Who bend before Apollo's shrine,

And dance and frolic with the nine,

Or touch the trembling string—

And ye who bask in beauty's blaze,

Enlivening as the orient rays

From fair Aurora's brow,

Or those which from her crescent shine,

When Cynthia with a look benign,

Regards the world below—

Say, why, amidst the vernal throng,

Whose virgin charms inspired your song

With sweet poetic lore,

With eager look th' enraptured swain,

For Isidora's form in vain,

The picture should explore.

Shall sprightly Isidora yield,

To Laura the distinguished field,

Amidst the vernal throng?

Or shall Aspasia's frolic lays

From Leonella snatch the bays,

The tribute of the song?

Like hers I ween the blushing rose,

On Sylvia's polished cheek that glows,

And hers the velvet lip,

To which the cherry yields its hue,

Its plumpness and ambrosial dew

Which even Gods might sip.

What partial eye a charm can find,

In Delia's look, or Delia's mind,

Or Delia's melting grace,

Which cannot in Miranda's mien,

Or winning smile or brow serene,

A rival beauty trace?

Sweet as the balmy breath of spring,

Or odors from the painted wing

Of Zephyr as he flies,

Brunetta's charms might surely claim,

Amidst the votaries of fame,

A title to the prize.

What giddy raptures fill the brain,

When tripping o'er the verdant plain,

Florella joins the throng!

Her look each throbbing pain beguiles,

Beneath her footsteps Nature smiles,

And joins the poet's song.

Here even critic Spleen shall find,

Each beauty that adorns the mind,

Or decks the virgin's brow;

Here Envy with her venomed dart,

Shall find no vulnerable part,

To aim the deadly blow.

Could such perfection nought avail?

Or could the fair Belinda fail

To animate your lays?

For might not such a nymph inspire

With sportive notes the trembling lyre

Attuned to virgin praise?

The sister graces met the maid,

Beneath the myrtle's fragrant shade,

When love the season warms;

Deluded by her graceful mien,

They fancied her the Cyprian queen,

And decked her with their charms. {471}

Say then why thus with heedless flight,

The panegyric muse should slight

A train so blythe and fair,

Or why so soon fatigued, she flies

No longer in her native skies,

But tumbles through the air.

BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. I.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.[1]

[Footnote 1: Translated from a number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_.]

The chambers in which the British Parliament are accustomed to

assemble, have nothing of the theatrical aspect of the halls for

political exhibition built in France for the representations of its

representative government.

Let us enter the chamber of the Commons. Here you see no amphitheatre

for the ladies, no boxes for the Peers, nor for the _corps

diplomatique_. A narrow gallery, only, is reserved for the reporters,

and another, more spacious, is open to the public. Here are no costly

marbles, no statues, no gilding. It is truly nothing but a chamber—a

vast apartment, of greater length than width, without ornaments of any

sort—indeed, perfectly naked.

Conceive that we are looking from the public gallery.

Directly before us, at the bottom, is a sort of sentry-box, surmounted

by the royal arms. There, in an arm chair covered with green leather,

sits the speaker, in his black robe and greyish mittens, solemnly

dressed out in an immense wig, the wings of which fall to his waist.

At his feet is a narrow table, at which the principal clerk is seated,

supporting on his two hands a large face, smiling impurturbably under

a little _perruque_ that hangs over his head in the form of a

horse-shoe.

The benches on which the members sit, are ranged rectilinearly in

different divisions, to the right and left, and in front of the

speaker. Every one places himself in the position that is most

agreeable to himself, and sits, or stands, at his pleasure. Every

member wears his hat, except when addressing the speaker. Every one

speaks from the place in which he finds himself at the moment. It is

not to the house, however, but to the speaker that they must address

themselves.

The simple and country-like habits of the house are well suited to the

character of representatives of the people. It proves that the Commons

meet not to take part in a show, but to discharge the business of the

country.

At three o'clock the speaker enters the chamber, preceded by the chief

of the ushers, the mace on his shoulder, and followed by a

sergeant-at-arms, with a sword at his side, and dressed in black after

the French fashion. Arrived at his chair, the speaker first counts the

members present. If there be forty, the session is opened, and the

chaplain repeats his prayers, to which every member listens, standing

and uncovered, with his face towards the back of his bench.

Generally the first hours are consumed in matters of minor importance.

Local and private bills are discussed. The benches begin to be filled

between eight and nine in the evening. The house is rarely full before

midnight. From this period till two in the morning, they discuss great

questions, such as are likely to bring on an important vote.

Such are the English. They distrust, beyond all reason, the frivolity

of their own minds. They consider it always dangerous to embark in

grave affairs, if their dinner has not been stored away to serve as

ballast. It is indispensable that they should meditate and mature

their opinions and their eloquence, while engaged in drinking their

wine and grog.

When simple Mr. Brougham (the period of his greatest glory) Lord

Brougham never came to the House of Commons until he had emptied three

bottles of Port. It was at the bottom of his glass that he found

calmness, wisdom, and discretion. But since his elevation to the House

of Lords, his lordship is forced to speak fasting. It is in

consequence of this change that he is now always intoxicated. The

sobriety of his stomach produces the intemperance of his tongue and of

his brain.

The invariable prolongation of its sittings late into the night, is

the cause that the House of Commons never assembles on Saturday.

Encroachment on the Sabbath would otherwise be an inevitable

legislative sacrilege; and we must admit, that it would be with but

bad grace that the Parliament alone should violate the Puritanical

laws which it so rigorously maintains, and which prescribe, during the

twenty-four hours of that sacred day, the most absolute and universal

idleness.

Two words of personal statistics at present.

The House of Commons contains four hundred and seventy-one members for

England, twenty-nine for Wales, fifty-three for Scotland, and a

hundred and five for Ireland—in all, six hundred and fifty-eight. On

important occasions, very few fail to appear at their posts. Six

hundred and twenty-two voted, at the commencement of this session, on

the election of the present speaker. Mr. Abercromby, elected by the

opposition, obtained a majority of but eight votes over Sir Charles

Manners Sutton, the candidate of the then ministry.

You observe that the chamber is divided into two parts, almost equal

in size. On one side, the ministry and the reformers; on the other,

the conservatives, forming the present opposition.

Each of these grand divisions may perhaps be subdivided. Among the

reformers or whigs, radical reformers, pure radicals, and

repealers;[2] among the conservatives, the old tories and the

demi-conservatives. Such subdivisions, however, are useless. It is no

easy thing to distinguish these different shades of opinion. Besides,

they are every day becoming gradually less distinct, and will soon

present but two parties.

[Footnote 2: The _repealers_ are Irish members advocating the repeal

of the union between Ireland and England.]

In the first place, are there any whigs? Are the whigs a party? I

answer, no. There are some great noblemen, some minister-lords, whose

ancestors were whigs, but they themselves are not. To continue the

leaders of a true political party, they have been forced to become

radicals, and to make themselves interpreters and advocates of the

popular wants. What has been {472} the result? The whigs and the

radicals are absorbed, the one in the other. Seeing so many liberal

concessions obtained by England, the Irish Catholics have followed the

example of the liberals; they have put off their extreme demands; they

have ceased to contend for the repeal of the union. Under the orders

of O'Connell, they march behind the ministerial troops, and sustain

them so as to prevent their falling back, come what may.

In the camp of the opposition there is the same fusion. Sir Robert

Peel has dressed all the tories in the uniform of conservatives. Even

the little irresolute batallion of Lord Stanley, has recently, with

its chief, assumed the new livery of the defenders of the church and

of the throne. The _tiers-parti_ has not been more successful on the

side of the Manche than on the Parisian.

The question, then, is simply and plainly raised. It is the great

question that is to be decided between the old society and the new,

the same that was raised in France in 1789; only, if the throne is

wise, here the whole war may be finished on the floors of Parliament.

The field of battle is now before the reader. You have the army of

reformers and that of the conservatives in the presence of each

other—each recognizing but one watchword, but one standard; the first,

stronger and bolder, but having too many leaders, and a rear guard

more impatient to arrive in action than the principal body; the

second, more compact, better disciplined, and more obedient to its

only chief.

Great as may be the exasperation on each side, you will rarely ever

observe the belligerent parties, even in their hostilities, depart

from their habits of chivalrous loyalty.

There is a sort of Parliamentary law of nations established in the

house.

The opposition never takes advantage of the absence of a minister to

interrogate his colleagues on matters foreign to their own

departments.

Nor will a minister ever introduce a bill without notice; the

courtesy, in this respect, is extremely great between the two parties.

Challenges are regularly exchanged; the day and the hour are both

fixed. If any member mentions his inability to attend at the appointed

time, the motion is hurried or delayed to suit his convenience.

If the question should be one of importance, and the decision

doubtful, whatever urgent business may call a member away, he will not

desert his post, unless he is enabled to find among his adversaries

some one equally desirous to absent himself. They make an arrangement

then that both shall stay away, and this double contract is always

held sacred.

In their struggles, though often violent, the blows are always

generous, and aimed in front. However, the noise of the interruptions

by which approbation or discontent is expressed, would astonish and

terrify a stranger—above all, one unaccustomed to the discordance of

English pronunciation. The sound is unusual, striking, and the more

astonishing, as at first you are unable to tell whence it proceeds.

There are six hundred men, seated, uttering savage cries of joy or

anger, their bodies all the while remaining immovable, their features

preserving their usual phlegmatic and calm expression. These tumults

produce quite a fantastic effect. _Hear! hear!_ is the cry of

satisfaction and encouragement. Listen to the speaker!—his discourse

penetrates and touches the soul of the question; let us listen to

him—hear him. _Spoke!—spoke!_ indicates impatience, ennui, lassitude.

You abuse your privilege—you have said enough—you have spoken! This

reproach is imperative—it is rarely resisted. _Order! order!_ is the

call to order; it is a summons to the speaker to notice and reprimand

the offending member who has passed the boundaries of propriety—for,

to the speaker alone belongs the right to pronounce judgment on such

occasions.

The speaker centres in himself the omnipotence of the chamber of which

he is the representative. His authority is supreme, within as well as

without the walls of the Parliament house. His situation renders him a

personage of very high importance. He has his official palace, he

holds his _levees_, to which none are admitted unless in court dress.

Singular inconsistency! the very same Commoners who enter booted,

spurred, with their over-coats and their hats on, into their own hall,

would find the doors of their own speaker closed against them, if they

should present themselves without ruffles and dressed _à la

Française_. This rigorous particularity is unreasonable. Mr. Hume,

however, in a recent attack upon this absurd etiquette, found himself

unable to succeed against the powerful prejudice by which it is

upheld. The sound sense of his objections only passed for radical

folly. Thus it is that with the English the ancient forms of etiquette

have deeper root than even their old abuses. You may be certain that

they will have reformed the church, the aristocracy, and perhaps the

crown itself, before the grotesque wigs of their magistrates. Their

entire revolution will have been completed, while their new liberty

will be still distinguished by the manners and dress of the _ancien

regime_.

In England, the real and undeniable sovereignty is in the House of

Commons. The British peerage is a mere phantom, a little more

respectably clothed than that of France, but quite as much of a

phantom. Still this very British Peerage, which is condemned to obey

the Commons and register their edicts, preserves all the appearances

of supremacy! It continues to command the Commons to appear at its

bar, who regularly obey this summons, preceded by their speaker! And

when the Lords, seated in their own chamber, have signified the royal

assent to the wishes of the Commons, the latter withdraw, bowing as

they go out! The real upper or superior chamber consents to be called

and to appear always as the inferior.

How much do I prefer to these ceremonious _levees_ of the British

speaker, the popular balls of the president of the French Chamber of

Deputies, where no orders are given to the guards to prevent the entry

of persons not in costume! Above all, I like those numbered letters of

invitation—the four hundred and fifty-nine first for the

representatives of the people, and then the four hundred and sixtieth

for the Duke of Orleans, as the first peer of the realm, and so on for

the rest. In France the peerage comes after the people!

It is much to be regretted that the French do not remove the abuses

themselves, as they do their names and customs. Their system is

different from the English, but it is very doubtful if it be the best.

The latter are always very respectful subjects; they kneel {473} down

at the feet of royalty in supplicating it to take their will for its

pleasure. The former hold themselves erect and firm before their

monarch, who leads them by the nose, suffering them all the while to

proclaim themselves at their ease, the true sovereigns of the kingdom.

Mr. Abercromby, the present speaker, by no means solicited the honor

of the chair which, at the opening of the session, was decreed him by

the first act of the reformers. Constrained to maintain, in the name

of the house, the privileges of that body, he represents that assembly

with all the dignity that his grotesque wig will permit. Happily he

has thick grey eye-brows, which harmonize extremely well with his

light-colored official _perruque_. In spite of the enormous quantity

of hair that overshadows his person, there is nothing savage in his

appearance; on the contrary, a mild and affable dignity eminently

distinguishes him; his manners are marked by a noble ease; he also

speaks well, and his full and sonorous voice is admirably suited to

the station which he occupies as president of a large and popular

assembly.

The conservatives will never forgive him for having, even

involuntarily, dethroned their candidate. They regret the airs of a

superannuated dandy, and the old-fashioned elegance of Sir Charles

Manners Sutton, who, having grown old in the chair, had been long

accustomed to regard toryism with a favorable eye. It is true that Mr.

Abercromby, an avowed partizan of the reformers, has not, in

consequence of his acceptance of the speakership, become the

inexorable censor of his radical friends. So that when O'Connell,

provoked by some imprudent noblemen, branded them with epithets never

to be effaced, Mr. Abercromby was guilty of the heinous crime of not

interposing to check the vengeance of the outraged orator.

Impartiality, according to the tories, would consist in permitting

their attacks, without allowing the insulted or injured party the

rights of defence.

I have now given you a general and hasty sketch of the leading

characteristics of the house; it only remains for me to carry you to

one of its sittings. We will select the occasion of the presentation

of the bill for the reform of the English and Welch Corporations,

which was, after a month of argument, finally voted. On the evening of

the 5th of June, then, it was known that Lord John Russell was to

introduce his bill in the Commons. What was to be the nature of this

measure, so long promised and so impatiently expected on one side, and

so much feared on the other? Curiosity in London was at its height; it

was the third day of the Epsom races! No matter! Every one returned to

the city—horses were abandoned for politics. As early as twelve the

crowd began to encumber the environs of Westminster, pressing towards

the gates of the palace of the Parliament. With great difficulty I

succeeded in squeezing myself into the public gallery.

At three, prayers being said, the speaker having counted with the end

of his little flat three-cornered hat the members in attendance, and

more than forty being present, the session opened.

There was at first a long discussion of a bill regulating the

distribution of water in the parish of _Mary-le-bone_; the debate was

of but little interest, though Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, Mr. Hume, and

Sir Francis Burdett look frequent part in it. My attention was fixed

on their persons, if not on their discourses.

Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer is a young radical who leads a life altogether

aristocratic. He is renowned for the elegance of his grooms and of his

vehicles. Nobody wears a black frock so short and so tight. He speaks

well and easily, with a voice somewhat unpleasant, his head elevated

and thrown back after the fashion of men of small stature. He is the

elder brother of the novelist, and is himself the author of a work on

France, in which he judges of French manners, society, politics and

literature with a degree of insane ignorance hardly less disgusting

than the _naïve_ buffoonery of Lady Morgan. It is a distinguishing

characteristic of the English, to write without knowledge, observation

or study on every country they pass through. It is a pity that a man

of common sense and intelligence such as Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer,

should have made his literary _debut_ by so vulgar a piece of national

_gaucherie_.

There is nothing about the person of Mr. Hume that would strike you;

he looks like a good-natured, unaffected, broad-shouldered countryman,

independent in his character, and utterly careless of fashion. His

mere manner, to say nothing of his words, expresses invincible

aversion to all ceremony. His appearance does not belie his character.

His enunciation has all the ease, firmness, and roughness of his

opinions. One of the chief priests of radicalism—an inexorable and

incorruptible reformer, he has sworn never to sit, but on the benches

of the opposition; it is from fidelity to his oath, not from sympathy,

as you might well conclude, that he now sits in the ranks of the

conservatives.

Sir Francis Burdett differs from Mr. Hume both in his air, height, and

figure. Picture to yourself a long body, about five feet ten inches,

in white velvet breeches, with boots turned down at the top, and a

blue frock. A white vest, a white cravat, a little bald, flat head,

well powdered, will complete the portrait. The fate of public men who

outlive themselves, is often singular. Sir Francis Burdett, ten years

since, was as fashionable as his dress. He was the favorite of

Westminster—the popular orator of the House of Commons. He caused

himself to be imprisoned in the Tower, for having dared to speak too

boldly against royalty. Now he is suspected by the people—they suspect

him of voting with toryism. They despise him, they accuse him of

versatility. “But,” he replies, “it is you, perhaps, who have changed.

Reformers formerly, you are now radicals! Tories in my day, you are

now reformers! I have preserved my opinions and my dress!” Well! the

error is with you, Sir Francis Burdett; you should have changed also,

or not have lived to become old. If you had died at the proper time,

perhaps you might now have your statue of bronze near that of Canning,

in Westminster square. Who knows if to-morrow the same people who

formerly carried you in triumph, may not ornament your white breeches

with the mud of the streets leading to the Parliament house?

At last the discussion touching the waters of Mary-le-bone draws to a

close. The house having to vote on this unlucky bill, the galleries

for the reporters and the public were cleared. This is the custom of

Parliament; decisions never take place but with closed doors.

When I returned to the gallery, the hall presented {474} quite an

altered appearance. The less piece was finished—the great one was

about to commence. The ranks on the right and left grew thicker every

moment—each member hastened to his post.

Lord John Russell, the official commander in chief of the reformers,

had appeared on the ministerial benches, to the right of the speaker.

By his side, you observed his principal aides-de-camp, the Chancellor

of the Exchequer, Mr. Spring Rice, with a large bald forehead, and the

countenance of a Satyr, the most ready, if not the ablest speaker in

the cabinet; Lord Morpeth, secretary for Ireland, a large young man

whose premature grey hairs, appear at a distance to be of a light

yellow, looking like a timid and blushing youth; Lord Palmerston, an

old bloated dandy, whose fat face seems to swell itself out between

his thick whiskers with more satisfaction since he is no longer led by

the nose by Talleyrand—Lord Palmerston, who has not wished to be made

a peer since his last return to power, pretending that his eloquence

has a more open field in the Commons than it could have in the House

of Lords.

In front of the ministerial group, and separated from it only by the

table of the clerks, sits Sir Robert Peel, surrounded also by his

conservative aids, among whom you may distinguish Lord Granville

Somerset the quasimodo of Westminster, whose double hump does not

prevent him from being one of the most alert to sound the Protestant

tocsin against Popery.

Here and there you may have observed other distinguished members of

the house; Daniel O'Connell, the great O'Connell, calm and absorbed in

the reading of some new book, of which he is cutting open the leaves,

in the midst of his sons, his nephews, and his Irish Catholics, who

form what is called _his tail_; a tail, if you please, but one which

leads the head of the state. After them, Lord Stanley, the young heir

of the house of Derby, that ambitious and disappointed _elegant_, who

has yet only in heart deserted the benches of the reformers.

Next you have remarked two young men standing up, and differing as

much in their height and figure as in their opinions; but equally

celebrated, each one in his own way, in the world, and who, in

consequence, deserve to be described.

The first is Viscount Castlereagh, son of the Marquis of Londonderry,

a mad conservative like his father, but less simple and possessed of

much more discretion. Thin and pitiful in his person, without figure

and without talent, it is not in the house that he really exists; in

the saloons of the west end is his true atmosphere—it is there alone

that his stupidity finds the air that it can respire. Lord Castlereagh

is one of the chiefs of the new school which has regenerated English

fashion. This school is entirely different from that of Brummell,

which founded its distinction upon dress. The new fashionables of the

sect of the noble lord, affect, on the contrary, entire negligence in

the dress, and the greatest freedom of manners. Nothing is brilliant

in their equipages, nor in the style of their servants. Their vehicles

are of dark colors and sombre liveries; for themselves extreme

simplicity in appearance. No flowered vests; no gold or silver lacing

about them; no jewels; at the most the end of a gold chain at the

button of a black coat; an engraved ring betraying some mysterious

sentiment known to the whole city. Add to this the most refined

impertinence of vanity, a sublime contempt for every one not of the

exclusive circle into which they alone find admission, and an

ambitious senseless jargon. Lord Castlereagh is the perfect type of

this first and principal class of London fashionables.

The second, Mr. Edward Lytton Bulwer, the well known author of

_Pelham_ and other novels, is, like his brother, an avowed radical. He

is large, and would, did he not stoop and hold himself in other

respects badly, appear to advantage. His hair is thick, light, and

curly. His long inexpressive countenance, and his large moist and

fixed eyes, scarcely reveal the writer of genius. I suppose it is in

some measure the incontestible success of his writings that has opened

to him the doors of that exclusive society, with which he is very much

at home. For the style of his costume he is indebted to old

traditionary fashions. You will rarely ever meet him but with his

bosom open, the skirts of a luxuriant surtout lined with velvet or

silk floating to the wind, with the rest of his dress of clear

brilliant shades, and varnished boots, brandishing some cane encrusted

with a rich head. He would remind you of those _parvenus_ of bad taste

who encumber the _avant_ scenes of the opera at Paris. I do not deny

the really interesting character of some of the novels of Mr. Bulwer,

though they are in other respects so wretchedly written; but it seems

to be that he acted very ridiculously in endeavoring to exaggerate

their real value, at the expense of exhibiting the absurd vanity

betrayed in every page of the sad rhapsodies he has recently published

under the title of the _Student_. I would however sooner pardon him

for this last work, than an act of his of which I have been informed.

