In March, 1655, Col. Thomas Dew was a member of the council. He had

been speaker of the assembly in 1652, the first elected under Bennett.

_We know_ (we do not ask historians to tell us this) that he was a

loyal clansman, who was driven to Virginia by his hatred of the

usurpers, and to accommodate his name to English orthography, changed

the spelling from that of "Dhu"--since made familiar to all readers of

poetry--by Sir Walter Scott. He is now (in 1655) in the council,

making in that body seven known loyalists.

In the legislature of that year, we have the name of Sir Henry

Chichely.

In 1656, Col. Morrison (the companion of Ludlow's voyage) is speaker.

In the next assembly (1658) John Smith was speaker. We know nothing

certainly of him; but it was that assembly that deposed Mathews. They

gave him Berkeley's friend, Claiborne, as secretary of state; and for

councillors, among others, West, Pettus, Hill, Dew, and Bernard. They

made some changes, but turned out none of that party. At the same time

they introduced Col. John Carter, another of Norwood's friends. He had

been chairman of the committee, on the report of which the assembly

had just acted. Horsmenden, another of the same committee, was elected

to the council at the same time.

In March 1659, Hill, who had left his place in the council, is again

speaker. In March 1660, the assembly which reinstated Berkeley,

retained Bennett and five other of the old councillors, of whose

characters we have no other indication. These were Robins, Perry,

Walker, Read, and Wood. What they were may be inferred from this fact.

Morrison, moreover, was elected at the same time.

Can we believe, in the face of these facts, that the loyalty of

Virginia ever wavered? That it bowed before the storm we know. That

the assembly, in one instance, passed a vote of disfranchisement

against the author of a seditious paper, appears in 1 Hen. Sts. p.

380. But we also find that this vote was reversed _as soon as they

heard of the death of Oliver Cromwell_.]

{590} If then Bennett was, as we conjecture, recommended to the

assembly by the parliamentary commissioners, what induced them to

choose him? The answer is given by Mr. Bancroft at p. 241. He had

become obnoxious to Berkeley, and had been "compelled to quit

Virginia." For what does not appear. Hardly for disloyalty. In 1 Hen.

Sts. p. 235, we have his name and that of Mathews signed to a paper of

as enthusiastic loyalty as was ever penned, presented to the king

after his rupture with parliament.

But what reason have we for supposing this interference with the

freedom of election? We answer that our reasons are twofold.

1. The authority of Robertson, who relies on Beverley and Chalmers,

and doubtless consulted all the authorities he could find, is entitled

to some weight. Had he said the governors were _appointed_ by

Cromwell, we should know that he spoke at random. But his use of the

equivocal word "_named_," shows that he knew what he was talking

about, and considered what he was saying.

2. But in Hen. Sts. 499 to 505, is an evidence that we think

conclusive. Mathews took it into his head to dissolve the assembly.

They immediately voted the act a nullity, and civilly invited the

Governor to go on with the business. To this he assented, revoking the

order, but proposing to "referre the dispute of the power of

dissolving and the legality thereof to his Highnesse the Lord

Protector." This was in 1658, and the Lord Protector was then Richard

Cromwell, and not Oliver, under whom Mathews had been elected.

The house took fire immediately at this proposed appeal, and deposed

Mathews, and having solemnly declared the "power of government" to

reside in themselves, they _re-elect him_, saying that he is "BY US

invested" with the office.

Now what did this mean, if circumstances had not been such as justify

the notion entertained by Mathews that he derived his authority from

some other source, so as to have the right of dissolving the assembly.

Had there been no interference on the part of Cromwell, this whole

proceeding would have been idle and ridiculous. Yet it is obviously

the proceeding of men not disposed to trifle, and who well understood

what they were about.

Now compare this peremptory proceeding with that which took place soon

after on the death of Mathews. Richard Cromwell had then abdicated,

and there was therefore no shadow of authority in England to restrain

the action of the assembly. But what do they do? They elect Sir

William Berkeley _provisionally_, making the continuance of his

authority and their own to determine on the coming of a "lawful

commission." Now, _such commission_, as we have already shown, could

only come from the king; it was his plan of government; it had not

been practiced by the parliament; and the right to exercise it had

been denied to them and renounced by them. Does not this conduct of

the assembly show that they anticipated the restoration of one whose

right they had always maintained?

So far, we have done little more than to express our dissent from Mr.

Bancroft's conclusions. In a single instance, to which we have

adverted, he must be suspected of wilfully misrepresenting his

authorities. We allude to the memorial addressed to Cromwell in favor

of the trade of Virginia, of which he was certainly aware, and which

clearly disproves his own statement. Had this been the only instance

of the sort, we should have passed it over more lightly. But it does

not stand alone.

{591} His main drift, in his account of these transactions, seems to

be, to show that Virginia had taken the infection of Republicanism;

that she was effectually weaned from her allegiance; that she desired

nothing but to set up for herself; and that the use she proposed to

make of the abdication of Richard, and the consequent suspension of

executive power in England, was to establish the supremacy of her

legislature. In this view the assembly are represented as requiring of

Berkeley the distinct acknowledgment of their authority, which he, we

are told, recognized without a scruple. "I am" said he, "but the

servant of the assembly."

Now what will the reader say when he reads the passage from which

these words are copied. It runs thus:

"You desire me to do that concerning your titles and claims to land in

this northern part of America, which I am in no capacity to do; for I

am but the servant of the assembly: _neither do they arrogate to

themselves_ any power, farther than the miserable distractions in

England _force them to_. For when God shall be pleased to take away

and dissipate the unnatural divisions of their native country, _they

will immediately return to their professed obedience_."

Is this an assertion of the supremacy of the assembly? Is it not the

very reverse? He disclaims any power to act in a certain behalf. Why?

Because he is but the servant of the assembly; he has no power but

what is given by them, and _they do not pretend to have any such to

give_. On their principles, they could not. Looking for the

restoration, they expected "some commission" by which any authority

they could establish would be superseded; their provisional government

was the result of necessity, and its powers were limited to the nature

of that necessity. Every thing that could wait was made to wait.

What is the meaning of this strange attempt to pervert the truth of

history, and to represent Virginia as being as far gone in devotion to

the parliament as Massachusetts herself? Why does it come to us,

sweetened with the language of panegyric, from those who love us not,

and who habitually scoff at and deride us? Is it intended to dispose

us to acquiesce in the new notion, "that the people of the colonies,

all together, formed one body politic before the revolution?" Against

this proposition we feel bound to protest. We hold ourselves prepared

to maintain the negative against all comers and goers, with tongue and

pen; and to resist the practical results, if need be, with stronger

weapons. When Virginians shall learn to kiss the rod of power; to

desert their friends in trouble, and to take part with the strong

against the weak, it will then be in character to disparage the memory

of our forefathers, and to say, they were even such as ourselves. But

until we have done something to dishonor our lineage, let us speak of

them as they were,

"Faithful among the faithless;

Among the faithless, faithful only they."

We have said nothing of Mr. Bancroft's style. It is our duty as

critics to take some notice of it; and, we apprehend, he might think

himself wronged if we did not. He is obviously very proud of it; and,

in saying this, we fear we have condemned it. An ambitious style is

certainly not the style for history. To say nothing of the frequent

sacrifice of perspicuity to ornament, there is a tone in it which

excites distrust. We find ourselves, we know not how, diffident of

statements which come to us in the language of declamation, antithesis

and epigram.

In our boyhood Hume's history was put into our hands; and we remember

our surprise at hearing something said in praise of his style.

_Style!!_ Was that _style_? A plain story, told