A young American called on him the other day, with letters of

introduction. “I am delighted to see you, sir,” said Mr. Bulwer, “but

I will tell you beforehand that it will be difficult for me often to

have that honor; I have already more acquaintances than my leisure

will allow me to cultivate, and, in conscience, it is to them that I

owe the moments at my disposal.” Do you not discover in this piece of

politeness something that even surpasses the characteristic amiability

of the English? The English do not ruin themselves by hospitality. If

a stranger is introduced to them by letters of introduction, they give

him a heavy and long dinner, with a supper for dessert; then, having

stuffed him with roast beef and filled him with Port and grog, and

having spared no pains to cram him, they take their leave of him; and

if the unfortunate individual survives this cheer, their doors are

afterwards closed against his entrance. Sir Walter Scott, who was

perhaps as great a novelist as Mr. Bulwer, did not consider himself

exempt from the common duties of politeness and attention to visitors

who happened to be introduced to him. So far from it, he treated them

with much more hospitality than is the custom in England; it is true,

however, that Sir Walter, though a great novelist, was not a great

_fashionable_.

There also you may have recognized Doctor Bowring searching about,

running up and down, from one bench to another, shaking the hand of

every member who will allow him to do so. The doctor is well known in

Paris; and as he did not quite waste his time in promenading the

streets of that capital, he soon discovered that charlatanism was one

of the most powerful means of success. {475} He took the most direct

route to attain his end, and proceeded straight to the journals. The

French journalists, when one knows how to deal with them, are

complacency itself. In a short time no one was talked of but Doctor

Bowring. The doctor did not take a single step that was not duly

registered; it was Doctor Bowring here, and Doctor Bowring there,

every where the doctor; and the honest public of the French capital,

deafened by these trumpet-tongued praises, took him for some

extraordinary important personage. On this side of the channel we

better understand the puffs of the press, so that every body laughed,

I assure you, when this Doctor Bowring was strutting through France,

so splendidly decked out with the importance which he had purchased

from the newspapers of Paris. He returned to London, but without this

glorious mantle. That had been detained at the custom house as a sort

of prohibited French merchandise. In fine, the doctor remains just

what he was before, that is to say a reformer, anxious to profit by

reform, a pale disciple of the utilitarian school of Lord Brougham; a

sort of travelling clerk of the foreign office, speaking sufficiently

well three or four living languages; a poet, who furnishes some

stanzas of ordinary poetry to the magazines; as for the rest, the very

best physician in the world.

It was now near six; no one remained to be heard; the moment had

arrived for opening the lists. According to the order of the motions

for the day, the speaker gave the floor to the minister of the home

department. Suddenly the waves of the assembly subsided; a profound

silence ensued; Lord John Russell rose to speak.

Lord John Russell, third son of the Duke of Bedford, is extremely

small, scarcely five feet high; the smallness of his person almost

renews his youth; one would hardly suppose him forty-five years of

age, as he really is. A head large about the forehead, and small

towards the chin, forming a sort of triangle; chesnut-colored hair,

short and thin; large eyes surmounted by well arched brows; a

countenance pale, calm, soft and phlegmatic, marked by a sort of

half-concealed cunning, are the features that would alone strike you.

His manner of speaking is in perfect harmony with his modest and quiet

exterior. His voice is weak and monotonous, but distinct. In speaking,

his body is scarcely more animated than his discourse. All his action

consists in gliding his left hand behind his back, seizing the elbow

of his right arm, and balancing himself indefinitely in that position.

Lord John Russell expresses himself plainly and without effort; his

language is cold and dry, but clear and concise. An author more

concise than elegant, his style of writing exhibits itself in his

off-hand speeches. He has nothing of the tiresome volubility of

Thiers, who is minister of the home department in France; he says no

more than is necessary, while he says every thing that he wishes. His

sarcasm though frozen, is not the less sharp. The blade of his

poignard does not require to be made red hot to inflict a deep wound.

He has none of those sudden flashes which electrify and inflame an

assembly; his light is of that peaceable and steady nature that

illuminates and guides. His mind is a serious one, full of

appropriate, condensed, and well resolved reflections.

In less than an hour he had unrolled the whole plan of his bill, and

concisely explained its principles and details, not without letting

fly some well sharpened arrows against the corrupting influence of the

tories over the municipal constitution, the reform of which he

demanded.

As soon as Lord John Russell had resumed his seat, and in the midst of

the various murmurs which his speech had excited, Sir Robert Peel rose

to address the speaker.

The ex-first lord of the treasury is of moderate height; his figure

would be elegant, but for the fatness which has already begun to

render it heavy; his dress is neat and studied without being dandyish;

his manner would not convict him of the approach of fifty; his regular

features have an expression of contemptuous severity; he seems to

affect too much the manners of a great man; natural distinction has

more ease and carelessness about it.

Moreover, studied affectation is also the prevailing characteristic of

his oratory. Gesture and language both betray his ambitious

affectedness. He has more of the actor than becomes a public speaker.

It is irksome to see him agitate, struggle, and throw himself

incessantly about. I do not like to see a statesman exhibit so much

acquaintance with the positions of an elocutionist. It may be well

enough by one's own fireside to cross one leg over another and to play

with the guineas in the pockets of one's pantaloons. One may play with

his collar in a drawing room, or throw back the skirts of his frock,

without any great impropriety; but in public, and, above all, in

places devoted to the solemn discussion of the laws of a nation, this

style of flirting manners is by no means appropriate. Sir Robert

abuses the purposes for which his hands and arms were given him. One

almost loses his words in the incessant agitation of his person.

In other respects I will acknowledge that his elocution is spirited,

easy, and intellectual; he may be listened to with pleasure. I am

always well pleased with the manner in which he applies his rhetorical

skill to public affairs. He has every thing which the art of speaking

can give him; but the warmth which animates him is always artificial.

The true fire of conviction which is so naturally communicated from

the speaker to his audience, is always wanting. There is no sincerity

about him. He is an ambitious tory in disguise, who, in order to seize

again the golden reins of government, has hypocritically cloaked

himself under the mantle of a reformer, and who would pass over to the

radicals with his arms and baggage, if there was any chance of

remounting by their aid to the power which he covets, and of securing

himself in its enjoyment.

In accepting, with ample reservations, the principle of the bill, Sir

Robert Peel, in answer to the sharp insinuations of Lord John Russell,

made several witty and amusing observations, which diverted a good

deal the house.

The minister replied in a few polite but firm observations. The

serenity of the noble lord is perfectly unchangeable. He is as calm

when defending himself, as when attacking his adversaries. I consider

this political temperament as the most desirable for a statesman

actively engaged in public affairs. Such coolness disconcerts the fury

of one's assailants. One is never worsted in a combat when he retains

such undisturbed self-possession.

{476} Some remarks on the details of the bill were made by different

members. No one having opposed its introduction, the members began to

move off. It was already night, and the hour for dinner; the candles

were not yet lit; the house rose in a body.

An individual in a brown curly wig, and dressed in a blue frock, whose

broad shoulders and athletic form displayed great personal strength,

descended from the ministerial benches, and stepped in the centre of

the hall. The sound of his voice called every one back. Silence

ensued. This was the great Irishman, the _giant agitator_, as he is

called—a giant they may well call him. This energetic old man has

alone more youth and life than all the young men in the Commons

together, than the whole chamber itself.

The darkness of the evening was not sufficiently great to conceal him

from my view. I see him now before me, erect on his large feet, his

right arm extended, and his body inclined forwards; I seem to hear him

speak. His remarks were not long; he said but a few words, but all his

power was condensed in them. The lion fondled while he growled. His

approbation was imperative and threatening. “So the bill has only

looked to England and Wales! Must Ireland then be always forgotten,

that its turn never comes but after the other countries of the United

Kingdom? Has it not enough of venal and corrupt municipalities?

Nevertheless, he would support openly and with all his strength, the

plan of ministers. It was a noble and glorious measure; he wished for

nothing more for Ireland.”

He did not wish for more, that is to say, he did not order more for

Ireland. The wishes of O'Connell are not to be despised. In

consequence, Mr. Spring Rice hastened to satisfy him. “He need not

give himself any uneasiness,” said the Chancellor of the Exchequer;

“the government would equally do justice to Ireland. It should

likewise have its corporations reformed, and perhaps during the same

session.”

“Thanks!” murmured O'Connell, mixing himself with the crowd of members

pouring out of the hall; “I will remember this promise for Ireland.”

_Ireland!_ you should have heard him pronounce its name with that

excited, trembling accent, so full of tenderness, which emphasizes and

lingers on every syllable of the beloved word; you should have heard

him, to comprehend the power of his irresistible eloquence. Pure love

of country lends one a super-human strength. A just cause, honestly

and warmly embraced, is an irresistible weapon in hands capable of

wielding it.

I am not surprised that desperate conservatives, seeing their

tottering privileges ready to be trodden under the feet of O'Connell,

should treat him as an agitator, madman, destroyer. But how is it,

that among the reformers themselves, he has so many inconsistent

admirers, who will never pardon him for the bitter violence and

inexorable severity of his speeches? Do these moderate and quiet men

believe that honeyed phrases, and the submission of prayers, would

have obtained the redress of even the least of the Irish griefs? No!

had he not struck roughly and pitilessly, the old edifice of

usurpation and intolerance would be still entire. Let him go on—let

him be pitiless; he has made an important breach in the walls—let him

level them with the ground. To overthrow such things is not

destruction; it is but the clearing of the ground to build up public

liberty.

O'Connell is unquestionably the best speaker, and the ablest

politician in Parliament. Friends or enemies, every one acknowledges,

at least to himself, that he is the master-spirit; thus he is the true

_premier_. The members of the cabinet are nothing but puppets, dressed

up for show, and worked by his agency. His influence over the masses

of the people is also immense and universal. He is not the popular

idol in Ireland only, but also in England and Scotland. Long life to

him! the hopes and future welfare of three nations are centered in his

person.

I have nothing further to say of the sitting of the 5th of June,

except to remark, that a sufficient number of working members were

left in the room to continue for many hours the despatch of business

of secondary importance. It is but justice to the House of Commons to

state, that great political questions do not retard the execution of

local and private business. They will often get through in a single

night, more work than the French Chamber of Deputies would in a month

of thirty days.

You have seen that the opposition of the conservatives gave way before

the corporations bill. It was not without deep mortification, as you

may imagine, but prudence rendered it indispensable. It is necessary,

at any sacrifice, to assume the appearance of not hating too violently

the principles of reform. The plan is not without cunning.

But the opposition counts with confidence on regaining its ground on

the question of Irish tithes and their appropriation. It is on this

question that it has halted and offers combat. “We have abundantly

proved,” say their proclamations, “that we are reasonable reformers,

but our love of change cannot induce us to sacrifice the church.” And

their church, that ungrateful and unnatural daughter, which has denied

and plundered its mother, invokes with all its power the old

prejudices of the Protestants to the aid of its champions; it sounds

the tocsin with its bells taken from Catholic steeples. Every where it

stations its bishops in its temples without altars, and makes them

preach a new crusade against Catholicism. Hear them: Of the

innumerable religious sects which encumber the three kingdoms, taking

them in alphabetical order, from the Anabaptists to the Unitarians,

there is not one so hateful and dangerous as the Catholic church. The

Popish sect is the only one that endangers the state, the throne and

the property of individuals. It is necessary to burn again the Pope in

effigy and in processions, as formerly under the reign of Queen

Elizabeth; and it would not be bad to burn on the same occasion that

impious majority in the Commons, who wish to appropriate a part of the

Protestant tithes in Ireland to the education of the poor of all

religions! God be praised, the selfish and insensate voice of the

conservatives has only cried in the desert. Their fanaticism will not

succeed against the general good sense of the nation. Within as

without the chamber, their defeat is inevitable. To use the beautiful

metaphor of Mr. Shiel, the first Irish orator after O'Connell, the

church of Ireland will be the cemetery of toryism and Protestant

intolerance.

{477}

THIRD LECTURE

Of the Course on the Obstacles and Hindrances to Education, arising

from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers and Scholars, and that

portion of the Public immediately concerned in directing and

controlling our Literary Institutions.

_On the Faults of Teachers_.

It will be recollected, my friends, that my last effort was to expose

the vices and faults of parents, so far as they obstruct the progress

of education. Those of instructers shall next be exhibited, since they

are certainly entitled at least to the second in rank in their power

to do mischief. I might sum up all _their_ faults in one sweeping

condemnation, by saying that they render the persons guilty of them

enemies to themselves, to their professional brethren, and to the

public. But specifications are wanting, and such I propose to give, as

minutely and distinctly as I can.

In the first place, they injure themselves by the style and language

often used when they tender their services to the public. The

expressions are frequently such as to encourage the idea, already too

prevalent, that _they_ are the only party to be obliged—_they alone_

to be the receivers of favors never to be adequately compensated.

Whereas the truth is, if they are really fit for their business, and

desirous to perform it faithfully, they never receive the millionth

part of a cent for which they do not make a most ample return—a

return, the real value of which can never be measured by mere dollars

and cents. But the language in which they seek or acknowledge

employment, often expresses a degree of humility below the lowest

gospel requirement—a doubt of their own qualifications to teach,

which, if true, ought forever to exclude them from the class of

instructers. It sometimes, in fact, deserves no better name than a

servile begging for patronage, as if they considered it a species of

gratuitous alms. Ought it to be wondered at, when this is the case,

that the public should understand them literally, and treat them

accordingly? If they avoid this extreme in tendering their services,

it by no means follows, as a necessary consequence, that they should

run into the other, which is also very common, of making themselves

ridiculous by extravagant pretensions. The middle course in this, as

in many other things, is best. Let them always state plainly and

explicitly, without exaggeration, what they believe they can do—their

willingness to make the attempt with persevering fidelity, and the

pecuniary compensation expected for their services. If this were

always fairly and fully done, there could not be even the shadow of a

pretext on the part of any who might then choose to accept their

offers, for underrating their labors, and talking or acting as persons

who had conferred obligations beyond all requital, by giving much more

than they had received, or could be paid. When teachers are treated in

this way, it is, in a great measure, their own fault, and it arises

chiefly from the causes just stated. To render their intercourse with

their employers what it ought to be, and what it certainly might

become, there should be not only a feeling of entire reciprocity of

benefit as to the money part of their dealings, but a mutuality of

respect and esteem well merited on both sides. This kind of regard can

never be felt towards teachers who receive such civilities as may be

paid to them, like unexpected and unmerited favors; for if they

themselves do not appear to hold their own profession in the honor to

which it is justly entitled, who else can they expect to rate it any

higher?

In the second place, teachers are often enemies to their professional

brethren in the jealousy manifested towards each other—in a restless

and ill-restrained propensity to depreciate each other's

qualifications, and a too frequent co-operation with the slandering

part of the community, when they find the children sent to them from

other schools ignorant and ill-disposed, to ascribe it all to the

defective manner in which they have been taught, rather than to the

real and very frequent causes of incapacity, bad temper, or bad early

habits. By such practices, many foolishly imagine that they are

promoting their own particular interests, when, in fact, they are

deeply injuring the general interests of the whole class of teachers,

by contributing to impair the public confidence in all schools

whatever. For what can more effectually do this with the majority of

mankind, than to hear those who set up for their instructers in

morals, as well as in general science, continually finding fault with

each other, or silently acquiescing in its being done by persons not

of their own profession? Such conduct places them in this desperate

dilemma; if what each says of every other be false, the public must

think them all base calumniators: if it be true, the conclusion is

inevitable that they are all incapable; and either alternative would

speedily and most deservedly strip the whole of employment.

Lastly, teachers are often enemies to the public in so many

particulars that I scarcely know with which to begin; not that I mean

to charge them with being intentionally so—for it frequently happens

with the best people in the world, that they are among the last to see

their own greatest defects. Some of the faults of teachers may be

considered as belonging exclusively to themselves, and for which they

can find no excuse whatever in the faults of others—such, for example,

as the two first enumerated. But those which I have now to expose, are

so intimately blended with the faults of their employers, of their

children, and of that portion of the world with which they are more

immediately connected, that, like the reciprocating action of the

various parts of certain mechanical contrivances, these faults must be

viewed as causing each other. Thus, the parental fault of blindness to

their children's defects, both natural and moral, and their consequent

injustice to the instructers who ever blame or punish them, give birth

to the equally fatal fault in teachers of carefully avoiding every

hint of incapacity, and studiously concealing the ill-conduct of their

pupils, because well aware that they probably will not be believed. If

compelled to make communications on so perilous and ungrateful a

subject, they are so softened and frittered away, as to produce a far

less pardonable deception than entire silence, since a sensible parent

would ascribe the last to its proper motive, when the glossing and

varnishing process might lead them entirely astray. The same knowledge

of the self-delusion, and consequent injustice of parents, leads

teachers to the frequent commission of another fault, in which they

often engage their particular friends as participators. At their

public examinations (where they have any) they contrive a sort of

Procrustes' bed, which all their pupils are made to fit, but rather by

the {478} stretching than by the lopping process. This is usually

managed so adroitly, that the public will see numerous goodly

advertisements, with many imposing signatures, taking their rounds

through all the newspapers, by which it clearly appears that every

scholar in the school, however numerous they may be, even to the

youngest child, performed to the entire satisfaction and admiration of

all who saw or heard them. It is utterly impossible that these

examinations, if fairly made, could have any such uniform and

favorable result; for the difference of natural capacity alone must

inevitably produce a great inequality of performance in the pupils.

Every body with five grains of experience, knows that many other

causes are constantly operating to increase this inequality. Such

reports, therefore, of examinations, fail entirely with the

reflecting, well-informed part of the community, to produce any thing

but ridicule, disgust, or pity, while the ignorant and inexperienced

are most unjustifiably imposed upon. The most deceived of any will

generally be the parents who are absent, whose natural partiality for

their own children so blinds their judgment, as to make them believe

in any eulogium bestowed upon them, however extravagant. Little else

is ever accomplished by these truly delusive spectacles, unless it be

most injuriously to inflate the vanity of the poor pupils. The desire

to be puffed in the newspapers, and talked about in public, is

substituted for the love of learning for its own sake, and thereby one

of the most important objects of education is greatly obstructed.

_This is_, or _ought to be_, to excite in all persons under pupilage

an ardent desire to gain knowledge, because they love it for itself,

and for the power which it confers of promoting human happiness.

The reciprocal faults just stated in teachers and parents, co-operate,

not to promote in any way, but to destroy the great ends of

instruction, so far at least as they can contribute to the work of

destruction. Let it not be understood, from the foregoing remarks,

that I am opposed to public examinations in all schools whatever;

although I certainly wish it to be understood that, as generally

managed, they are worse than useless. But I do object to them

altogether in schools for females—unless, among our other marvellous

advances towards perfectibility, we should take it into our heads to

make lawyers, doctors, statesmen, and soldiers of our daughters,

instead of modest, unassuming, well-informed, home-loving, and

virtuous matrons. _Then, indeed_, it will be necessary to give them

that kind of early training, continually aided by public examinations

at school, which will inure them to the public gaze, and enable them,

in due time, to meet the searching eyes of multitudes with unabashed

hardihood of countenance; and entirely divested of such a very

needless incumbrance as that retiring, timid, indescribable modesty,

heretofore deemed one of the most lovely, fascinating, and precious

traits of the female character. I will not go so far as to assert that

none can possess this trait who have been accustomed to be publicly

examined—for I have the happiness to know many from whose hearts

neither this ordeal, nor all the other corrupting influences of the

world united, have had power to banish those admirable principles and

qualities which constitute at once the most endearing ornaments and

highest glory of their sex. But I _will say_, that they are

exceptions, forcibly illustrating the truth of the general principle,

which is, that modesty, or indeed any other good quality, _must_, in

the end, be destroyed by causes continually operating to work its

destruction.

Another sore evil of incalculable extent, in relation to this subject

of education, is the frequent discordance between the precepts and the

lessons which must necessarily be taught in all well-regulated

schools, and the examples witnessed, the opinions heard, and the

habits indulged in at home. This often places conscientious teachers

in a most puzzling and painful dilemma, from which many shrink

altogether, while others vainly endeavor to compromise the matter in

such a manner, as completely to _nullify_ (if I may use a very current

phrase) every effort to do good. The dilemma is, that in discharging

the duty to the child, the parent, although indirectly, is unavoidably

condemned, every time the teachers warn their pupils, as they

continually ought to do, against any of the faults and vices most

prevalent in society. Desperate, indeed, and almost hopeless, is the

task of teaching, when this most deplorable, but very common case

occurs. For what is the consequence of imparting virtuous principles

and habits to the children, admitting the possibility of it, where

none but vicious examples have been seen under the parental roof?

Their eyes are inevitably opened to the wretched moral destitution of

those to whom, under God, they owe their existence; and they are thus

plunged into a state of perpetual suffering, if not actual misery—for

the better the children become, the greater will be their distress and

affliction at the condition of their parents. What fathers or mothers

are there, having either hearts to feel or understandings to discern

the awful responsibilities they live under in regard to their

children, but must tremble at the bare thought of setting them bad

examples, and thus becoming a source of double misery to their own

offspring—misery _here_, even if they escape the contagion of these

vicious parental practices and habits—and misery _hereafter_, should

they be so deeply infected as to prove irreclaimable?

Another highly pernicious fault, of which multitudes of teachers are

guilty, is continually to act as if they took upon themselves no other

responsibility than that of a mere formal attendance in their schools

for the number of hours prescribed, to hear prescribed lessons

repeated in a parrot-like manner. Any thought of being accountable for

the influence exerted in forming the characters of so many

fellow-beings, seems never to enter their minds, although this is

beyond all calculation the most important part of the whole process of

education.

Another fault of frequent occurrence among instructers is, to have

such an overweening, extravagant sense of their own dignity, as to be

incessantly on the watch for offences committed against it. Thus even

a single muscular contortion of a pupil's face, whether natural or

accidental, and even if he be but nine or ten years old, will be

construed into a most grievous and flagrant insult, not to be expiated

but by some signal punishment, usually of a corporeal kind, and

inflicted in such a manner as to prove that the operators are rather

working off their own wrath than endeavoring to cure the scholar's

defects. By this truly ridiculous sensitiveness, they are certain so

to expose themselves as either to become laughing-stocks or objects of

scorn and contempt to all their older scholars, or of the most {479}

perfect hatred to the younger ones. In all such cases these teachers

become real nuisances—for the injuries done by such conduct to the

tempers of their pupils, far exceed any possible benefit they can gain

at such schools.

There are some faults of teachers which greatly impair, if they do not

entirely destroy, a proper subordination among their scholars. One is

the want of a dignified manner, equally removed from a proud, haughty,

imperious demeanor, and too much familiarity. Another is the excessive

fear of offending the parents, and perhaps losing the pupils, by

complaint. In every case of the kind, the child, of course, escapes

all effectual reproof or adequate correction, especially if the parent

be very wealthy, very weak, or extensively connected with what are

usually called “_great people_.” Invidious distinctions are thus

created in such schools, and the influence of all punishment is lost,

even over those upon whom it may be inflicted, sometimes in double or

quadruple proportions, to compensate for the omission in the cases of

the favored culprits.

Another fault, little, if any less destructive of the influence which

teachers should possess over their pupils, is their general

carelessness in the all-essential duty of striving to convince their

scholars that they are really and deeply interested, both as social

beings and as christians, in leading their juvenile minds to the

sublimest heights of knowledge and virtue. No instructer who fails to

do this, whatever may be his or her other qualifications, can possibly

succeed well in the main objects of education. They may, indeed, cram

their pupils' heads with words, and even get into them a very showy

stock of ideas; but in regard to the great, vital principles of human

action, _piety and virtue_, these pupils will be in little better

condition, as to true moral worth, than so many automata, having the

power of uttering articulate sounds, and repeating what they have been

taught, but devoid of all generous, benevolent, and virtuous motives

of conduct. The notion constantly present to their minds will be, that

they pay their money for a quantum of reluctant service, to a selfish

and mercenary being, whose constant study is, to perform no more of

such service than barely sufficient to secure the pupils' continuance

at school, for the sake of the pecuniary compensation alone. Ought

there to be any wonder if the scholars themselves, under such

circumstances, contract the same selfishness, the same base love of

lucre, which they find often so productive of profit, and which they

believe to be the governing principle of their teacher's conduct?

Should the general propensity to extravagance in the use of money, so

fatally common among young people, or their better feelings imbibed at

home, protect them from contracting principles similar to those of

such instructers, they are in danger of adopting another opinion

equally destructive of the chance of deriving intellectual or moral

improvement from any school whatever. This is, a firm belief that the

whole class of teachers are destitute of every thing like generous and

noble sentiments, and are consequently utterly undeserving of

deference, respect, esteem, or affection.

Another thing which greatly impairs the influence of teachers with

their pupils, is the very common practice of giving way to their own

faults and bad habits in the presence of their scholars. Those who

take upon them to instruct others in practical duties, must so act on

all occasions as to be able to say, “_Not only do as I tell you, but

do as I do_;” for without good examples in teachers, all their

precepts go for nothing, or will be obeyed from no other principle but

fear.

Another fault much too common among teachers, is, that many will enter

into the profession, who are exceedingly deficient in all the

requisite qualifications; and whose sole object is to support

themselves at other people's expense, while preparing for some other

pursuit, to which the business of teaching is made a kind of

convenient stepping-stone. For all the mechanic arts—even the most

simple—a particular training and appropriate education is deemed

essential. But for that most difficult of all arts, next to governing

a nation—I mean the art of preparing youth successfully to fulfil all

their various duties in life—no peculiar adaptation of talent seems

ever to be looked for; no course of study or instruction, specially

suited to this all important profession, is scarcely any where

systematically pursued, or required. We will not trust even a tinker

to mend a hole in a dish or basin, unless we believe that he has been

regularly bred to his business; yet we fear not to trust both the

souls and bodies of our children—both their temporal and eternal

happiness—to persons of whom we often know nothing, but that they

profess to teach a few sciences, a foreign language or two, and

possibly some ornamental art; as if the mere professing to do these

things was necessarily accompanied by the full power and skill to

accomplish that infinitely greater object of all education—the forming

the hearts, minds, and principles of youth, to the love of knowledge

and the practice of virtue! This last all important qualification,

without which every other will be unavailing, is so far from being the

inseparable concomitant of what is usually called “learning,” that it

is rarely ever found in those who have had no practical experience in

teaching: not that practice alone will give it, for it seems to be the

result of a combination of circumstances and qualities not often

uniting in the same person. These are—perfect self-control—great

benevolence—much forbearance—a quickness in distinguishing all the

various shades and diversities of character in children—sound judgment

in selecting the best means of instruction—with unwearied perseverance

in applying them. Many an humble mother, who scarcely understands even

the meaning of the terms grammar, science, and literature, possesses

vastly more of this highly essential art, than thousands of the most

erudite scholars; and are as far superior to them for all the most

valuable purposes of education, as Sir Isaac Newton was to Swift's

ideal clown, whom he represents as ignorantly calling this

incomparable philosopher, “one Isaac Newton, a maker of sun dials.”

Not that I would undervalue learning in teachers; no, very far from

it, for a large portion of it is indispensable. But I mean to assert,

that _there is a peculiar art of teaching_, not necessarily connected

with, nor the result of, what is usually called learning. It is the

art, as I before remarked, of forming the hearts, minds and principles

of children, to the love of knowledge and to the practice of virtue,

which mere learning can never confer. It is an art, in fact, which

must have for its basis strong natural sense and feelings—a heart full

of the milk of human kindness—sound, moral, and religious principles—a

clear, {480} discriminating judgment, a considerable portion of

scholastic learning, and some practical experience. Those alone who

possess and love to exercise this art, are capable of imparting “that

education which bears upon the machinery of the human mind, which is

truly practical—that which breaks up the ‘fallow ground’ of the human

heart—that which brings forth the fruits of intelligence and virtue.”

In other words, (to borrow the language of an admirable article on

popular education, in a late North American Review,) every teacher,

when entering upon the discharge of his duties, should be able most

conscientiously “to say with himself—‘now, _my_ business is to do what

is in my power, to rear up for society intelligent and virtuous men

and women: it is not merely to make good arithmeticians or

grammarians, good readers or writers, good scholars who shall do

themselves and me credit—this, indeed, I have to do; but it is still

farther, to make good members of society, good parents and children,

good friends and associates; to make the community around me wiser and

happier for my living in it: my labor, in fine, must be, to ingraft

upon these youthful minds that love of knowledge and virtue, without

which, they cannot be happy, nor useful, nor fitted for the greatest

duties; and without which, indeed, all their acquisitions will soon

drop like untimely blossoms from the tree of life.’”

We bind lads to hatters, shoemakers, and tailors, to learn their

trades, lest our miserable bodies and limbs should not receive their

due share of decoration—nay, we often make the mere fashion of these

decorations an object of the most anxious concern, of the deepest

imaginable interest; while the artizans who are to adorn our minds

with _their_ appropriate embellishments, are left to pick up their

qualifications as they may; frequently too, they are persons without

any inclination, or talents, or temper, or principles, to fit them for

this all important business; and not unfrequently, with so slender a

stock of the requisite knowledge and learning, as to be much more

suitable subjects for _receiving_, than for imparting instruction.

True it is, that such charlatans and impostors are soon found out; but

they contribute greatly to degrade the profession, and do infinite

mischief in other respects; for they are free to roam every where,

without any testimonials of their fitness, and rarely fail to find

some new field for their fatal empiricism.

Another crying fault among teachers is, that many still make rods and

sticks their chief—if not the sole reliance, for restraining their

pupils from doing what they prohibit, or for compelling them to do

what they command; as if the only sure method of informing the mind,

or curing the deep-rooted diseases of the soul, was by the barbarous

quackery of bruising the head, or scarifying the body. Under the old

_regime_, there were some punishments, (possibly still in use) of

which it is hard to say, whether the cruelty or folly was greatest.

For instance—one was to beat the collected ends of the fingers with an

implement, sometimes made like a butter stick, at other times like a

broad, flat rule. This served the double purpose of inflicting the

first punishment, and for administering a second, which was to smack

the palms of the open hands until they were often black and blue with

bruises. I can speak experimentally of a _third_ punishment, not less

novel, I believe, than ingenious; but whether it was ever practised by

any other than a master of my own, (God rest his soul!) “this deponent

sayeth not.” It was unquestionably a favorite one with him, and well

do I remember it, having occasionally suffered it in my own person.

There was one thing which the scholars thought much in its favor—it

could only be conveniently applied in the season for fires, as it

consisted in igniting the end of a stick, extinguishing the blaze

after a sufficient quantity of charcoal was formed, and then smoking

the boys' noses, who were compelled to stand as still as statues, from

the dread of something still more painful. How it may be with such of

my school fellows and fellow sufferers as are still living, I cannot

tell; but I confess my own nostrils have always taken unusual alarm at

smoke ever since, although it has been more than forty years since

they have received any in this way. What could have been our worthy

tutor's object I never could conjecture, unless it might have been to

give himself lessons in physiognomy, while contemplating the various

contortions into which he could throw the human countenance, by the

application of so simple, so cheap an agent, and thus coming at a

better knowledge of the dispositions and characters of his pupils. I

have it from several unquestionable authorities, that other

punishments, still more cruel, irrational, and unjustifiable, _were

once_, if they are not yet, common in some schools. Among these, I

will here mention one, which a highly estimable gentleman told me,

that he himself saw inflicted on his own brother, many years ago, in a

celebrated eastern school, which was always full to overflowing. The

poor little fellow, for some offence not recollected, was actually

suspended from the floor by his thumbs, and suffered to hang so long,

that several weeks elapsed before he recovered the perfect use of his

hands. This was kept a profound secret from the father, doubtless

through fear of their barbarous tyrant, lest he should inflict some

equally cruel punishment on the informer.

In proof of farther deficiency in the requisite qualifications to

perform, even what teachers themselves often promise—to say nothing of

what the public have a right to expect from all who profess to teach—I

will notice two or three advertisements which I myself saw several

years ago. The schools, by the way, no longer exist. I rely upon these

public annunciations as conclusive evidence of incompetence, because,

with ample time to prepare such notices, if persons who offer to

undertake the business of instruction, do not, even with the

assistance of friends, put forth an advertisement in passable English,

the failure is a clear demonstration, that much more is promised than

the individual is capable of performing. The first advertisement

contained a promise “to teach English Grammar _orthöepically_.” The

second notice informed all whom it might concern, that the gentleman

would “_learn_” (instead of teach) all children all the branches which

he enumerated, comprehending nearly the whole circle of sciences; but,

notwithstanding this palpable proof, that he was ignorant of his own

language, he soon obtained from seventy to eighty pupils. The third

advertisement proclaimed, that all the various branches in which

instruction was given by the subscribers, “were taught upon _reasoning

principles_.” Many more examples might be given of public promises to

teach, which were falsified by the very terms in which they were made,

but these, I hope, will suffice. {481} For this evil of incompetent

teachers there seems to be no corrective but public opinion. This,

however, must be more enlightened—must be better educated, before it

can interpose effectually. Something, perhaps, might be beneficially

done, by a law forbidding any persons from acting as teachers without

certificates of fitness from well qualified judges. This is done in

other countries, and in some parts of our own, as to the professions

both of law and medicine. But in these parts, as with us, it would

seem as if bodily health and property were esteemed of infinitely

higher value, than all the faculties of the mind and endowments of the

soul put together. These last are left defenceless—so far, at least,

as _law_ is concerned: the glorious privileges of ignorance are in all

respects equal to those of knowledge, as regards the right to teach,

or rather _to attempt_ its exercise: and he who proposes to vend

nonsense—nay, mental poison, like the vender of damaged goods and

quack medicines, stands precisely on the same footing with the wisest,

the best man, and the fairest and the most honest dealer in the

nation. Not a solitary obstacle exists to the success of either, but

the difficulty of procuring customers, and this is easily overcome,

simply by the proclamation of “cheap goods! cheap physic! cheap

schooling!” It has been said in vindication of such unrestrained, and

often highly pernicious practices, that “every one has a right to do

as he pleases with his own.” But this is true, only so long as we do

nothing injurious either to ourselves or to others. The first species

of injury is clearly, undeniably prohibited by the laws of God, the

last is forbidden both by God and man. But we violate both divine and

human laws, in offering to undertake so sacred a trust as that of

teaching, if we know ourselves to be incapable of fulfilling it; and

the parent who accepts such offer, incurs still deeper guilt, if he

either knows or strongly suspects the incompetency of those who make

it. Another argument is, that no person, however unfit, should be

prevented from attempting to teach, because, if really incapable, this

will soon be discovered; and, of course, such would-be teacher would

get no employment. But those who use such arguments appear to forget

entirely, that until our whole population be far better educated, than

at present, the merest pretender to science and literature, who ever

made the offer to instruct others, will always have some pupils sent

to him “_upon trial_,” (as I have often heard it said,) especially if

care be taken to call the new establishment “_a cheap school_.” The

inevitable consequence of this _sending upon trial_, is, that the

whole time the experiment lasts, is literally thrown away, if nothing

worse. The poor children, who are the defenceless victims of the

process, sustain the immediate loss; and indirectly, the public at

large is injured to the full amount of the deficiency of that

knowledge which the pupils might have gained under suitable

instructers, and which might avail them, at some future period, to

serve their country in some useful capacity or other. _If knowledge be

power, time is wealth_, and wealth too, of the most precious kind;

since to misapply it ourselves, or wilfully to make others do it,

whose conduct our duty requires us to direct, is to expose to

forfeiture our _own_ chance of happiness in both worlds, and to place

_them_ in similar danger.

Even among very competent teachers, there is frequently a fault of

very pernicious tendency, in which they are encouraged, particularly

by those who patronize them. It is often, probably, committed without

design to deceive; but in this, as in many other matters, innocence of

intention does not prevent the mischief of the act. Dr. South, I

believe, somewhere says, “Hell itself is paved with good intentions.”

The fault to which I allude is, that they, and their friends for them,

often promise _too much_. Thus the teachers make out a very specious

and flourishing epitome of their respective institutions, promising at

one and the same time, both to shorten the period of instruction, and

to augment the stock of knowledge imparted, in some most surprising

manner, by means of various wonder-working contrivances. Upon this,

probably, some partial and over zealous friends are consulted. These,

in order to repay the compliment paid to their judgment, feel bound to

flourish away in their turn; when, behold, the joint product of this

mutual flattery is a marvellous statement running through our public

journals, by way of epilogue to the prospectus of these schools,

representing the conductors of them as all so many Edgeworths,

Pestalozzis, and Fellenburgs; their pupils all docile and talented;

or, if perchance a stray black sheep should get among them, it is

speedily made as white as the best of them, either by the force of

example, or by an admirable system of rules and regulations of such

sovereign potency, as to effect _that_ for a school, in a few weeks or

months, which all the moral and religious teachers who have existed

since the birth of our Saviour, have failed to accomplish for the

christian world in eighteen hundred and thirty-six years. In these

magic seminaries, by the wonder-working inventions of their

conductors, all the crooked paths of education are speedily made

straight—all the rough places smooth, and every old difficulty, which

in times of yore, rendered the business of teaching and learning so

irksome, tedious and puzzling, is made to vanish with a “presto,

begone, thou mischievous imp of exploded and despised antiquity!” All

the movements of these modernized and Utopian institutions, are

represented as going on like clock-work, smooth as oil, and regular as

the planetary system itself. Here, are never to be heard of any

unmanageable children—any dunces—any mules who _can_, but _will not_

learn. Here the fabled Parnassus is realized, with all its charming

prospects of verdant slopes, odoriferous flowers, delicious fruits,

and immortalizing laurels: and here, the splendid portals of the

august temple of science bear upon their ample fronts, the

soul-cheering invitation of, “ask and ye shall have, knock and they

shall be opened unto you;” the mere reading alone of which, is to

obtain for the scholars as ready an admittance to all their

exhaustless treasures, as the repetition of the cabalistic word

“sesame,” used to gain into the robber's cave of the Arabian Nights'

Entertainments. These truly marvellous facilities invented by us

moderns, to expedite the manufacture of profound scholars and

immaculate moralists, as far surpass the clumsy contrivances of our

ancestors, to accomplish the same ends, as that most palatable

expedient for teaching the famous Martinus Scriblerus his alphabet,

exceeded in ingenuity and delectable adaptation to the designed end,

every other scheme devised for a similar purpose. It consisted simply,

in coaxing the little genius to eat his letters cut out of

gingerbread. Oh! the profundities and the altitudes of these {482}

wondrous improvements! when shall we all learn to estimate them as

they deserve? Not that I mean to deny the real advances made in the

arts of teaching, as well as in the general system of education. These

certainly have been very great, and are justly entitled to much

praise. But I believe the facts will warrant me in asserting, that

they fall far short of what they are generally represented to be; and

that, if stripped of all exaggeration, of all false pretension, so as

to be estimated exactly for what they are worth and no more, they will

be found to have gained more in show than use: in other words, that

they are, in no small degree, calculated to make vain, superficial

pretenders to true knowledge, rather than profound scholars and real

proficients in any art or science whatever—unless it be in the art of

puffing, which seems now to have reached its acme of perfection. If

the amount of these improvements were nearly equal to what is claimed

for them, we should scarcely be able to walk along the streets of our

towns and cities, without running our heads against such men as

Pythagoras, Socrates, Aristotle, and Plato. But what is the plain,

stubborn matter of fact? Why, that it is very doubtful, whether the

number of such illustrious men (if such can be found at all,) now

bears an equal proportion to the present population of the world, that

the number did to the population of the period in which the

philosophers just mentioned immortalized their names. There must be

some reason for this, if true, as I confidently believe it to be; and

it must lie much deeper, and have much more force, than the zealous

advocates for the vast superiority of modern over by-gone times in the

arts of teaching, will be willing to allow. May it not be found in the

remarkable fact, that in ancient times, no men occupied a more

elevated rank than _teachers_, while the all important business of

teaching youth was confined to men of the highest order of talent—the

most profound knowledge, and the greatest respectability of character;

whereas, in our days, this indispensable occupation—this profession,

so vitally necessary to human happiness, is permitted to be exercised

by any one who chooses to attempt it? Nay, more, in these times, men

of the highest order of talent and greatest acquirements, very rarely

devote themselves to it. Hence, in public estimation, it has fallen

nearly into the lowest ranks, whereas it once held, and ought again to

occupy at least an equal grade with the highest of all the

professions. None, I presume, will deny that the proportion of human

talent is much the same in all ages. But education being the great

moving power which enables this talent to exert itself efficaciously,

the evidences of this exertion must always increase both in number and

degree, if the modes of culture improve as fast as the subjects

increase, upon whom they are to be exercised. Is this the fact?—_if it

is_, where are the proofs in regard to the present times? Let those

who have them bring them forward. There can be no doubt that a most

delightful and fascinating picture might be given of the present state

of society by any one who would exhibit all the good which is to be

found in it, leaving entirely out of view every thing which is bad.

But this last must even grow worse in education, as in every thing

else, if it be not exposed with an unsparing hand.

Having spoken, as some perhaps may think too harshly, of the fault

committed by teachers who claim for themselves any great and novel

discovery in teaching, let me endeavor equally to expose those who

tempt them to the commission. It is with modes of instruction as with

schools themselves—the newest are generally believed to be the best;

and this seems often to be taken for granted, even by those who ought

to know better. Not that novelty alone should constitute a valid

objection to any thing; but surely it never should be considered of

itself a sufficient recommendation to any scheme or project, the

obvious design and effect of which will be, to subvert something long

established and well approved. Yet in regard to schools, it is often

sufficient to insure abundant patronage to utter strangers who offer

to instruct young persons of either sex, if they will only profess to

teach _old things_ in a _new way_, or something purporting to be

altogether new, and will dignify with the name of “_system_” what they

are pleased to claim as a method of their own, or of some person

equally unknown to the solicited patrons or patronesses. This

fascinating term “_system_” settles all doubts, and the new broom

sweeps all before it. I say not this with the slightest view of

discouraging the establishment of new schools. Nothing, indeed, is

farther from my thoughts—for I wish with all my heart that a good one

could be fixed in every neighborhood throughout the United States. But

the remarks have been made to inculcate the absolute necessity for

avoiding all precipitation in the choice of schools, and for adopting

some better measure of their merits than their own pretensions. It is

true that parents and guardians must run some risk in sending to any

school whatever, not immediately under their own eyes, and well known

to them. But surely such risk need not be near so great as it often

is, if they would always seek something beyond mere novelty in making

their choice. How, and from whom, to seek is the great difficulty; for

the characters of schools and their teachers are among the most

uncertain things in the world—since they depend infinitely more on the

prejudices and partialities of those who undertake to give them, than

on their own real merits. Thus the parents and guardians of children

who are either too stupid or too perverse to learn, will almost always

ascribe their want of information to the teachers, and censure them in

the most unqualified terms. On the other hand, where great progress

has been made by the pupils, their friends and relatives will be

equally profuse in praising their instructers. Strangers who are to

decide, will rarely ever consider, or even inquire what is the

relative situation of the eulogizers and censurers in regard to the

schools and their teachers whose characters are given; although it is

obvious, on the slightest reflection, that we cannot possibly judge

correctly of any opinions affecting the reputation of others, without

knowing thoroughly the motives of the persons who deliver these

opinions, as well as their credibility. There is another important

circumstance affecting the character of schools, which is very rarely

attended to as it should be. The last to which the pupils go, although

it be only for a few months or weeks, bears all the blame, or receives

all the praise, for whatever habits they are found to possess—for

whatever knowledge or ignorance may be discovered in them. It never

appears for a moment to cross the brains of these character-coiners,

that habits, either good or bad, cannot possibly be of such quick

growth; or that much {483} ignorance cannot be removed, nor much

knowledge imparted, within a period utterly insufficient for

communicating even the simplest elements of moral and scientific

instruction.

The last fault which I shall notice among teachers, is, their not

unfrequent practice of endeavoring to make a kind of compromise

between that system of instruction based upon the unchangeable,

eternal principles of the Gospel of Christ, and that which is

preferred by the world at large. Few things, if any, can differ more;

few in fact, are so utterly irreconcileable to each other: yet many

teachers act as if they believed that their amalgamation must be

attempted, cost what it may. The mere worldly portion of society, who

compose a most fearful majority in every country, must be persuaded

that their children will be educated according to their own principles

and views; while the religious part of the community, small as it

seems by comparison, must likewise be regarded as worthy of the

teacher's attention. It is easy to infer what must be the result of

any attempt to form this oil and water amalgam—this hotchpotch of

contrarieties, where the worldly influence preponderates so much. The

morality of the pupils will very rarely, if ever, reach beyond the

external man, as it is not implanted in its only appropriate soil—the

heart. Its cardinal maxim will be—not the admirable christian rule of

“doing as you would be done by,” but—“do as others do; always wear a

specious outside; ever keep well with the world, by conforming to all

its fashionable practices;” while their religion will consist almost

solely, in a mere formal and reluctant attendance at places of public

worship, and in a seeming abstinence from scandalous vices.

It may be alleged as some small excuse perhaps, for this compromising

spirit in teachers, that a very large portion of those who employ them

are really incompetent to decide correctly, either how or what their

children should be taught, although such persons are often most apt to

interfere with the teacher's views; and are most liable to be governed

by their own prejudices and passions rather than by reason and

judgment. If the instructer, in any case, subjects his principles to

their guidance, he degrades himself, he loses his self-respect by

offending against his own conscience; on the other hand, if he obeys

_that_, he risks the loss of their patronage by offending against

their self-conceit, and few there are with moral courage enough to

brave this danger. To what source therefore can we look with any

rational hope of success for that reform in teachers—in schools—and in

the relative merits of the matters taught, which is so demonstrably

essential both to individual and national happiness? The disease is in

a vitiated public opinion; and where are the moral physicians who have

hardihood enough to attempt, and influence sufficient to administer

the necessary remedies?

In my endeavors to expose the faults of parents, I gave one female

example of ignorant interference with teachers. Having again just

spoken of this pernicious practice, let me here cite an instance of a

father, whose power to direct will best appear after the following

statement. I once breakfasted, some thirty years ago, with one of

those utterly incompetent parents, accompanied by two fine-looking

little boys, apparently about eleven and twelve years of age. The

father was more than half drunk, early as it was in the morning, and

told me, with a look of most ineffable self-complacency, that “he had

brought his boys from school to town, to see”—what think you, my

friends? why, “a negro hanged,” adding, “that it had always been _his

opinion_, you could not too soon _give boys a knowledge of the world

by showing them everything that was to be seen_.” Can we wonder that

this world should be what it is, when such animals in the form of men,

direct the education of so large a portion of it? They possess the

legal right of directing, and none can control them. The consequence

is, that thousands of youths who might have proved ornaments and

blessings to their country, are utterly lost to every valuable purpose

in life.

To judge better how far it is possible for teachers to mingle a

worldly with a Christian system of instruction, let us endeavor

briefly to state what we believe to be the only true and justifiable

objects of education. These are—to insure, as far as human means can

accomplish it, that there shall be “sound minds in sound bodies;”

which can only be effected by fully developing the powers of both. If

this be true, and not a rational man in the world, I think, will deny

it, the merit of every plan of instruction must depend on its

competency to achieve this great purpose by the direction which it

gives to natural talent, and by its power to restrain or encourage the

natural dispositions; to inculcate every species of useful knowledge;

and to perfect all those corporeal powers, the exercise of which is

essential to the procurement of health and the means of subsistence.

Unless all these be done, and judiciously too, there cannot possibly

be, _sound minds in sound bodies_. There may be abundance of science,

a great knowledge of languages, a splendid assortment of

accomplishments; but so far as depends upon scholastic instruction,

there will be few or none of those great principles of human conduct

which are to bear us triumphantly through all the perils both moral

and physical of the present life, and lead us to heaven. The

fashionable systems of the present day, can no more accomplish this,

than they can teach children to fly. Religious principle, constantly

demonstrated by religious practice, must, aye _must_ be the first and

last thing taught and required; or all the science and literature of

the schools will be utterly unavailing to human happiness. But how

many schools have we, where this is done? How many are there wherein

not even _a pretence_ is made of either public or private worship—of

either moral or religious instruction? Numerous, deplorably numerous

are the instances in which the poor pupils are all left to seek God or

not, according to their own fancies; and where the miserable pretext

for such criminal neglect is, that the Liberals of the present times,

than whom, by the way, there are no greater bigots upon earth—bigots I

mean in _unbelief_—would probably deem it an improper interference

with the religious creeds of the scholars, if one word were ever

uttered about religion at all. Every thing of the kind they denounce

as sectarian—even Christianity itself; as if there was not just as

much sectarianism in infidelity, as among any sect of Christians to be

found in the world. Nay more, as if the dangers of error in either

party were not most fearfully greater on their side than on the side

of the Christians.

The foregoing faults are not confined to boy schools; but too often

appear in female schools also. In regard to these last, there is one

peculiar fault committed by {484} many teachers which cannot be too

much exposed. If much retirement be essential to successful study,

nothing can well be more preposterous, than frequently to give girls

the choice between the attractions of company and those of their

schoolrooms: for not one in a hundred will then choose the latter. The

great mischief of this indulgence is, that not only their places of

study, but the studies themselves are brought into continual danger of

becoming both irksome and disgusting to them. If it be said that they

must go into company to form their manners, the answer is, that even

manners may be too dearly bought. But admitting their high value, the

teachers should be the exemplars of their pupils in _this_ as in other

matters, or they are not entirely fit for their office. It may also be

added, that manners formed by much company-keeping are not such as

would be most sought after in a wife—the destined head, and greatest

ornament of a domestic circle: for if these manners have become the

subject of much admiration, the possessor is rarely ever known to be

content, unless she can have many other spectators besides her husband

and family to witness their display. Wonderful indeed, would it be, if

women who were trained one half their lives to acquire some

accomplishment for the sake of having it admired, should be perfectly

satisfied to spend the other half with only a husband, and now and

then a relation or two to act the part of admirers. I will not deny

that what are called “elegant manners,” can rarely be acquired without

mixing much with good society. It is also admitted that there is

nothing in their acquirement at all incompatible with the attainment

of all other good qualities or acquisitions; and that many of the most

agreeable and estimable women are to be found among those who have

seen most of the world. But are these most likely to be happy in the

retirement of that domestic life, which is the destiny of ninety nine

women in a hundred? _If they are not_, then far too much has been

sacrificed for “elegant manners.” _If they are_, should we not see

many more of them to unsettle our faith in the truth of the general

rule, that all who are destined to spend the longest portion of their

existence in private life, should necessarily be so educated, as to

acquire a decided preference for it, or we do them a great and

irreparable injury by giving them a different taste? That such

education is altogether incompatible with that which requires much

going into company, as one of its essential parts, seems to me as

clear as the light of a meridian sun in a cloudless day. It is

scarcely in human nature for young ladies who have reigned as the

belles of society, as idols in public, to become exemplary, happy

matrons in private life. The two characters are so entirely unlike,

their tastes, their highest gratifications so entirely dissimilar,

that the same persons can rarely, if ever, fill both characters. _When

they do they are moral wonders._ The natural modesty of the sex, which

always inclines them to shun rather than to seek general admiration;

and consequently to prefer home, with all its tranquil pleasures, and

rational enjoyments, to the bustle, the notoriety and highly exciting

gratifications of the world, will not be altogether subdued in every

case, by what is called a fashionable education; but assuredly, there

is nothing in any part of the whole process calculated to give this

greatest charm of the female character its proper culture and highest

embellishment. This embellishment is _piety_ towards God, and active

benevolence towards the whole human race. Let me not be

misunderstood—let me never be deemed so illiberal, so inexperienced,

as to believe that no ladies fashionably educated, can be pious or

benevolent, or happy in private life; _no, far from it;_ but I do

assert that the whole tendency of fashionable education is to prevent

their being either. It is, in truth, as little suited to the things of

time, as to those of eternity. A very brief argument, I think, will

prove this assertion to be true.

If the general principle of adapting the early education of our

children to the profession we expect them to follow—to the situations

and circumstances in which we think it likely they will be placed—be

correct in every case, where _boys_ are concerned; why, in the name of

common sense, should it be incorrect in regard to _girls_? Are _they

alone_ to be trained for _one thing_, while they are probably destined

for _another_? Is it not the height of cruelty, as well as injustice,

to give them tastes and expectations which can be gratified only for a

few months, perhaps for a year or two, after which they will almost

certainly have to spend the remainder of their lives, however long, in

nearly utter destitution of the opportunities, if not the means also,

to use and to realize these parental gifts? Desperate surely is the

folly, or far above all reason is the wisdom of such a plan; if indeed

the only legitimate plan of all education be—permanently to promote

the real happiness of the individuals educated.

Few, I believe, if any, will deny, that the common fault just pointed

out—of so illy adapting the education of girls to the situations in

which they will probably be placed, deserves all the reprehension

which can be bestowed upon it. But those who are most apt to commit

it, are often guilty of another, if possible still worse. For the same

falsely calculating spirit which neglects to provide for the domestic

happiness of the child, so far as that can be secured by the culture

of tastes, sentiments, and habits suitable for domestic life, will

often exert parental influence and authority, after what _they_ call

education is finished, to wed the poor victims of their mismanagement

to some husband who is deemed a good match, (to use a slang phrase

among matrimonial negotiators,) solely on account of his wealth. After

making it almost absolutely necessary to the happiness of the helpless

daughter that she should marry a man of polished manners, refined

taste and liberal education, she is forcibly united to one entirely

destitute of all these accomplishments—to one who will snore an

accompaniment to her sweetest music—will gaze, if he looks at all,

“with lack-lustre eye,” on her finest paintings; and flee from her

elegant dancing to the gambling house and the bottle: to one in fine

whose capability of participating with her in the pleasures of

reading, or of literary conversation, will probably be but a few

grades above that of the most illiterate clown. Such, alas! is too

often the reward of a fashionable education; especially in cases where

in procuring it, the fortunes of the poor girls have all been expended

with confident anticipations that ample compensation would be found in

the wealth of their future husbands. It not unfrequently happens that

one of the effects of this worldly training is, to make the girls full

as great calculators as their parents in regard to matrimonial

connexions. When this occurs, they well deserve all the {485} misery

that so often follows a marriage contracted from such mercenary and

truly despicable motives; although the parents themselves if they had

their due, would undergo tenfold suffering for having been the

original cause of the calamity, in first placing their daughters where

such principles were to be imbibed; and afterwards co-operating with

might and main to encourage their very complying teachers in

accomplishing so glorious a work.

My purpose in commencing this lecture, was to confine it solely to the

“faults of teachers;” but I have been led insensibly to blend with

them certain parental faults. Although this is a departure from the

order which I had prescribed to myself, I hope it may serve to

strengthen all my objections to the faults of both parties; since the

influence and authority of parents superadded to the exertions of

teachers in a wrong course, must be incalculably more dangerous and

fatal. It has been forcibly remarked in regard to some of the

practical evils of a certain government, that, “if men _suffer_, what

matters it, whether it be by the act of a licensed or an unlicensed

robber—a Janizary or a Jonathan Wild.” And well may it be asked in

relation to the practical defects of our systems of education, what

matters it whether they are legalized as in corporate schools, or

submitted to as in private ones, or whether parents or teachers are

most to blame for them, so long as they are quietly suffered to work

all the mischief which they so constantly produce? However innocent

either, or both parties may be of intentional harm to the sufferers

from these defects, their influence on human happiness is not

therefore the less baneful. Innocence of intention, which I doubt not

may generally be pleaded in this case, is no excuse, but a great

aggravation of the evil, since there can be no hope of any remedy

until the perpetrators of the mischief can be convinced of its real

character, its full extent, and that they alone are its authors—that

they only have both the power and the right to apply the proper

corrective. If _they_ would take the matter in hand; if _they_ would

co-operate earnestly and perseveringly in a right course, only for a

few years, the moral condition of our society would soon be as

different from what it now is, as our fondest hopes could possibly

anticipate. The vast improvement which such co-operation might effect,

the incalculable private and public blessings it would certainly

produce, cannot, I believe, be better illustrated on my part, than by

giving you in conclusion, the last two paragraphs of the excellent

article on popular education already quoted from the North American

Review for January. In speaking of the absolute necessity of

inculcating moral and religious principles as the groundwork of all

really useful education, the author remarks:

“There are few departments of scholastic instruction, whether higher

or lower, that may not be found to yield constant suggestions for

virtuous and religious excitement. The teacher who should skilfully

avail himself of such opportunities, would produce effects upon

society the most extensive and lasting, and the most delightful. Sir

James Mackintosh says of Dugald Stewart, and we can scarcely conceive

of a higher eulogium, that ‘few men ever lived perhaps who poured into

the breasts of youth a more fervid and yet reasonable love of liberty,

of truth and of virtue. How many (he adds) are still alive, in

different countries, and in every rank to which education reaches,

who, if they accurately examined their own minds and lives, would not

ascribe much of whatever goodness and happiness they possess to the

early impressions of his gentle and persuasive eloquence.’ Few men

indeed possess the powers or opportunities of the Edinburgh Professor.

But, to every instructer of youth, a sphere is opened for the exertion

of the noblest talents and virtues. It is a most mischievous and

absurd idea, but one that has prevailed, if it do not still prevail,

that such a man is not required to possess great talents—that he may

be a dull and plodding man—that he may be dull in his moral

sensibility—that he need not be a religious man—and yet may very well

discharge the duties of his station. But if heaven has given to any

man talent and enthusiasm, or virtue, or piety, let him know that it

is all wanted _here_, and that he can scarcely choose a nobler field

for its action. Let a man enter this field, therefore, not to go

through the dull round of prescribed duty; let him throw himself into

this sphere of action with his whole mind and heart—with every wakeful

energy of thought and kindling fervor of feeling; to think and to act,

to devise and to do, all that his powers permit, for the minds that

are committed to him; to develope and exhaust his whole soul in this

work; to labor _for_ and _with_ his pupils—to win their affection—to

quicken in them the love of knowledge, to inspire with every noble

impulse the breast of ingenuous youth; to raise up sound scholars for

literature, and devoted pastors for the church, and patriotic citizens

for the country, and glorious men for the world: let him do _this_,

and none shall leave brighter signatures upon the record of honored

and well spent lives. Let him do _this_, and whether he sit in the

chair of a university or in the humblest village school—whether as a

Stewart or a Cousin, or as an Oberlin or Pestalozzi, he may fill the

land with grateful witnesses of his worth, and cause a generation

unborn to rise up and call him blessed.

“To the friends of education, as well as to the actual laborers in its

cause, let us say in fine, _press onward_. The spread of knowledge has

given birth to civil liberty; the increase and improvement of

knowledge must give it stability and security. The fortunes of the

civilized world are now embarked in this cause. The great deeps are

breaking up, and the ark that is to ride out the coming storm must

have skill engaged in its construction, and wisdom to preside at its

helm. The warfare of opinion is already begun; and for its safe

direction, knowledge _must_ take the leading staff. In _this_ war, not

the mighty captain but the schoolmaster, is to marshal the hosts to

battle. It is _he_ that is to train the minds which are to engage in

this contest. It is _he_ that is to train up orators and legislators,

statesmen and rulers; and _he_ too is to form the body politic of the

world. Would the free spirits of the world look to the defence and

hope of their cause? It is no dubious question where they must look.

Their outposts are _free schools_; their citadels are _universities_;

their munitions are _books_; and the mighty engine that is to hurl

destruction upon the legions of darkness, is the _free press_. Other

ages have struggled with other weapons; but the panoply of _this_ age

_must be knowledge_; the gleaming of _its_ armour must be the light

that flashes from the eye of free, high minded public opinion. Call

{486} this complimenting, call it complaisance to the base multitude,

call it visionary speculation, call it what you will—but the doctrine

is true: and, over the liberties of the world, whether prostrate or

triumphant, _that truth_ must arise brighter and brighter for ever.”

NATIONAL INGRATITUDE.

BY MATHEW CAREY.

Every American, actuated by a due regard for the honor of his country,

must feel deep regret at one feature in the proceedings of our

government, which is equally impolitic and discreditable. I mean the

neglect, or, what is near akin to neglect, the very long delay of an

acknowledgment of those brilliant services, which not only add lustre

to the national character, but often produce the most solid,

substantial advantages. In this respect, I am afraid, we are more

delinquent than any other nation in Christendom—so far, at least, as

regards delay. This conduct is, I say, discreditable, as it manifests

a deficiency of gratitude, one of the noblest of national virtues.

It is, moreover, impolitic, and may often produce most pernicious and

disastrous results in moments of difficulty and danger. There is a

vast difference between the efforts of two men, in such crisis, one of

whom may rationally anticipate having his merits duly appreciated, and

to a certain extent remunerated, if he perform any very gallant or

brilliant exploit—the other almost equally certain, that do what he

may, he will probably be overlooked altogether, or, if his exploit be

commemorated, it will be after a tedious delay of ten, fifteen or

twenty years. In such great emergencies, as I referred to above, the

former is stimulated to volunteer his services as one of a forlorn

hope, where the chances are twenty to one against his escape—the

other, if detailed for the service, will doubtless perform his duty,

but will have had little temptation to offer himself as a volunteer.

Doubtless such considerations have great influence on the conduct of

British military and naval officers. Whenever they perform any very

signal or glorious exploit, they are morally certain of due and prompt

attention being paid them. With us, if an officer victoriously defends

a fort against an overwhelming superior force, as Colonel Croghan

did—if he intrepidly destroy an important vessel of war, belonging to

an enemy, and by that glorious act spread the fame of his country in

remote nations, as Decatur, and his brave companions did—if he defeat

a numerous army, as Scott and Brown have done—if he preserve a vessel

of war by a rare union of ardor, tact, and energy, as Hull did when

pursued by a fleet—if he capture or destroy an entire fleet, as Perry

and M’Donough have done—what is his reward? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps

after a lapse of ten, a dozen, or twenty “lingering, lagging years” of

suspense, he is, at a time when the exploit by which it was earned is

almost forgotten, rewarded with a gold-hilted sword!

By-the-bye, swords are, except for officers in actual service, a very

injudicious mode of testifying national gratitude. To such officers

they may be very appropriate, as they may carry them on their persons,

and their appearance will recall the recollection of the action for

which they were awarded.[1] But a service of plate, which might not

cost as much as a gold-hilted sword, lying on a sideboard, or used by

the party in his entertainments, would more effectually tend to

gratify that laudable pride and ambition, which, say what we may, have

a powerful tendency to produce almost every thing estimable in human

conduct.

[Footnote 1: Lieutenant Webster, in a letter received from him some

years since, corroborated this idea: “I keep the sword generally in my

closet, unless a friend should request to see it.”]

Of the striking cases in our history, which have called forth, and

which justify these strictures, I shall present those of General

Starke, Commodore Decatur, and Lieutenant Webster.

_General Starke_.

That the acknowledgment of the Independence of the United States by,

and the treaty of alliance with, France, accelerated the

acknowledgment on the part of Great Britain, is a point admitted on

all hands. Those arrangements with France probably saved the country

the horrors of two or three years additional warfare—and this at a

time when its resources were nearly exhausted, and a fearful gloom had

for a long time pervaded the horizon.

It is equally true, that the battle of Saratoga and the capture of a

powerful, well-disciplined army, commanded by an enterprising general,

decided the hitherto wavering councils of Louis XVI. to admit the

United States into the fellowship of nations.

Should there be any doubts on the subject, they will be removed by an

attention to the chronology of that period.

Dr. Franklin arrived in Paris, in December, 1776, and used his utmost

endeavors to obtain an acknowledgment of American Independence from

month to month, in vain. He was fed with those vague promises, of

which courtiers can be so lavish, but which, however specious, mean

little or nothing. At length was fought the important battle of

Saratoga, on the 17th of October, 1777. The news probably reached the

Court of Versailles early in December. The treaties of alliance and

acknowledgment of independence were signed on the 7th of February,

1778, after a lapse of only eight or nine weeks from the arrival of

that intelligence. This time was probably employed in concocting the

terms and was by no means too much for such a mighty business.[2]

Could the Jew Apella, for a moment, doubt the cause that led that

court to the recognition of American Independence?

[Footnote 2: “In the midst of this supposed gloomy state of affairs in

America, the news of the surrender of the British army commanded by

General Burgoyne, to that of the Americans under General Gates, at

Saratoga, on the 17th October, 1777, arrived in France; and at the

very moment when the French cabinet was as yet undecided in regard to

the steps to be adopted relative to the United States. This memorable

event immediately turned the scale, and fixed the French nation in

their attachment to the infant republic.”—_Memoirs of Franklin_, p.

382.]

This preface appeared necessary to shed a proper blaze of light on the

glorious battle of Bennington, the turning point of the war to the

northward, which directly led to the triumph at Saratoga, and to the

capture of the bombastic British commander. National gratitude could,

at its utmost stretch, scarcely overpay an achievement pregnant with

such all-important consequences.

{487} General Carleton, who commanded the British forces in Canada,

being regarded as not sufficiently energetic, was superseded by

General Burgoyne, who stood in high estimation for energy, military

skill and bravery. How far he answered expectation remains to be seen.

He started from Canada early in December, 1776, and met with little

resistance in his destructive and marauding career some hundred miles,

till he arrived at Saratoga.

He issued his braggart proclamation on the 6th of December, in which

he denounced extermination, through the instrumentality of the hordes

of Indians, whom he had in his pay, against all who dared oppose his

Majesty's arms. The prospect to the north was then to the last degree

gloomy—defeat and disaster had marked the progress of the Americans.

Those were “times that really tried men's souls.” Despondency had

spread extensively. General Schuyler, who commanded the northern army,

gives an appalling description of the state of things. “The torpor,

criminal indifference, and want of spirit which so generally prevail,

are more dangerous than all the efforts of the enemy.” On the 4th of

July he resumes the subject—“We have not above four thousand

continental troops; if men, one-third of whom are negroes, boys, and

men too aged for the field, and indeed for any other service, can be

called troops. The States, whence these troops came, can determine why

such boys, negroes, and aged men were sent. A great part of the army

took the field in a manner naked, without blankets, ill armed, and

very deficient in accoutrements.”

Such was the deplorable state of affairs to the north, a few weeks

previous to the time when Starke made his appearance on the arena.

General Burgoyne, being considerably straitened for provisions of

every kind, and having learned, by his spies, that there was a large

supply of flour, corn, and cattle, collected at Bennington, guarded

only by militia, of whom he entertained great contempt, despatched a

body of five hundred Germans with one hundred Indians, under the

command of Colonel Baum, to seize them. The Germans, being heavily

armed, and the roads greatly obstructed, were several days in marching

between thirty and forty miles.

General Starke, who had for some time previously employed all his

influence and energies in collecting as many militia as possible,

commenced an attack on Baum's troops, immediately on their arrival;

but, after a short struggle, had to retire to some little distance;

meanwhile, Baum, finding his situation perilous, fortified himself

within a double breast-work, and sent for assistance to Burgoyne. On

the other hand, Starke, having received a reinforcement on the 16th of

August, renewed his attack on Baum; and, notwithstanding the strength

of his defences, and the bravery of his troops, carried the

fortifications, and made prisoners of all that were not killed. This

battle was just ended when a reinforcement of five hundred Germans,

under Breyman, made its appearance. The Americans, though extremely

fatigued by the assault, and a battle of two hours, attacked the new

enemies with such determined bravery, that their efforts were crowned

with a most complete victory, after a hard fought battle of several

hours. The results of the two battles were, the capture of about seven

hundred prisoners, one thousand stand of arms, four brass

field-pieces, twelve brass drums, two hundred and fifty dragoon

swords, four ammunition wagons, eight loads of baggage, and twenty

horses. Among the prisoners was Colonel Baum, who shortly afterwards

died of his wounds. There were killed in the two battles about three

hundred men, of whom, it is supposed, one third were Americans.

As a reward for this glorious triumph of patriotism and heroic

bravery, Congress _liberally passed a resolution of thanks to General

Starke and his brave soldiers! and promoted him to the rank of

brigadier-general!_ WERE NOT THESE THANKS AND PROMOTION ABUNDANT

REWARD?

Whether this veteran received a pension or not, cannot now be

ascertained. But be that as it may, he was, in his old age, I believe

about ninety, reduced to penury. On the 18th of March, 1818, forty

years after his exploits, he petitioned Congress for a pension

(perhaps an additional one.) The petition was referred, in the House

of Representatives, to a committee, who reported a bill on the 19th,

which, conformably with the usual procrastinating routine of Congress

proceedings,[3] lay over untouched for five weeks, till the 18th of

April, when it was passed and sent to the Senate, who referred it to

the committee on pensions, who reported it that day, without

amendments. It was read in committee of the whole, on Monday the 20th,

and agreed to _with amendments_. It being against the rules of the

Senate to pass a bill the same day on which it has undergone

amendments, Mr. Fromentin moved to suspend the rule. But, regardless

of the services, the claims, and the sufferings of the hero, the

motion, alas! was rejected—Congress adjourned next day—and, of course,

the bill was lost. Next session it passed. Starke received one year's

pension, but died before another came around—covered with glory, but

steeped in penury!!

[Footnote 3: To this general censure, there was one remarkable

exception. The bill, to render members of Congress salary officers, at

the rate of fifteen hundred dollars per annum, was hurried forward

with an engine of high pressure. It was read the first and second

time, March 6th, 1815—the third time, and passed the 9th. Received and

read first time in Senate, the 11th, second time 12th, third time, and

passed, the 14th. Laid before the President, and passed, the 18th.

Thus, this bill, so extremely obnoxious, was hurried through, from its

initiation till its final ratification in twelve days.]

_The Capture and Destruction of the Philadelphia frigate_.

History furnishes few instances of heroic daring—ardent

zeal—unconquerable energy—and nice tact and skill, equal to the

capture and destruction of the frigate Philadelphia, in the harbor of

Tripoli—and, all the circumstances of the case duly considered, it may

be doubted whether any thing superior to it can be found on record.

Never was there a much more hazardous enterprize—never was there a

greater disparity between the means of attack and the means of

defence. Indeed, it must be confessed, that all the dictates of

prudence were opposed to the undertaking. But I will not enfeeble the

interest of the reader, by attempting to describe the affair, when it

is so transcendently better done in the glowing and eloquent speech of

the Hon. Mr. Robbins, one of the senators from the State of Rhode

Island.

“The Philadelphia was captured from the barbarians when she was, and

after she had long been, in their secure possession, in their own

harbour, and under the guns of their own fort, and where she was kept

fully {488} manned and armed, as their pride, as well as defence, and

where she was a monument at once for barbarian triumph, and for

American humiliation. _This protecting fort was armed with more than a

hundred guns, and backed, it was said, by an army in camp of twenty

thousand men._ The banks of the harbor were _lined with land-batteries

throughout, and armed also with more than a hundred guns_, and its

waters were guarded by a thousand seamen. Still this little gallant

band, the recaptors, in the dead of night, with Decatur at their head,

made their way to this frigate, boarded her, cut down every barbarian

on board, or drove him over her sides into the water; then, in

obedience to orders to set fire to her in different parts, they burnt

her down to the water's edge, and made their retreat in safety; and

_all this in the face and fire of the artillery of that fort and of

those land-batteries_.

“Let it be recollected that this daring enterprise was out of the

routine of the regular naval service; it was, indeed, permitted, but

not directed by the commanding officer on that station; it was wholly

a volunteer enterprise. It was originally suggested by the gallant and

ever-to-be-lamented Decatur, then a lieutenant, and but a youth, as it

were. He saw that the thing was practicable to spirits daring like his

own, and that the achievement, though full of danger, would be full of

honor. He saw the brilliant page it would make in history; but he did

not foresee that it would be but the title-page to that volume of

brilliant exploits, which subsequently were to illustrate our naval

annals, of which this was to be the precursor and animating model. He

soon collected his volunteer band of congenial spirits, all young,

like himself, and, like him, burning with a thirst for distinction.

Confiding in themselves, they went to the enterprise, confident of

success, and did realize what to colder minds would seem but the dream

of romance. It is pleasing to note the number of our naval heroes, who

afterwards so much distinguished themselves in our naval battles, who

gave their juvenile and first proofs of heroism in this heroic

enterprise.”

Thirty-two years have elapsed since this achievement took place, and

the halls or Congress have, probably, witnessed twenty or thirty

frivolous debates on this simple question, whether a great, a

powerful, a wealthy nation, lying under heavy obligations to some of

its heroic citizens, should honorably discharge the debt, or, through

an unworthy species of chicane, delay or evade the payment—debates,

which, in addition to the dishonor they inflicted on the nation,

probably cost full as much as would have satisfied the claimants, and

rescued them from the distress and embarrassments caused by the delay

of justice. A delay of justice is often equivalent to a denial of it,

and, for aught we know, it may be somewhat the case in the present

instance. The justice of the claim has, I apprehend, never been

disputed. The difficulty, so far as I understand the subject, is on

the apportionment of the sum acknowledged to be due, among the

different claimants. But what character would an individual deserve,

who owed a sum of money to a number of persons, and delayed, or

refused to pay any of them, under pretence that he could not precisely

fix their respective quotas? Would he not be set down, and with

justice, as a sharper. And are the rules of morality less obligatory

on nations than on individuals?

If a proper disposition to do justice prevailed with Congress, the

difficulty might have been easily obviated, by passing an act awarding

the whole sum to the mass of the captors, subject to an apportionment

by an arbitration, or by a jury.

If the widow of the illustrious Decatur, and her fellow-claimants,

whoever they may be, are not common paupers, supported by eleemosynary

aid—are not tenants of hospitals, or alms-houses—their escape from

this frightful result, attaches no merit to those majorities whose

cold-blooded and heartless votes are recorded against the act of

paramount justice involved in this question.

_Lieutenant Webster and Lieutenant Newcomb_.

It cannot for a moment be doubted that the gallant attack on the

British, in their attempt on Baltimore, by a six gun battery, called

Fort Patapsco, and by another small battery called Fort Covington, the

former commanded by Lieutenant Webster, and the latter by Lieutenant

Newcomb, were the chief means of saving the city from capture. The

British contemplated a simultaneous attack by land and water; and,

while the troops were landing at North Point, a flotilla, consisting

of sixteen ships including five bomb vessels, proceeded up the

Patapsco. At one o'clock, A. M. on the 14th of September, 1814, twelve

hundred picked men were detached with scaling ladders, to land on the

south side of the city. They had eluded Fort M’Henry by a somewhat

circuitous route. As they approached the shore, the two small forts,

of whose existence, it is believed, they were ignorant, opened a most

destructive fire upon them, which sunk some of their barges, and

killed many of their men. These unexpected disasters wholly deranged

all their plans, and made them retreat in a state of discomfiture. In

their retreat they came within gunshot of Fort M’Henry, which raked

them with great havoc.

Had they passed the two small forts, and debarked their men at the

contemplated point, nothing could have saved Baltimore from falling a

prey to those who had so recently taken Washington; and sharing in the

ignominious fate of that city, as, even without this co-operation, the

former, Baltimore, was in most imminent danger.

For this invaluable service, which would be cheaply purchased by

millions of dollars, the two Lieutenants received the thanks of the

City of Baltimore, and each a gold-hilted sword, which cost between

three and four hundred dollars. To Lieutenant Webster, whose

circumstances were humble, a donation of an equal sum in _l'argent

comptant_ would have been infinitely more useful. Sometime afterwards

he opened a grocery store, nearly opposite the Indian Queen, in Market

street, the principal thoroughfare in Baltimore, a city which was so

largely indebted to him, and whose inhabitants ought to have vied with

each other in their encouragement of him. But, alas! so slender was

their support, that he was unable to maintain himself by his business,

and finally failed. What has become of him since, I have no means of

ascertaining with precision, but have some reason to believe that he

is now in the service of the United States.

“Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend!”

{489}

DIARY OF AN INVALID.

NO. II.

THE PORTRAIT.

My life, during the last three years, has been as variable as the

seasons. My own habits and manner of existence often remind me of

those gregarious birds, whose mysterious and far off voices we hear,

singing the requiem of dying pleasure, as they journey from one

climate to another. As soon as I have made an agreeable settlement in

one place, and begin to enjoy the sympathies of society, (for believe

me, gentle reader, my heart was not cast in the misanthrope's mould,)

either a blast from the north, or a fiery dart from the south, warns

me that I am out of my proper latitude. On consulting with my

physician on the fittest location for my approaching winter quarters,

he suggested Charleston, in South Carolina, as offering the twofold

advantage of a regular and mild temperature of climate, and all the

pleasures arising from intercourse with the most polished and

interesting society in the United States. Knowing something of the

querulous, desponding disposition attendant on protracted disease, he

encouraged me to the removal, by remarking that he had himself spent a

winter in that city, under circumstances much more depressing; and he

could truly say, he retained none but the most delightful

reminiscences of the place or its inhabitants. He had formed many

valuable and enduring friendships among its citizens, and on some of

them he should confer a favor, by recommending his friend to their

hospitable courtesies. He furnished me with several letters of

introduction; among them was one to Col. H. B. Ashton; in handing me

which, he paused, exclaiming with enthusiastic emotion, “Oh! that I

could take the place of this letter—that I could grasp again that

hand, the pledge of as true a heart as ever beat in a human breast.”

He continued—“His address you will readily ascertain, as he is a man

of some distinction there. You have only to forward _this_, and I will

warrant that you never repent the trouble of presenting it.”

On the first day of November, I took passage in a commodious packet,

bound from New York to Charleston. The day of embarkation was fine,

and my feelings of regret, on leaving my native city, gave place to an

exhilarating superiority, as, in clearing her port, I saw her proud

ramparts spurn the encroaching billow, while the flag of every nation

swept by me, seeking her free and rich commerce.

We had a fair and pleasant voyage to Charleston, which (except in

contrast with my own _imperial city_,) I should pronounce both an

interesting and handsome looking town from its harbor. On landing, I

had more than enough very civil offers to take me to the best hotel,

in the best coach, on the very best terms. This matter was soon

settled, and away I was whirled into the heart of the town, and set

down before a spacious and ancient looking building, not exhibiting

all the Corinthian ornament of our northern style of architecture, but

sumptuous in its accommodations. There was an ease and an elegance in

all its “appointments,” very gratifying to the flesh, as I can say

from experience. Either I was in the humor to be pleased with every

thing, or every thing was in the humor to please me. The very

attendants, to the lowest menial, evinced the most perfect delight in

waiting my pleasure, or doing my bidding; unlike our northern gentry,

who by their impertinent _empressement_, show that they are working

“for a _consideration_.”

The first morning after my arrival opened with smiles so bland, that I

was tempted to walk to the post office and deposit my letters of

introduction; for I soon learnt that the etiquette here is not to

force yourself upon the acquaintance of any one. The following day

brought a number of calls in answer to my letters. The gentlemen were

all courteous and prepossessing, but none came up exactly to my idea

of Ashton. It was late in the evening, and I was getting a little

miffed, that my claims on his attention had not been acknowledged with

the promptitude my importance demanded, when a quick rap at the door

announced a visiter. Before I had time to smooth down my ruffled

temper into any thing like complacency, in walked a tall and elegant

gentleman, who, addressing me, said, “May H. Ashton claim the

privilege of a friend, in greeting Mr. M—— with a heartfelt shake of

the hand?” He went on to say, that an unexpected call into the country

had prevented his receiving intelligence of my arrival until late in

the evening, which, he remarked, must account for his apparent

neglect. But as soon as I saw the man, every unworthy thought was

gone. He could not be mistaken. Nature had set her stamp upon him, as

one of her _premium_ productions, when she makes the moral attributes

correspond and harmonize in beautiful proportions with noble external

lineaments. He had passed the zenith of life, being then perhaps sixty

years old, yet time had not extinguished the fires of youth; tempered

and mellowed in the school of experience, they beamed still in the

smile of benevolence, and were practically illustrated in every

virtue. I could dwell on the charming traits of his character

forever—but lest I should tire my reader, I will hasten on to the

incident which gave rise to the following interesting narrative.

It was soon settled, that I should spend as much of my leisure time as

I found agreeable, at the house of my new friend. He gave me a sort of

running history of what I might expect to encounter, of noise and

confusion, in a castle populous with brats of all ages and sizes; but,

concluded he, “good humor, like charity, hides all their failings, in

my eyes, at least.” With these prepossessions, you will not be

surprised to learn, that I found his family not only pleasant, but

interesting. Mrs. Ashton was a lady, whose polished and dignified

manners showed that she had moved in the select circle of society,

which she still adorned by the charms of her conversation and the

sweetness of her disposition. Her two eldest sons were settled in

life, and the youngest daughter at a boarding school; but the six

little rioters of grand-children were sufficiently _uproarious_, to

show that the tranquillity of the house must not depend on silence.

I had, on my first entrance into the saloon, remarked a PORTRAIT,

which, with many others, adorned the room, but which, though it hung

in a much less conspicuous light, had, from the first moment I beheld

it, irresistibly attracted my attention. Its subject was a young lady,

apparently not more than sixteen years old. Whenever the conversation

flagged, or my thoughts {490} were free, my eyes insensibly turned to

the charmed spot, and there they would rest, while with a strange

delight, my mind would busy itself in trying to define, and to gift

with “a local habitation and a name,” the deep, overpowering

sympathies its beauty awakened in the mind of the beholder. I can

speak of the effect on my feelings, but words would be inadequate to

express its surpassing loveliness. In beholding it, I could only

exclaim, in the celebrated words of Burke, “There surely never lighted

on this globe a more delightful vision.” To describe the features

separately, would give you no idea of the bewitching harmony of the

whole expression. “Her eyes dark charm 'twere vain to tell.” Their

light seemed as emanated from the celestial world, and while you were

gazing on it, your soul appeared to catch something of the beatific

vision. And yet this heavenly being seemed not sublimated beyond the

affections of earth—No, the rainbow of hope and love looked as it were

spanning a dark cloud, which might blot it out forever. This

fascination continued from day to day, and yet no remark or inquiry

was made as to the original of the portrait. I felt as if there were

something mysterious or sacred about it, and that it would be

intruding into the sanctuary of private feelings, to show any

curiosity on the subject. None of the family ever alluded to it,

though they must have observed the deep interest with which I regarded

it.

One evening, after all the little nurslings were hushed, we sat as

usual, telling over, with the garrulity of age, the events of “by-gone

days.” Ashton's talent for animated narrative was of the first order,

and the hours flew on the wings of delight, when I could get him to

dilate on the revolutionary struggles at the south. Of those times his

mind retained the faint recollections of childhood, but his memory was

stored with volumes of their kindling and heart-stirring facts, which

seemed to possess double interest, when told by the patriot and the

sage. His early fancies had been fed with this “ancient lore” from the

fountain of a mother's love and a mother's instructions. Listening to

her stories of the self-denial, hardships and dangers, our ancestors

encountered in the path to freedom, his soul had become transformed

into their image; and now, the spirits of Laurens, and Rutledge, and

Sumpter, seemed to stalk before me, while he rehearsed their deeds.

I inquired if any members of his own immediate family were engaged in

the war? “None,” he replied, “but its evils were felt in almost every

family, and its consequences, like those of other civil wars, were

often destructive to domestic peace and happiness. Such was the case

in our own house. I have remarked the fixed attention with which you

have gazed on a female portrait in my saloon. It is not often I lift

the veil which conceals the story of one whose fate was so intimately

linked with the tenderest feelings of my own heart; but I see that

your sympathies are already interested, and if you desire it, I will

give you a brief sketch of the original of the portrait, referring,

where my recollections fail, to my mother's memoranda.” I expressed my

high gratification at his offer, and he proceeded to relate the

following particulars.

“Morna Ridgely was the only child of Colonel Charles Ridgely, an

officer in the forty-second regiment of British light infantry. He was

the younger son of a noble family in Northumberland; and, as usual in

such cases, the laws of entail excluded him from the advantages of

patrimony, leaving him to choose between the church and the army. He

possessed a gallant, noble, and sincere disposition, and scorned the

idea of making ‘merchandise of the gospel;’ but to fight his country's

battles, to bring glory to Old England, was quite congenial to his

feelings. His choice was made, and he was to go into the army as soon

as a vacancy occurred in the regiment. Meantime, he was pursuing his

studies at the University of Edinburgh, where many of the younger

branches of English nobility are sent.

“It was here that he formed an attachment to a lovely young Scottish

maiden, by the name of Morna Donald. Her father had been the leader of

a clan, which had often made incursions on the border, and, of course,

his name was in ‘ill odor’ with the English gentry of the neighboring

lands. But the gentle Morna bloomed in unstained purity and innocence,

the brightest flower on Scottish heath—and she gave the ‘jewel of her

heart’ to the gallant and open hearted Ridgely, not dreaming how soon

it would be withered by the cold blight of scorn and unkindness.

“All his family, except my mother, spurned poor Morna as the daughter

of a savage rebel, and declared they felt it a disgrace to receive her

into their houses. Ridgely's feelings were wounded in the keenest

manner by this treatment, and he would have sunk under the

mortification, but for the soothing affection of my mother, between

whom and himself there existed the warmest and most confidential

intimacy. She proffered her heart and her house to receive the forlorn

Morna, who found her bosom the ark of safety and repose, amidst the

storms by which she was buffetted. About this time his commission was

obtained, but the regiment not being called into service, the young

couple, at my mother's solicitation, remained with her during the

first year of their marriage. The spirits of the young bride had

received a shock of disappointment from which they never recovered.

She was calm and resigned, but the thrill of pleasure which once gave

joy to her heart and beauty to her countenance, was gone never to

return. Sadness preyed on her health, but her friends looked forward

in hope to the interesting period when a mother's cares and a mother's

love should win her spirit back to hope and happiness.

“How fallacious are human expectations! The same wave that cast the

little orphan on the shores of time, bore the mother to the ocean of

eternity. With a smile of perfect confidence, she gave the bud of

promise into the arms of my mother, saying, this is yours, the last

gift of the dying Morna—a precious pledge of her unwavering trust in

your affection. And most faithfully was that pledge redeemed by my

mother! from that moment did the little Morna lie in her bosom, and

receive all the tenderness of maternal care. Having a few months

previously lost her only child, an infant twelve months old, all her

tenderness was now centred in her new charge, whose beauty and

sprightliness promised to repay all her attention.

“Ridgely was ordered to join his regiment and proceed to Ireland,

where a rebellion had recently broken out. In departing, he bathed the

little orphan with his tears, and renewed the gift to his sister, not

knowing that he should ever behold her more. The child grew; the

charms of her mind and person fast unfolded in the {491} sunshine of

my mother's love, and she soon became the joy and pride of her heart.

Her father returned to England when she was four years old, and had

the long wished for happiness of clasping his beloved child, the image

of his lost wife, to his bosom; and the shattered fragments of his

heart were gathered again around his infant daughter. How gratifying

to him, to see how powerfully she felt the tie of birth! The highest

boon she could ask, was to sit on her father's knee, and lean her

bright check on his heart, while she persuaded him to stay with her,

and she would love him ‘as much as aunt Ashton.’ Among the ‘dire

chimeras’ of the nursery, she had heard many tales of the ‘wild

Irish,’ and her little heart beat with anxious fears for her father's

safety; she could not be quieted until he promised not to go among

them any more.

“But now the young Morna was herself to be the adventurer. Major

Ashton (my father) was commanded to embark with his regiment for the

American colonies. This was unexpected and sad news to my dear

parents; but there was no time to parley. The yoke of servitude began

to sit uneasily on the necks of the colonists, under the growing

demands of government—and an increased army was necessary to enforce

submission. With decision and promptitude worthy of a better cause, my

father obeyed the summons. The military hero is bred in the school of

suffering and self-denial. A separation from all the endearments of

social and domestic life, he considers one of the necessary

consequences of the service, and he submits with dignity. Such was the

conduct of Colonel Ridgely, in parting with his only child. His tears

fell on her cheek, while with trembling fingers he threw back the

thick curls from her forehead, that he might behold all of a face so

lovely and so beloved. It was happy for Morna that she could not

comprehend the fullness of his agony. She knew that she was her

father's darling, and her heart beat in unison with his as far as she

understood his feelings; but the page of the future is gilded with

bright hues in childhood, and she readily yielded to the soothing

assurances of her aunt, that either she would return to England, or

her father be sent to America. So she was comforted, and her thoughts

were diverted by the wonderful and mysterious preparations (as it

seemed to her) her aunt was making to go away. In the course of a

month she bade adieu to the white cliffs of Albion; and after a

tedious voyage of thirty-eight days, Morna's uncle pointed out to her

the distant shores of the western world. She gazed on the prospect

with wonder-waiting eyes, for she had never thought of any land so far

from her home and country.

“Major Ashton's troops were landed at Boston; but as that post was

well supplied, the reinforcements were stationed in the various

commercial towns along the seaboard, to enforce compliance with the

new system of taxation. He was ordered to Charleston, in South

Carolina; and after a stormy cruise of ten days arrived in harbor and

disembarked his forces, making Charleston his head quarters. For the

sake of brevity, I must pass over many intervening circumstances, and

even years, not necessary to the main interest of my story. I must not

omit, however, to mention that my mother was called, the second year

of her residence here, to experience the bitterest of all calamities,

in the death of her beloved husband, who fell a victim to the fever of

the climate. I was an infant at that time, but I can imagine the

desolation of her soul, left a widow, and a stranger in a foreign

land; and my earliest recollections of her are associated with times,

when she sat silent, and almost unheeding my importunity to know what

made her weep so much. I find a letter from Colonel Ridgely to my

mother, written during that year, informing her that his regiment

would sail in a few days for the East Indies, to relieve another,

which was suffering greatly from disease. ‘It is uncertain,’ he says,

‘how long we may continue on this station, though the present prospect

is, that we shall only act as a temporary relief.’ He speaks of his

dear child, and the anxious and melancholy thoughts that fill his

mind, when he reflects on the distance and the time that must separate

him from her.

“But time, as it passed the young Morna, had a dove's wing. Her bark

of happiness was borne smoothly and joyfully down the current of life.

Young hope spread her sail, and no cloud dimmed the bright horizon.

The toys of childhood were gradually laid aside for the pleasures and

occupations of intellectual cultivation. My mother, while she guarded

against the perversion of the superior talents of her pupil, spared no

expense in adorning her mind with every lasting and lovely

accomplishment. But of all adornings, she considered that of a meek

and quiet spirit to be of greatest price, having learned it in the

school of sad experience; and to this end she labored with the

waywardness of childhood and the vanity of youth, believing that they

who sow in hope will reap in joy. And such was her recompense. The

natural sensibilities of her niece were exquisite: she trembled lest

by taking a wrong direction they should prove the scourge of her life.

Byron says,

——‘Our young affections run to waste,

Or water but the desert.’

Far otherwise was it with my lovely cousin. Many sweet and endearing

instances of her goodness my memory still retains. She was my mother's

almoner to the cottages of the poor. On these errands I was frequently

her companion; and though my wayward and loitering step exercised her

patience in no small degree, she never chid me in any voice but that

of love, or denied me any innocent gratification, however great the

self-denial it imposed on her. You will not wonder that she was the

idol of the indigent and helpless. Among this mass of people, the

African slaves excited her warmest sympathy—evinced in benevolence of

the most practical sort. Instead of joining her schoolmates on

holidays in selfish recreations, she would petition her aunt to carry

some nice soup to aunt Dinah, or to read the bible to blind Betty who

loved to hear it so much. I believe they looked upon her as a

ministering angel; something celestial compounded of a purer flesh and

blood than sinful mortals, ‘God bless and love you Miss Morn; you are

too pretty for this world!’ was their usual salutation.

“When my mother arrived in Charleston, she sought out a faithful

servant as a nurse for her young family. Margaret was her name, which

we soon contracted into the endearing appellative of ‘Mammy Marget.’

She was the most devoted and faithful servant I ever knew. I loved and

venerated her next to my mother. She doated on my cousin; with

watchful fidelity she {492} guarded her health and happiness so far as

her limited sphere extended, and was rewarded with the deep and tender

attachment of a grateful heart.

“In her school, Morna was a general favorite. Arbitress in every

disagreement, her candor and disinterested kindness could admit no

appeal from its fair and equal decision. With Mary Percy, one of her

classmates, a girl of congenial tastes and feelings, she was very

intimate. The rocks and dells in these environs still bear memorials

of their merry gambols and rambles amongst the wild luxuriance of

nature. Alfred Percy, also, the brother of the young lady, and two

years older, was frequently one of the party, and performed wonders of

agility and bold adventure in various feats of climbing, leaping, and

swimming, any of which he would carry to the utmost extent of

possibility to oblige or amuse Morna. In a short time he had so won

her admiration as to be her beau ideal of all that was noble and

elegant: however, she was not the girl to be fascinated on a slight

acquaintance. The current of her affections ran in too deep a channel

to be ruffled by the wing of every bird that flitted over it. My

mother's experienced eye discerned the growing attachment of Percy

towards her lovely niece, and while she would not have influenced her

decision in a matter where the affections are so deeply interested,

she hoped the time might come when she would not be insensible to the

love of one so worthy of her heart and her choice.

“We must turn from the visions of youth and the dream of love to our

political horizon, which now grew darker and darker. Our colonies had

reached the lowest point of oppression and injustice; they felt the

burden intolerable; and rising, threatened to heave off the weight

that was crushing them. You recollect the affair at Lexington struck

the first note of revolt, which was re-echoed by most of the States in

the Union. South Carolina was, perhaps, at that time, the most loyal

of all to the British government; but even here there were not a few

whose hearts swelled with indignation at her tyrannical exactions. My

mother's feelings on this subject were identified with those of the

suffering colonists, and she felt that if she had a son able to do his

country service, she would buckle on his armor, and speed him with her

prayers, in the cause of freedom and suffering humanity.

“After the first shock of resistance, you recollect the States were

unanimous in the cause of liberty; though the scene of war was, during

the first part of the contest, confined to the Northern and middle

States, and our arms were generally successful wherever valor and

dexterity could supply the want of superior numbers and discipline.

How did the courageous youth of South Carolina burn to join their

brethren of the North in the struggle for liberty! The hot valor of

young Percy, like that of his namesake of poetic fame, spurred him on

to rush into the marshalled ranks, from which he could scarcely be

withheld by the sober forecast of his father, who foresaw that the

tide of battle was already tending towards the south.

“Information was at length received, that a British squadron had been

fitted out for the reduction of Charleston; and, detained by

unfavorable weather, was lying at Cape Fear. This gave the Americans

time to strengthen their fortifications, so as to make an attack from

the seaboard extremely difficult. In the month of June, 1776, the

squadron anchored off the bar. What a moment of thrilling anxiety was

this to every true American heart in the place! The land forces were

commanded by Cornwallis and Clinton; the naval by Sir Peter Parker.

The provincial forces were commanded by General Lee. Our young hero

Percy, was honored with a lieutenancy in his army. It was some days

before the British troops could disembark, owing to the impediment in

crossing the bar. At length, however, they effected a landing on Long

Island, and prepared for an attack. Percy's post was in the select

division, placed on the main land, opposite Sullivan's island, the

only successful point of attack.

“The evening before the expected battle he called at my mother's,

still the spot of peculiar attraction whenever a moment of leisure

allowed him the indulgence of his warmest and tenderest feelings. She

candidly expressed her fears for his safety, knowing the dangerous

post he would occupy, and his fearless intrepidity. She charged him to

remember how many hearts would throb with deep interest for him on

that eventful day, and concluded by hoping that discretion would

temper his courage. He replied with restrained emotion, ‘I hope, dear

madam, I am not insensible to your regard, and that of many kind

friends; but there is one whose interest and sympathy I would rather

win than the world besides.’ He looked towards Morna, but she was

gone. He followed her retreating footsteps to her favorite alcove.

‘Morna,’ he said, assuming the manner of their childhood's freedom, ‘I

have heard you say, courage should be your second requisite in a hero.

I come to ask a token from you as an incentive to valor to-morrow.’

‘Would you desire a higher,’ she answered, ‘than the cause of your

country? Oh, Alfred, it is not your honor or courage that is in

danger, but your life.’ ‘Then give me this bright tress, which has

escaped from its bondage, to remind me that you are among those who

care for my safety. It will be the first and brightest charm my heart

ever wore.’ Morna spoke not: how could she? But her lover read the

confession of her heart in the ‘many-colored Iris’ which filled her

eye. You may imagine the scene that followed, when the fervor and

faith of young hearts are pledged on the eve of doubtful battle. The

hour of separation came, and Percy was taking his leave of her he

loved best, with a countenance of hope unclouded by doubt or fear. He

whispered to Morna, in going, ‘Remember the token, the talisman of

protection and favor to the knight without fear and without reproach.’

‘Noble Percy!’ exclaimed Mrs. Ashton, ‘you were never formed to wear

the chain of slavery.’ Morna, too, felt proud of her lover; but in the

moment of her exultation, she thought of the perils to which his life

must be exposed, and the dark omen of dread dimmed the bright star of

her destiny. My mother, while she evinced the warm sympathy which all

the circumstances of the newly awakened feelings in her niece's bosom

were calculated to inspire, endeavored to calm them by pointing to the

bright side of the picture, and urging her to look forward with

patient hope to the probably successful issue. But Mammy Marget, who

felt, perhaps, quite as much in whatever distressed her young

mistress, with the characteristic propensity of narrow-minded

ignorance, sought to lay the blame of her tears on somebody, and who

so probably the cause as Percy. {493} ‘Mas Alfred, he's always so

violent, he must be the most foremost of any, no place will do for him

but the hottest. Why not put some of the raggamuffins, as the British

calls the militia, in that dangerous place, they mean creters don't

care—jist as live shoot down a clever young man like him as a dog.

But, maybe this don't comfort you, Miss Morn, my pretty dove, so I

won't say no more but the truth, and that is, he's as ginerous as you;

for but t'other day, he ask me, Mammy Marget, how you do these hard

times? I tell him, well as other folks I reckon, I only wish we had

some of that good sugar and coffee that them mean English is

squandering out yander, with their white sarvants to tend'm, struttin'

about like peacocks in their finery. Then I see the fire in his eye,

and he say, bridling up jest like him, I would not fill my mouth with

any of their good things; but as it does not hurt your conscience,

take this and buy some, (and he give me ever so much money,) they will

be _mean enough_, as you say, to extort upon the penury of a poor

slave. That's jist what he say, I knowed what he meant in spite of his

high larnt words, and thinks I, I'll remember 'em to tell Miss Morn.’

“You recollect the entire failure of this first expedition against

Charleston, owing to the inability of the land and naval forces to

unite in the attack. The American batteries sustained the fire from

the fleet with unmoved firmness, and Percy won laurels by his

intrepidity and presence of mind. The enemy seeing it impossible, in

present circumstances, to gain footing, left Charleston harbor with

all their forces; and during the two succeeding years, no further

attempt was made to reduce this place.

“About this time a letter came to my mother, under the British

passport. It was from Colonel Ridgely from whom she had received no

intelligence for ten years. It informed her, that the state of affairs

in America had recently recalled his regiment from India, with the

design of transporting that, and several others, to the southern

colonies, to oppose the combined forces of France and America. He

lamented the occasion of his visit to a land where his tenderest and

most cherished hopes were centered. He spoke of the necessity to which

the ministry, by their harsh and unjust exactions had reduced the

American colonies, of taking up arms in self-defence. Not even

Chatham's eloquence could arrest the storm, though he had predicted

with a prophet's inspiration, that the final issue would be the infamy

of its originators, and the everlasting degradation of England. As an

officer in his majesty's service, he said honor and loyalty forbade

him to withdraw from the duties imposed on him, however his own

individual feelings and opinions might prompt him to retire from the

combat.

“You may well conceive with what mingled emotions of hope and

disappointment the bosoms of a daughter and sister were filled on

reading this letter. Morna's first words were, ‘Dear aunt, shall I

live to see my beloved father in the ranks of my country's enemies?

No, the grave would be far preferable—can nothing avert it? O! how

shall I meet Alfred? His high soul will revolt at an alliance with the

daughter of his country's enemy. Write to him, dear aunt, immediately

for me, and release him from every obligation.’ ‘My beloved child,’

replied she, ‘I must first chide your generous haste, which would

destroy both your own and Alfred's happiness. Can you suppose he could

cease to love you, or to respect your father, only because he is

engaged to support a cause, which, though we esteem it unjust, every

loyal subject of Britain is bound to maintain? Rather let us seek

resignation and comfort from heaven, and hope that God may over-rule

the purposes of man for the good of all, and the glory of his name.’

Morna yielded to the opinion of her aunt, which in her calmer moments

she felt to be just, and at her request tried to compose her agitated

feelings, as she laid her aching head on that bosom which was alike

the sanctuary of her joys and sorrows. Her wearied senses sunk into

repose, and she was unconsciously placed on the couch of rest. This

was scarcely done, when a quick knock was heard at the door. Mrs.

Ashton hastened to attend the summons, and prevent any interruption

from sudden noise. ‘Mr. Percy!’ was her exclamation, ‘is it you? Your

countenance is the omen of evil tidings—are you the herald of recent

disasters?’ ‘Madam, your look tells me you are not ignorant that the

enemy, having gained possession of Georgia, is marching rapidly

towards our capital. I have just received a major's commission, and

orders to march my company to reinforce General Lincoln; but, like the

crusader of old, I come, first to visit the shrine of my tutelar

saint, and bear from its altar the token of conquest and safety. May I

not see Miss Ridgely?’ My mother then related the story of the recent

tidings from England, and the overwhelming effect on her niece's

spirits. Percy remained silent, and his brow lowered with displeasure

for a moment, but his noble nature rose triumphant over the irritation

of national feeling. ‘I must see her,’ he said, with deep emotion; ‘I

must assure her how much I love and admire the sensibility of her

filial piety.’ My mother stept softly into the chamber, and found

Morna sleeping soundly, but with a flushed cheek, indicating so high a

degree of excitement, that she feared the consequences of awaking her.

Mammy Marget, who was watching by her, declared it would be the death

of her if she saw Mr. Percy now. ‘He's always so vilent, talking about

honor and death. It's hardly worth while to lose honor or life

fighting with they mean English, and the runaway niggers they git to

join 'em. Oh no, he'll jist set Miss Morn to crying, for she bleeves

every word he tells her. He can jist leave a message, or a little

keepsake, or something to show he 'ant forgot her; and that he

couldn't do, neither.’

“Mammy Marget's advice was certainly wise in this case, and after much

earnest debate, Percy consented to yield to prudent counsel, and with

a heavy heart took his leave. In a few hours he was on his route to

join General Lincoln, who kept in advance of General Prevost, whose

obvious design was to reach Charleston as soon as possible. General

Moultrie, stationed to oppose his passage, found his efforts

ineffectual; he passed with his superior force towards the capital,

while Lincoln marched rapidly towards its relief. He despached in

advance of his army a chosen body of mounted infantry, commanded by

our young hero Percy, to guard the passes to the city, but the little

band used all their efforts in vain.

“Prevost arrived within cannon shot, and summoned the town to

surrender, on the 12th of May, 1779. But being summoned, did they do

it? No, Lincoln was {494} advancing with a superior force, and the

enemy dared not risk an attack, but prudently resolved to take

possession of the islands of St. James and St. John, where they waited

to be reinforced by the arrival of two frigates. In one of these

vessels was Colonel Ridgely. His regiment was landed on Port Royal

island, where they were commanded to wait further preparations to

begin the attack. Colonel Ridgely's thoughts turned from the scene of

military show towards his daughter, whose image, amidst all the

vicissitudes of his wanderings, was still stamped in living colors on

his heart. He was impelled to encounter every danger, to see her, if

she still lived. A disguise was the only possible means of doing this,

as all communication with the enemy was interdicted by the Americans,

under the severest penalty. His ingenuity suggested the habit of an

English chaplain, whose inoffensive and pious character, had gained

him permission to visit some sick prisoners in the Charleston

hospital. Under cover of night Ridgely passed the sentinels, with the

pretence of administering to a dying prisoner the consolation of

religion. When in the city, he varied the deception a little,

inquiring for the residence of Mrs. Ashton, as a clergyman on holy

duty bound.

“I feel that I can give you no idea of the scene that ensued, when the

disguise was thrown off, and the person of Colonel Ridgely was

revealed before his astonished sister. ‘My brother!’ was the

exclamation, as she sunk back in her seat, paralyzed with emotion.

Morna caught the electrifying words, and sprung forwards; but ere he

had clasped her in his arms, the rush of feelings had overpowered her

senses, and she lost in momentary insensibility the consciousness of

his presence. Her recollection was soon restored. Her father's

countenance was the first object that met her returning sensibility.

Oh! how many long past and almost forgotten reminiscences seemed to

spring up around her, as she gazed with intense delight on that still

remembered smile. Her spirits rose from their depression; she lost the

fear of coming evil in the endearments of a father's love, and hope

dispelled the dark cloud that had seemed to lower over her.

“Colonel Ridgely's disposition was one to look on the bright side of

things. He expressed his hope that there would be no further

bloodshed, and that a capitulation, honorable to both sides, would

restore peace to the besieged city. The dawn was almost visible,

before he resumed his habit, to return. Morna's last request was, that

he would not risk a life so dear, if there was the least possibility

of danger or detection.

“Sir H. Clinton arrived with reinforcements on the 1st of April, soon

after which he summoned the town to surrender; but General Lincoln

declared his intention of defending the place (to which resolution he

was induced by the daily expectation of recruits from Virginia, which

never arrived) whenever hostilities should commence. The batteries of

the enemy were immediately opened on the town. The Americans returned

a brisk, but ineffectual fire. Their numbers were too few to cope with

the united strength of the British army, and the troops so scattered

as to be exposed to be cut off by every fire from the batteries. The

results of this unavailing struggle on the side of the Americans,

caused the final capitulation of Charleston. But this happened too

late to awaken joy or sorrow in the breast of Morna. Her betrothed

lover was one of General Lincoln's aids, and commanded his first

battery. He maintained this post of danger with consummate skill and

bravery, until every man was swept away from around him, and he stood

alone, a distinguished mark for their shot. It was but for a moment,

and he fell, covered with wounds and with glory. General Lincoln, who

was near him in his last moments, sent a message to his family,

informing them that he met death as became an American, and a hero,

fighting in the cause of liberty.

“Afflictions, it is said, never come alone. The same day that brought

the overwhelming tidings of Percy's fall, intelligence reached my

mother that Colonel Ridgely was mortally wounded. Hostilities having

ceased, he sent under a flag of truce to request the immediate

attendance of his sister and daughter. No time was to be lost; in a

state of mind bordering on distraction, they were hurried towards the

British camp. My mother was a worshipper of God; to Him she looked up

for strength equal to the mighty conflict. But of poor Morna, how

shall I speak? The waves of affliction had well nigh overwhelmed the

slender bark of her existence, and despair alone seemed to nerve her

step, as she was conducted to the door of her father's tent. The

attendant officer seeing them approach, opened the door, and with a

sad countenance informed them that Colonel Ridgely had just expired. A

shriek was the only sound that escaped Morna's lips. She fell

insensible on the floor, and happy would it have been for her if life

had been extinguished with her reason, which from that moment never

resumed its empire. The functions of life gradually revived, and

maintained a feeble and wavering existence for a few weeks; but the

gem of the mind was gone—wild and incoherent fancies filled her

imagination—broken images of past and future joys were confusedly

mingled with phantoms of fear and dread. In her last moments, there

was something mysterious and almost supernatural in the creations of

her imagination. She seemed to have caught the glimpse of a

procession, which she was hastening to join. ‘Mammy Marget,’ she

cried, ‘bring my bridal dress—the procession is waiting for me; to the

church you know we must go to be united: there is Alfred and father

too. Haste! haste!—it is almost in the clouds already, but I must

overtake it!’ Breathless she sunk back, and expired. Her remains were

laid in my mother's garden, and the turf that ‘wraps her slumbering

clay’ was daily moistened with her tears. On the slab that marks the

spot are inscribed Hamlet's words: ‘Lay her in the earth, and from her

fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring.’”

Such was the history attached to the PORTRAIT.

V.

STANZAS.

BY JAMES F. OTIS.

See, where, fast sinking o'er the hills,

As with a golden halo round,

The setting sun with splendor fills

Those massy piles which lie around

His couch, in crimson glory drest,

Like drapery o'er a monarch's rest. {495}

Bright, fair, but oh, how fading too

Is all this beautiful array!

A moment given to the view,

Then past, amid the gloom, away:

So, like the gilded things of earth,

Which charm the eye, though little worth!

And now, eve's glowing star illumes

The chambers of the distant west,

And, scarce discerned, like waving plumes

That flash o'er many a warrior's crest,

There float along the upper air

Thin, fleecy clouds, so clear and fair.

How sweet to gaze upon their slight,

Transparent forms, changing so oft,

As e'en the Zephyr's gentlest flight

Scatters them with its pinions soft—

Seeming, as down the sky they go,

Like wreaths of gently driven snow!

And then to trace the full-orbed moon,

As, struggling on her cloudy way,

She travels forth, now wrapped in gloom,

Now bursting forth with undimm'd ray—

Like some high, noble heart, whose pride

Still bears him on, though woes betide.

LOVE AND CONSTANCY.

BY E. BURKE FISHER.

CHAP. I.—LOVE.

Oh! how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And, by and bye, a cloud takes all away.

“_Harry, dear Harry, farewell!_” “_God bless you, Mary, we shall meet

again!_”—a stifled sob from the first speaker, and an ejaculation of

manly sorrow from the latter, attested their emotion—the oarsmen

dipped their light blades into the wave, and the little craft obedient

to the impulse rapidly receded from the shore. The youth watched its

progress through the glancing waters, and every ripple it created

seemed to wash upon his heart; a moment, and it ranged under the bows

of a stately vessel, which soon after spread her canvass to the

breeze, and bore down the bay, on her outward course. Evening found

the youth pacing the shore, gazing upon the faint outlines of the

departing ship, and when the niggard robe of night hid her from his

view, then it was that the full sense of his situation fell heavily

upon him—he felt that he was an outcast—an alien, without a single tie

to bind him to life, and with a sensation of wretchedness, known only

to him who has tasted of the bitter chalice of misery—he cast him down

upon the sands, and wept long and bitterly! * * *

* * * * *

Who is there who has not heard the melancholy detail, as

“From his sire's lips glean'd,

Or history's page,”

of the fierce and destructive tornado, that ushered in the autumnal

equinox of 1787. Its fury was felt by the storm-tossed seaman, as his

frail bark drove onward to destruction, and its disastrous results

might in part be gathered, from the many evidences of its triumph as

strewn along the shores of Cape Cod. The tempest proved as transient

as it was violent, and the sun, that shone out on the morrow of the

storm, steeped its rays in the now tranquil ocean, which, apparently

conscious of the ruin it had wrought, seemed to atone for its mischief

by studied repose. The regular swell of the sea succeeded the raging

billows of the night—the shrill demon of the tempest had retired to

his northern caves, and in his stead, the playful zephyrs of the south

wantoned upon the waters. The hardy wreckers were out upon the beach

as usual, after a night of storm, culling a harvest from the spoils

which the ocean had cast upon their shores. Men, women and children

were engaged in this employment, and so inured had they become to

their somewhat equivocal profession, that whether the object they

inspected was the corpse of the shipwrecked, or a cask of West India,

the same _sang froid_ was evinced, and they proceeded as leisurely to

rifle the garments of the disfigured and ghastly dead, as in breaking

open a sea chest. An unusually well stowed bale had drawn the

attention of the crowd, and they were busily employed in turning over

its contents, when an exclamation of surprise from an idler upon the

strand caused the party to turn in the direction he pointed, and they

beheld the object that had elicited his outcry. Drifting in towards

the land, they saw a floating spar, upon which rode a small lad of

some sixteen or seventeen years, supporting in his arms what seemed

the lifeless form of a female. There was something so noble in this

generous devotion to another's safety in the hour of deadly peril—a

touching display of all that ennobles, in the conduct of one so young,

thus jeopardizing his own doubtful chance of preservation, in the

rescuing from the fierce waters their prey, that even the cold and

sluggish feelings of the men of Barnstable were moved to admiration,

and forgetting personal advantage in the excitement of the moment,

they awaited but the approach of the float within range of their

interference, when they rushed into the surge, and with deafening

plaudits bore the young mariner and his burthen to the land. The boy

relaxed not his hold of his companion, until he had safely deposited

her in the arms of the bystanders, when, throwing one look upon her

wan and lifeless features, he cast his eyes to heaven, and murmuring,

“Thanks, merciful Father! she is saved!” he sank insensible upon the

sand.

Sympathy—that noblest attribute of the soul, finds as ready response

in the heart of the child of nature, as in the tutored feelings of the

man of civilization; and the lawless wrecker in his course of plunder,

may act as nobly, and feel as proudly the sacred glow of humanity, as

does the sage expounder of moral legislation! The witnesses of the sad

scene we have described, furnished ample illustration of the fact, for

the men of Cape Cod, “albeit, unused to the melting mood,” drew their

hands over their eyes, and their tones were husky as they communed

with each other, while the women, ever alive (in all conditions) to

the dictates of humanity, busied themselves in the attempt to excite

to action the frozen channels of life in the unfortunate maiden.

The intense pitch to which the sensibilities of her {496} preserver

were strung, precluded him from enjoying the repose he so much

required, and supported by one of the spectators, he stood watching

with silent expectation the efforts at resuscitation practised upon

his companion in suffering. The exertions of the females were at

length crowned with success, the ashy paleness of her brow was crossed

by the flush of returning animation, and before the lapse of another

hour the children of the wreck, who but a short time since were tossed

to and fro upon the capricious waters, found themselves under the

friendly roof, and seated at the hospitable board of Gregory Cox, to

whose dwelling the generous wreckers had borne them.

The kindly nature of their host, for a long time, taught him

forbearance upon the subject of their painful story, and weeks passed

on before he gently hinted his wish to hear the sad recital, and so

judiciously did the worthy Quaker prosecute his inquiries, that the

detail was given, with scarce the knowledge of the lad, that the

events over which he brooded had been revealed to their sympathizing

friend. His narrative was brief, yet pregnant with misfortune. Thus it

ran.

The maiden was the daughter of a Frenchman of rank, who had lately

relinquished an official post in the Canadas with the intention of

returning to his native land. He had, with his wife and daughter,

embarked in the vessel commanded by the narrator's sire. Circumstances

connected with the instructions of his owners, had induced the

commander to make for the port of Boston, but contrary winds rendered

nugatory his efforts, and for several days the ship had been beaten

along the coast of Massachusetts, where it was met by the raging

equinox, and destroyed by the combined fury of the winds and waves. So

unforeseen was the shock, and so totally unprepared were the miserable

victims, that the same storm-fed billow which scattered the fragments

of the vessel to the fury of the winds, bore with it the mass of

beings that cowered upon its decks. Borne along by the violence of the

assault, the boy was plunged into the boiling sea, but fortunately

striking a drifting spar as he fell, he had steadied himself upon it,

the only living thing, as he thought, that survived the onset of the

fierce destroyer. As he was thus rocking upon the turbulent waves, a

gleam of lightning, triumphing for a moment over the darkness, gave to

his view the garments of the girl, and with instinctive humanity, he

lifted her from the waters and supported her in his arms, although

aware that he was thereby rendering more hazardous his own ultimate

chances of safety.

It seemed as if the eye of Omnipotence saw and approved the act, for

in a short time the march of the tempest was stayed, the lashing

billows sank to gentle ripples, and the wild roar of the howling winds

gave way to the soothing breeze, as it swept from the land. During the

remainder of that eventful night of disaster and death, did the young

mariner sustain the insensible form of his companion, and although no

signs of returning consciousness rewarded his care, yet, buoyant with

the hope of a generous and daring spirit, he clung to his position

until the coming of Aurora revealed the shores of Barnstable, towards

which his sailless and unseamanlike craft was rapidly drifting. The

rest has been already shown.

Time rolled on! Weeks resolved themselves into months, and months

became absorbed in years, yet the circumstances of the wreck, as

detailed in the journals of the day, brought no claimant for the girl.

As to the stripling, his only relative was that parent whom he had

seen meet a watery grave, and he knew that he stood alone in the

world, with no one to sympathize with the misery that racked his

bosom, save the orphan partner of his perils; and when he looked upon

her budding loveliness, thus left to waste neglected, and without the

fostering care of maternal watchfulness, he vowed to be to her all

that a brother could, or a parent might be. The isolation of his

destiny had rendered him an enthusiast upon the one subject of his

charge, so that, when in the gay flush of innocent girlhood, she

shared his joys and mingled her tears with his, his feelings became

concentred in devotion, which the world calls _love_, but for which

_affection_, pure as seraphs might glory in avowing, would be the more

fitting term. In the absence of other channels to vent his feelings

she became the cynosure of his loftiest imaginings, his more than

sister. Happy in her youth, and time-seared to the loss she had

sustained, _Mary Destraix_ loved her preserver with a sister's

tenderness; and when, after the lapse of years, there came one who

called himself her uncle—her father's brother—the joy with which she

sprang to his embrace was merged in tears, when the probability of her

separation from her brother crossed her mind, as the stranger

announced his intention of returning with her immediately to the

castellated abode of her ancestors, in the sunny plains of Marne.

“And Harry—my brother Harry, shall he not go with us?” she asked

inquiringly, gazing into the stern face of her new-found relative.

The Frenchman turned to the spot, where stood the subject of the

query. He had heard the story of the youth, and liked not the

question; and as he glanced, not at the noble countenance and manly

bearing, but the rustic apparel of the stripling, his dislike to a

further intimacy between the pair was increased. The stranger was lord

of Marne, and had breathed the courtly air of the Louvre, and he could

see nothing worthy of consideration in the mere fact, that a rough and

untutored rustic should peril his life for a maiden of noble blood.

Tendering the youth a purse well stocked with Louis, he signified his

disinclination to rank him among the members of his voyage home. The

indignant recipient took the proffered gold, advanced a step, and

dashing the gift at the feet of its aristocratic giver, rushed from

the scene.

“Harry, my noble, generous preserver,” sobbed a voice at his side, as

he stood upon the rude piazza that overlooked the ocean, “think not so

meanly of me, as that for broad lands and empty honors I would forsake

you! Harry, my brother, I will not go!”

“Not so, Mary Destraix,” was the answer of him she addressed—the

bitterness of his feelings rising paramount to the usual joyousness of

his tones when he spoke to her—“Are you not the daughter of a peer of

France, called to fulfil a bright and envied destiny? Would you so

forget your illustrious ancestry, as to forego their claims upon you

as their descendant, to follow the fortunes of one, who was even cast

from the ocean as unworthy to tenant its caves?”—and the boy laughed

in his agony.

“Look there!” he continued, addressing the stranger {497} who had

followed his niece—“Look at yon cradle of storms!” and he enforced his

words, by pointing out towards the quiet waters, which lay steeped in

the phosphorescent tintings of a summer's eve. “Where were the vassals

of your house that they stepped not in to the rescue of their master?

Will the great deep give up its prey for gold? Though the blood of

Charlemagne runs in your veins, that act—that crowning act, of

offering lucre in exchange for life—would sink you to a level with the

veriest serf!”—and drawing up his form, now moulded into the fair

proportions of nineteen summers, he gave back the haughty glance of

the Frenchman with one equally fierce, and turned to the weeping

maiden.

The result of their conference was such as lovers' conferences usually

are. The mind of Mary was open to the fact, that her feelings towards

her preserver were merged in a fonder tie than a sister's, and a

promise of constancy, immutable to time and circumstance—an

interchange of tokens—a kiss, the first that ever consecrated their

mutual affections, and _Harry Harwood_ sought his couch that night—so

late boiling with the fiercest passions—now calm and full of hope—

Congenial hope! thy passion-kindling flower,

How bright—how strong in youth's confiding hour!

The going down of the succeeding sun found Harry weeping upon the

beach alone.

CHAP. II.—CONSTANCY.

“Mulier cupido, quod dicit amanti

In vento, et rapida scribere oportet aqua.”—_Catullus_.

There were banquetting, and revelry within the princely halls of

Versailles, and the dulcet sounds of woman's voice accorded well with

the rich breathings of lute and harp. The effulgence of a thousand

lights streamed upon the beauties of the court of Louis, as they stood

ranged in their dream-like loveliness at the footstool of the queenly

Austrian. The rich swell of vocal melody—the tread of the dancers, as

they moved in the stately _Pavon_, or lascivious waltz—the laugh of

the witty, as jest and repartee rang through the lofty dome—_all_

typifyed an epoch of pleasure, and absence from cares such as _then_

existed in the _converzaziones_ of Maria Antoinette, but which too

soon gave way before the ruthless onset of revolutionary reformation,

covenanted in the destruction of these very halls, and sealed in the

blood of royalty.

The park, and alleys of the gardens, echoed with the laughter of

joyous and happy spirits, and the flowery groves, and trelliced

arbors—fit spot for love's communion—were made this night the trysting

spot of many a youthful pair, while the gentle breeze as it swept

through the leafy paradise, carried upon its wings

confessions—reciprocal disclosures—vows, and protestations, baseless

all—aye, baseless as the courier by which they were borne away!

“Beautiful Mary, you wrong me, every way you wrong me, by your unjust

suspicions. The _Deperney_ may be as fascinating as you describe her,

but I own not her power! The _Canaille_ of the _National Assembly_ may

be won by her lures, but _Marmonti_ wears no colors save those of the

fair Destraix!”

“Hold, impertinent! Know you not that the Lady Deperney is my friend,

and beware how you speak of the members of the Assembly, or I shall

send you to republican America, there to learn more fitting terms, by

which to designate the leaders of the people!”

“That I may also gain some tidings of your lover of Barnstable,” was

the laughing rejoinder of her companion. “Your uncle tells strange

stories of that same youth, and I am half inclined to be jealous of

some certain passages that occurred, in the _tete-à-tete_ you wot of.”

“Aye! my gallant deliverer from the raging billows of the Atlantic.”

For a moment, there came associations of a painful nature, across her

mental vision, and she felt herself checked in her levity: it was but

for a moment, for in the next, she smilingly tapped the mercurial

Frenchman upon the shoulder as she answered, “Nay, you should not be

too severe upon my youthful follies—the boy saved me from a watery

death, and in the hour of parting, there might have been things

spoken, prompted more by gratitude than prudence—besides I was so

young!”

“But what if the boy should clothe this pretty romance with the sober

hues of reality, and come to claim his rights? What would the heiress

of Marne think, if, at the levee of our gracious sovereign, her

quondam lover should step forward, and demand her as his bride?”

“Rest contented on that score, knight of the tristful countenance,”

laughingly responded the fair one; “the lad has too much sense to

attempt any flight of the kind; his modesty and wits would teach him

that in so doing he was transgressing the bounds of discretion.”

“And yet, if he could survey the ripened loveliness of the flower he

saved when in its budding helplessness,” urged the gallant Marmonti,

bending his lips to the hand of his companion, “and feel no wish to

claim it for his trans-Atlantic bower, he must be indeed a Stoic; and

I take it, that his is a warmer spirit than voluntarily to purge his

memory of the recollection of an action that must come coupled with

the charms of the rescued floweret. By the bones of the immortal

Henri! but the little I have heard of thy deliverance, and the heroism

that achieved it, have taught me a brother's love for this same—how

call you the youth?”

“Harley—No—Harwood; ay, that is his name—but, methinks, a glimpse of

him would tend marvellously to lessen thy brotherly feelings. He had

but little of knightly bearing, and his speech and actions savored

somewhat of his nautical training. I would that he were here?”

There was a rustling in the adjacent shrubbery—a hasty step was heard

upon the gravelled avenue, and as the intruder dashed swiftly by,

there came words upon the ear of the late speaker, breathed in tones

she remembered but too well. “And this is Mary Destraix, and it is

thus she speaks of Henry Harwood! Great God, how I have been duped!”

The footsteps died away in the distance, and before she could rally

from the shock, the speaker was gone.

The sword of Marmonti was drawn from its sheath, but the convulsive

grasp of the conscience-stricken girl withheld him from pursuit; and

when he inquiringly bent his gaze upon her countenance, its expression

was so death-like and cold, that fearing she was ill, (for he

understood not the purport of the stranger's exclamation,) he hastily

returned to the saloon.

{498} During the remainder of the evening, it was the subject for

comment that the favorite of the queen was grave and abstracted, and

that her brow, usually lighted up with the joy of an untroubled

spirit, was crossed with darker hues than were wont to sully it. Even

Marmonti strove in vain to restore her depressed spirits, but it would

not do; the words she had heard in the garden clogged her soul, bowing

it down to remorse and anguish. Memory led her away from these scenes

of hollow semblance to the shores of Massachusetts—to that eventful

night, when, in her feebleness, she battled with the adverse waters.

Again she was listening to the oft-repeated story of the garrulous

wreckers, as they painted, in their blunt honesty of speech, the

daring courage and generous conduct of the youthful mariner, as, after

having laid her gently upon the beach, he uttered that prayer of

thanksgiving for her safety. As fancy's finger pointed out these

episodes of her past existence, and she reflected upon the return she

had made—that she had spoken of him as a thing of scorn, and that he

had heard her! the swelling waves of contrition irrigated her selfish

soul, and she retired to her chamber, for that night redeemed from the

trammels of coquetry and ingratitude. Dismissing her maid, she sat

down in an embrasure of her apartment, but was disturbed from her

reverie by the entrance of her attendant, who placed beside her a

pacquet, bearing her address, and again retired. Hastily breaking the

seal, she opened its folds, in doing which a braid of hair escaped

from therein and fell to the ground. The contents of the epistle were

disjointed in character, and evidenced a bruised and saddened spirit.

The writer was Harwood.

“I will not upbraid you, Mary, although you have crushed my fondest—my

dearest hopes! Fool that I was, I dreamed that the Mary of my boyhood

was still the same—that what she _professed_ in other days, she would

prove in my ripened years—that her gentle spirit yet retained its

recollection of one with whom was spent the darkest portion of her

brief existence! Do you remember that night when the demon of the

storm swept the bosom of the dark Atlantic, and I bore you——but no!

not that; but surely you still retain the memory of that kind, good

old man, who took us in our destitution and gave us a home, and who,

when we were seated at his social board, would moralize upon our

melancholy story, and bid us love one another, for it seemed as if

Providence so willed it in the arrangement of our destinies. And oh!

how often, when wandering along the shores of Barnstable, have we

mingled our tears when we looked out upon the great sea, the sepulchre

of all we loved, and cheated Sorrow of its triumph, in gilding with

Hope's brightest pencillings a radiant and sunny future—and then, that

evening, when in the holy hush of nature, and in the presence of none

save our God, you vowed remembrance, and gave me a ringlet of your own

raven hair. I return it, Mary, for I may not retain it after the fatal

proofs of your feelings towards me, which inadvertently I overheard

this night. Alas! that such things should be—that you, whom I have

loved—how fervently and deeply let my present agony pourtray, should

speak of me as of one——but I will not upbraid, but bless you, Mary;

even in your heartlessness will my prayers be as fervent for your

welfare, as when in other years I watched your girlhood beyond the

ocean. Farewell! Heiress of Marne, farewell—_forever!_”

Her attendants, upon entering their mistress' chamber on the ensuing

morning, found her lying insensible upon her couch, the letter of

Harwood compressed within her grasp.

Did she awake to better feelings, and was the film of ingratitude and

deceit rent from her heart? Alas! that selfishness should prevail over

the finer impulses of our nature, and the perspective of a coronet in

woman's eye sway ascendant over the homely aspect of humble wedlock!

Who was Henry Harwood, that he should aspire to the hand of the

favorite of Marie Antoinette, and on the plea of having performed a

trifling act of humanity, _dare_ thus to address the loveliest woman

in the Court of Louis? One month, and Marmonti, amid the beauty and

chivalry of France, and honored by the presence of royalty, wedded the

fair Destraix!

Marmonti's lineage was noble—ay, princely! In his veins there ran the

tide of the House of Bourbon. Marmonti was the friend of his king!

And had the flight of time wrought no change in the fortunes of _the

boy of the wreck_? In a land like ours, industry and perseverance eke

out their reward, and fostered by the liberal and equalizing spirit of

our institutions, Harwood's concentrated energies found ample

opportunity to develop themselves. His tale won for him the favorable

notice of a philanthropist, and his integrity and devotion to the

sternest duties, gained him his friendship—so that the homeless,

beggared stripling of a few years past, found himself embarked upon

the sea of commerce, aided by friendly winds, on his course to fortune

and esteem; and although he could urge no pretensions to ancestral

honors, yet in republican America, where aristocracy is but the idle

misnomer of faction, and man is judged by the standard of his moral

excellence, Harwood became one of her genuine aristocracy—one of her

merchant nobles!

The bells that rung out the consummation of the nuptial rites,

tortured not the ears of the jilted lover—he was ploughing the waves

on his return.

CHAP. III.—REVERSES.

“For mortal pleasure—what art thou in truth?

The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below.”

There was slaughter in the streets of Paris! Revolution,—not the

revolution of a shackled and indignant people rising to assert their

rights,—but of a wild mob,

“The scum

That rises upmost when a nation boils,”

stalked in the palaces of the mighty, desecrating their ancestral

domes, and treading down with demoniac fury the trophied honors of

their sires. Faction—lawless and unprincipled faction—usurped the

tribunals of justice—its acts were the dethronement of kings, ratified

in the blood of princes. The headless trunk of the Bourbon was cast

beneath the feet of his people in their fury, and to weep for him was

to share his fate! The regal Antoinette too—the fairest, yet alas! the

most hapless of the daughters of Lorraine—was dragged to the accursed

block, and in rapid succession her chivalrous defenders kissed the

guillotine, reeking with the blood of their sovereigns. The fell tiger

Anarchy, was abroad in Gallia, and his fangs rent asunder the {499}

life-strings of all who owned not his sway, while the wild shouts that

ushered in the blood-washed republic was mingled with the wail of

France for her slaughtered and dishonored chivalry.

Marmonti witnessed the decapitation of his royal relative, and heard

from his cell the cry that told the murder of the queen. A blank of a

few days ensued—he was dragged from his dungeon—a dash in the records

of the criminal tribunal, and all that remained of Frederick, Duke of

Marmonti, was his lifeless and mangled corpse. Did the wife of

Marmonti share the grave of her lord?

Seated in the oriel of an apartment in the _Palais du Ministéres des

Affaires des Etrangéres_, was a lady clothed in a suit of sables. The

year was in its decline, and the melancholy aspect of the external

world served to deepen the gloom that sat throned upon the features of

the mourner. Ever and anon the hoarse roar of the multitude in the

adjacent _place_ swept into the room, as some popular leader vented

his oratory; or from the Boulevard below the window, there would

ascend the voices of the patriotic artizans, as they repeated in

stunning chorus,

“Aux armes citoyens, formons nos battaillons

Marchons; qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!”

She shuddered as these sounds broke upon her ear, and when from the

_Place Vendome_ there darted a thousand artificial meteors, aided in

effect by the discharge of artillery, she shrouded her face with her

hands and wept convulsively.

The door was thrown open and a visiter announced, but absorbed in

grief she heeded not the tidings. The visiter advanced until within a

few feet and paused, as if awaiting her attention, but still she noted

not his proximity.

“Lady,” murmured the stranger—God of heaven! could it be _his_

voice?—“Duchess of Marmonti, will you not speak to your friend?”

_Yes_, those tones were _his_; his whom in her girlhood she had such

cause to love and honor, whom in her womanhood she had slighted and

defamed. And what did he here? Had he heard of her misfortunes, and

was his errand to the wretched that he might triumph in her

wretchedness? The passions of her race stirred within her as she

caught at this opinion, and throwing back the dishevelled ringlets

from her care-worn features she raised her flashing eyes to the face

of the speaker; but the saddened look and pitying glance that met her

gaze, spoke not joy but sorrow for her misery, and again her head was

hidden from her companion's view.

“Mary”—and the voice of the speaker was fraught with emotion—“Mary,”

and as if that name conjured up old and familiar associations, he

seated himself beside her; a tear filled in his eye and dropped upon

the hand he pressed within his own. _That tear!_ It opened the

floodgates of memory, and told a brother's love. The sufferer saw not

in the being before her, the man she had so deeply injured in his

richest affections, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, she poured

forth her grief, even as she was wont to do in earlier, happier years.

Time rolled refluently in its channels, and her companion was once

more the Harry of Barnstable and she again Mary Destraix. Cheated by

the phantom of happiness the kindly demeanor of Harwood created, she

wept the more; but her tears were not wrung from the heart—and when in

the outpourings of his sympathy he spoke of her departure from Paris

and its associations, and painted with brotherly fervor the comfort

and safety that awaited her in his distant home, she raised her eyes

beaming with gratitude and essayed to speak, but her emotions were too

strong for the cold medium of words, and she could only thank him with

her tears.

The influence of Harwood, through his country's ambassador, was

sufficient to obtain from the new government of France a passport of

safe conduct for the widow of the revolutionary victim, so that the

only object of his coming being now accomplished, the pair quitted its

shores. In her home in the western world the expatriated Duchess found

an effectual asylum from the contingencies that threatened her during

her continuance in the French capital; and as she noted the frank and

urbane deportment of her host, her mind regained its wonted vigor and

her countenance its healthful hues: not but that at times, when the

sad and tragic scenes through which it had been her destiny to pass

came across her brain, there came an icy sensation upon her heart, but

she triumphed over her misfortunes, and would have been even selfishly

happy was it not that when she reflected upon her conduct towards

Harwood a sense of shame possessed her mind; but his own actions aided

to dispel such feelings and sear her heart to their impression, and

she became as tranquil as the exigencies of her situation would

warrant.

_As to him_—experience had taught him a lesson never to be forgotten.

He had periled his happiness upon the fickle sea of human affections,

and had met disappointment as the product; and although when he gazed

upon the surpassing beauty of her, his first—his only love—he felt as

he did on that day when he watched from the beach of Cape Cod her

departure from the scenes of her girlhood; yet the revelations of

woman's faith he had obtained in the royal gardens of Versailles,

nerved his heart against further invasion from the son of Venus. It

had worn away the enthusiasm of his earlier years, and left him still

alive to the deference which woman in any and all circumstances has a

right to claim, but callous to her lures; so that when in the course

of time the mercurial passions of the French people had become

shackled by the wisdom and tyranny of the giant-minded Corsican, and

that politic ruler deemed it expedient to annul the decree against the

house of Marne and invited its only living representative to return to

her family possession, Harwood at once counselled her acceptance of

the proffered restitution, and despite her avowed astonishment and

reluctance, hastened the arrangements for her departure.

“She will wed again,” soliloquized the merchant, as he turned from

gazing upon the bark which was conveying her to “the land of the

vine.” “She will wed again; and surrounded by minions and parasites,

and in the possession of gewgaw honors, be happier than as the wife of

one who has nothing to offer but honest affections and an humble

home,” and with a sigh he quitted the quay.

Years brought another change in the dynasties of France. The imperial

diadem was rent from the brow of Napoleon, and _he_—“the man of a

thousand thrones”—left to point the moral of his own ambition upon the

sea girt rock of Helena. The Bourbon sat again upon {500} the throne

of his sires, and with him the fortunes of his followers loomed in the

ascendant. The predictions of Harwood had been in part fulfilled, for

the relict of Marmonti was again a bride, and a leader in the

brilliant circles that shone in the zodiac of the restoration. I have

said _in part_—for, had her change of fortunes brought corresponding

happiness?—We shall see.

The merchant read the announcement in the Parisian journals, and there

was bitterness in the train of reflections which accompanied the

perusal. Throwing aside the paper he indulged in long and melancholy

musings upon this fresh instance of her versatility of principles, so

glaringly developed in a second marriage. A letter was placed in his

hands at the moment, and carelessly breaking the wax he held it

unread, his mind still wandering upon the _on dit_ from whence his

reverie; but a vagrant glance at the superscription at length rivetted

his attention, and he eagerly devoted himself to scanning its

contents.

“Congratulate me, my dear friend,” _he read_, “for I am the happiest

of women. Our gracious sovereign is the idol of his people, and the

times of wit and gaiety are revived in the capital. You will see by

the publications of the day that I am again wedded; and although I do

not feel for my present husband the strong affection which I

entertained for the first, and which is buried with him, still I think

I shall love him, for he strives to render me happy by indulgence in

my every wish. His loyalty throughout the period of his monarch's

exile, his unswerving zeal and bravery in the field, have endeared him

to the king, who has been pleased to reward his faithful services with

honors and preferment. My own introduction at court gained the

favorable notice of his majesty, who smilingly assured me that my

misfortunes should not be forgotten. And now, my friend, the storms

that have hitherto overclouded the sun of my life are forever

dispersed, and the future is full of promise. The court is

re-established at Versailles—but I forget that between us Versailles

is an interdicted name. _The garden scene!_ Ah, how you would be

amused to hear the envious demoiselles of the court rallying me upon

that little incident, but I only laugh at them and”——

The idle levity with which she alluded to a period of such painful

interest, jarred upon his excited feelings. “What an escape I have

had!” he murmured, as with vacant eye he watched the blaze of the

epistle as it scorched and blackened in the grate, where it had

accidentally fallen. “Can she be indeed a faithful type of her sex?

Nay, that is impossible; and yet”— He paused and left the blank

unfilled.

* * * * *

Gentle readers, you whose grey hairs are the results of sorrowful

experience as well as time, have been taught that it is not expedient

at all times to give utterance to our opinions; and you, also,

romantic lingerers on the shores of boyhood, have yet to learn that be

your experience what it may, as it is with religion so also with

woman; and he who tilts against either is warring with established

usage, and will be buried in the ruins of his own creation. Thence it

is that I, having performed my duty as an historian, wish not to hinge

a moral upon my labors, leaving it for you to draw such inferences as

you may deem most wise. But ere I leave you, I would state that the

score of years that have passed away since the occurrence of the

events recorded above, have wrought little change in the two principal

personages of my story. Age has, it is true, somewhat marred the

beauty of the _Countess Malvoli_, but her eager pursuit after pleasure

is as keen as ever, while the merchant of Boston is still a bachelor,

and has even been known in some of his cloudy moments, to assert—in

the language of the Volscian Satirist—

“Nulla fere causa est, in qua non fœmina litem

Moverit.”

TO J—— S——.

(NOW OF ALABAMA.)

Brother and friend, I greet thee!—tho' thy dwelling

Be far from friends and from thy home of youth,

Thoughts of thy best-loved ones and thee, are swelling

Within my heart, in sadness and in truth.

I greet thee from the land, where death has broken

Some links of love's bright chain, but where the ties

Of blood still bind thee, and this worthless token

Is warm with truth's and friendship's fadeless dyes.

Thou wert to me, _indeed_, a friend and brother—

As such I loved thee, such I still must deem;

Distance and time, with me, can never smother

The deep, full flowing of affection's stream.

I know thee!—Nature's magical refining

Has given thy soul what art can ne'er bestow—

A warmth, a depth of tenderness, inclining

Even to romance—what few will ever know.

I felt, when with thee, that no shade of feeling,

No touch of truth, no thought of loftier aim,

Could ever be to thee a vain revealing—

That with thy mind my own could kindred claim.

Thou saidst that thou shouldst hail with greater pleasure

This page,[1] when it contained some trace of me—

Say, wilt thou by this humble tribute measure

The fond regard I cherish still for thee?

May all this world can give, best worth possessing,

Fame, fortune, friends, and length of days be thine;

And may the Christian's hope, that surest blessing,

Add grace to years, and gild thy life's decline.

Farewell!—Time's restless tide is rushing o'er us—

It cannot fade the past to mem'ry dear;

But its dark waters may, perchance, restore us

Much we have loved, and lost, and sighed for here.

E. A. S.

_Virginia, June 26, 1836_.

[Footnote 1: Southern Literary Messenger.]

PARADISE LOST.

There exists a prose version of Milton's Paradise Lost, which was

innocently translated from the French version of that epic. One Green,

also, published a new version of the poem into blank verse.

{501}

LETTER TO B——.[1]

[Footnote 1: These detached passages form part of the preface to a

small volume printed some years ago for private circulation. They have

vigor and much originality—but of course we shall not be called upon

to endorse all the writer's opinions.—_Ed._]

It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one

who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of

poetry, I feel to be false—the less poetical the critic, the less just

the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are

but few B——'s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's

good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here

observe, “Shakspeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and

yet Shakspeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the

world judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable

judgment?” The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word

“judgment” or “opinion.” The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may

be called theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he

did not write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the

opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakspeare a

great poet—yet the fool has never read Shakspeare. But the fool's

neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head

(that is to say his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to

be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day

actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which

that superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have

been discovered—this neighbor asserts that Shakspeare is a great

poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This

neighbor's own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one

above _him_, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals, who

kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit

who stands upon the pinnacle.

* * * * *

You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.

He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established

wit of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with

law or empire—an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne

in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their

authors, improve by travel—their having crossed the sea is, with us,

so great a distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our

very fops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page,

where the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are

precisely so many letters of recommendation.

* * * * *

I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the

notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is

another. I remarked before, that in proportion to the poetical talent,

would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore, a bad poet

would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would

infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is

indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique.

Whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love, might be

replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in

short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just, where

one's own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets

than good. There are of course many objections to what I say: Milton

is a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to

the Paradise Regained, is by no means fairly ascertained. By what

trivial circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not

really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to

posterity. But, in fact, the Paradise Regained is little, if at all,

inferior to the Paradise Lost, and is only supposed so to be, because

men do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and

reading those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied

with the first to derive any pleasure from the second.

I dare say Milton preferred Comus to either—if so—justly.

* * * * *

As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly

upon the most singular heresy in its modern history—the heresy of what

is called very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have

been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal

refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of

supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as

Coleridge and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical

theories so prosaically exemplified.

Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most

philosophical of all writing[2]—but it required a Wordsworth to

pronounce it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of

poetry is, or should be, instruction—yet it is a truism that the end

of our existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part

of our existence—every thing connected with our existence should be

still happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness;

and happiness is another name for pleasure;—therefore the end of

instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above mentioned opinion

implies precisely the reverse.

[Footnote 2: Spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton genos.]

To proceed: ceteris paribus, he who pleases, is of more importance to

his fellow men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and

pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the

means of obtaining.

I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume

themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they

refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere

respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for

their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since

their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is

the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no

doubt be tempted to think of the devil in Melmoth, who labors

indefatigably through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the

destruction of one or two souls, while any common devil would have

demolished one or two thousand.

* * * * *

Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study—not a

passion—it becomes the metaphysician to reason—but the poet to

protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued

in contemplation from his childhood, the other a giant in {502}

intellect and learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to

dispute their authority, would be overwhelming, did I not feel, from

the bottom of my heart, that learning has little to do with the

imagination—intellect with the passions—or age with poetry.

* * * * *

“Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow,

He who would search for pearls must dive below,”

are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater

truths, men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top;

the depth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought—not in the

palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always

right in hiding the goddess in a well: witness the light which Bacon

has thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine

faith—that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may

overbalance the wisdom of a man.

We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his Biographia

Literaria—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a

treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis_. He goes wrong by reason

of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the

contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely

sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray—while he

who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the

star is useful to us below—its brilliancy and its beauty.

* * * * *

As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had, in youth, the

feelings of a poet I believe—for there are glimpses of extreme

delicacy in his writings—(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom—his

_El Dorado_)—but they have the appearance of a better day recollected;

and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire—we

know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of

the glacier.

He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the

end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the

light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment

consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,—but the old

Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters

of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when

sober—sober that they might not be deficient in formality—drunk lest

they should be destitute of vigor.

The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into

admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are

full of such assertions as this—(I have opened one of his volumes at

random) “Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is

worthy to be done, and what was never done before”—indeed! then it

follows that in doing what is _un_worthy to be done, or what _has_

been done before, no genius can be evinced: yet the picking of pockets

is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and

Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought

hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

Again—in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be

Ossian's or M’Pherson's, can surely be of little consequence, yet, in

order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in

the controversy. _Tantæne animis?_ Can great minds descend to such

absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in

favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his

abomination of which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the

beginning of the epic poem “_Temora_.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll

in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their

dusky heads in the breeze.” And this—this gorgeous, yet simple

imagery—where all is alive and panting with immortality—this—William

Wordsworth, the author of Peter Bell, has _selected_ for his contempt.

We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer.

Imprimis:

“And now she's at the pony's head,

And now she's at the pony's tail,

On that side now, and now on this,

And almost stifled her with bliss—

A few sad tears does Betty shed,

She pats the pony where or when

She knows not: happy Betty Foy!

O Johnny! never mind the Doctor!”

Secondly:

“The dew was falling fast, the—stars began to blink,

I heard a voice, it said——drink, pretty creature, drink;

And looking o'er the hedge, be—fore me I espied

A snow-white mountain lamb with a—maiden at its side,

No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,

And by a slender cord was—tether'd to a stone.”

Now we have no doubt this is all true; we _will_ believe it, indeed we

will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a

sheep from the bottom of my heart.

* * * * *

But there _are_ occasions, dear B——, there are occasions when even

Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an

end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is

an extract from his preface—

“Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,

if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)

will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!

ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!) and will be

induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have

been permitted to assume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Yet let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and

the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and

dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

* * * * *

Of Coleridge I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering

intellect! his gigantic power! He is one more evidence of the fact

“que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce

qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient.” He has

imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against

those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be

buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume

upon the night alone. In reading his poetry I tremble—like one who

stands upon a volcano, conscious, from the very darkness bursting from

the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.

* * * * *

{503} What is Poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many

appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! Give me, I demanded of a

scholar some time ago, give me a definition of poetry?

“Tres-volontiers,”—and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.

Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal

Shakspeare! I imagined to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon

the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear

B——, think of poetry, and then think of—Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of

all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and

unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then—and then

think of the Tempest—the Midsummer Night's Dream—Prospero—Oberon—and

Titania!

* * * * *

A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for

its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having for

its object an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a

poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting

perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,

to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet

sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a

pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without the idea is simply music;

the idea without the music is prose from its very definitiveness.

What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his

soul?

* * * * *

To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B——, what you no doubt

perceive, for the metaphysical poets, _as_ poets, the most sovereign

contempt. That they have followers proves nothing—

No Indian prince has to his palace

More followers than a thief to the gallows.

THE SCIENCE OF LIFE.

BY M. CAREY.

1. If you be so exceptious and pettish, as to question every word you

hear said of you, you will have few friends, little sense, and much

trouble.

2. Neglect not manners as if they were of little importance. They are

frequently what the world judges us by, and by which it decides for or

against us. A man may have virtue, capacity and good conduct, and yet

by roughness be rendered insupportable.

3. Broach not odd opinions to such as are not fit to hear them. If you

do, you will do them no good by it, perhaps hurt; and may very well

expect discredit and mischief to yourself. An ill placed paradox, and

an ill timed jest have ruined many.

4. To have a graceful behavior, it is necessary to have a proper

degree of confidence; and a tolerably good opinion of yourself.

Bashfulness is boyish.

5. Think how many times you have been mistaken in your opinions in

times past, and let that teach you in future not to be positive or

obstinate.

ANTHOLOGIA.

BY M. CAREY.

1. On a lady of sixty marrying a youth of seventeen.

Hard is the fate of every childless wife,

The thoughts of barrenness annoy her life.

Troth, aged bride, by thee 'twas wisely done

To choose a child and husband both in one.

2. Composition of an Epigram.

What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole,

Its body brevity and wit its soul.

3. Lurking Love.

When lurking love in ambush lies,

Under friendship's fair disguise:

When he wears an angry mien,

Imitating strife and spleen:

When, like sorrow, he seduces,

When, like pleasure, he amuses:

Still, howe'er the parts are cast,

It is but lurking love at last.

4. The Farmer's Creed.

Let this be held the farmer's creed:

For stock look out the choicest breed—

In peace and plenty let them feed—

Your land sow with the best of seed—

Enclose and drain it with all speed,

And you will soon be rich indeed.

5. On a Slanderous Coquette.

Hast thou not seen a lively bee,

Rove through the air, supremely free,

Its slender waist, and swelling breast,

In nature's beauteous colors drest,

While on its little, pointed tongue,

All Hybla's luscious sweets were hung:

Such Nancy is—but, oh the thing,

Wears, like the bee, a poisonous sting.

6. On Content.

It is not youth can give content,

Nor is it wealth can fee;

It is a dower from heav'n sent,

But not to thee or me.

It is not in the monarch's crown

Though he'd give millions for 't—

It is not in his lordship's frown

Nor waits on him to court.

It is not in a coach and six,

It is not in a garter;

'Tis not in love or politics,

But 'tis in Hodge the Carter.

7. On a Dandy.

They say, my friend, that you admire

Yourself with all a lover's fire.

Men who possess what they desire

Like you, are happy fellows.

But you can boast one pleasure more,

While blest with all that you adore,

That no one will be jealous.

{504}

_Editorial_.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

HOUSE OF LORDS.

_Random Recollections of the House of Lords, from the year 1830 to

1836. By the author of “Random Recollections of the House of Commons.”

Philadelphia: Republished by E. L. Carey & A. Hart._

This is an exceedingly interesting volume, written by Mr. Grant, a

young Scotch reporter—a man of sound sense, acute observation, and

great knowledge of mankind. Its manner is correct, fluent, and

forcible—occasionally rising into a high species of eloquence. It has

too, that rare merit in compositions of this nature—the merit of

strict impartiality—an impartiality so rigidly observed, that it is

nearly impossible to form, from any thing comprehended in the book

itself, an estimate of the political principles of the writer.

The work commences, in pursuance of the author's plan adopted in his

book on the other House of Parliament, with an account of the interior

of the building in which the Lords assembled prior to its partial

destruction by fire in October 1834. This account is full of interest.

“The present house,” says the author, “is a small, narrow apartment.

Last year it was but very imperfectly lighted. It is more cheerful

now, owing to the new windows added to it during the recess. It is

incapable of containing more than two hundred and fifty of their

lordships with any degree of comfort. It is right to mention, however,

that it is but seldom a greater number are present, and it is not

often there are so many.”

Chapter II is occupied with the forms, rules, regulations, &c. of the

House, and is also very entertaining. Among other things, we have here

a denial of the common assertion that the Lord Chancellor carries the

Great Seal before him when advancing to the Bar of the House to

receive a bill sent up by the Commons. His Lordship, we are told, very

gravely, merely carries before him the bag in which it is deposited

when he receives it from the King, or when, on his retirement from

office, he delivers it up into his Majesty's hands. This bag, we are

farther informed, is about twelve inches square, is embroidered with

tassels of gold, silver, and silk, and has his Majesty's arms on both

sides. The Great Seal itself is made of silver, and is seven inches in

diameter. We do not understand the manner in which the Seal is said to

be divided into two parts, and attached to the letters patent. The

impression is six inches in diameter, and three quarters of an inch

thick. On every new accession we learn that a new Seal is struck, and

the old one cut into four pieces and deposited in the Tower. In this

chapter we have the following characteristic anecdote of King William.

The _empressement_ with which the narrator dwells upon the wonderful

circumstance of the monarch's actually reading a letter “without

embarrassment, or the mistake of a single word,” is an amusing

instance of the mystifying influence of “the divine right” and its

accompaniments, upon the noddles of its devotees. The idea, too, of

the King's asking what are the words in his own speech, is

sufficiently burlesque.

Of his extreme good nature and simplicity of manners, he gave several

striking proofs at the opening of the present session. The day was

unusually gloomy, which, added to an imperfection in his visual

organs, consequent on advanced years, and to the darkness of the

present House of Lords, especially in the place where the throne is

situated, rendered it impossible for him to read the _Royal Speech_

with facility. Most patiently and good-naturedly did he struggle with

the task, often hesitating, sometimes mistaking, and at others

correcting himself. On one occasion he stuck altogether, when, after

two or three ineffectual efforts to make out the word, he was obliged

to give it up, when turning to Lord Melbourne, who stood on his right

hand, and looking him most significantly in the face, he said, in a

tone sufficiently loud to be audible in all parts of the house, “Eh,

what is it?” The infinite good nature and bluntness with which the

question was put, would have reconciled the most inveterate republican

to monarchy in England, so long as it is embodied in the person of

William the Fourth. Lord Melbourne having whispered the obstructing

word, the King proceeded to toil through the speech, but by the time

he got to about the middle, the Librarian brought him two wax tapers,

on which he suddenly paused, and raising his head, and looking at the

Lords and Commons, he addressed them on the spur of the moment in a

perfectly distinct voice, and without the least embarrassment or the

mistake of a single word, in these terms:

_My Lords and Gentlemen_,

I have hitherto not been able, from want of light, to read this speech

in the way its importance deserves; but as lights are now brought me,

I will read it again from the commencement, and in a way which I trust

will command your attention.

He then again, though evidently fatigued by the difficulty of reading

in the first instance, began at the beginning, and read through the

speech in a manner which would have done credit to any professor of

elocution.

What a running satire on _form_ is the following!

No noble Lord must, on any occasion, or under any circumstances,

mention the name or title of any other noble Lord. If he wishes to

refer to any particular Peer, he must do so in some such phraseology

as the following: “The noble Duke, or the noble Marquis who has just

sat down”—“the noble Earl at the head of his Majesty's

Government”—“the noble and learned Lord”—“the noble Lord that spoke

last”—“the noble Viscount that spoke last but one”—“the noble Baron

that spoke last but two,” &c. &c.

What a world we live in, when such and similar things are related in a

volume such as this, by a man of excellent sense, with a gravity

becoming an owl!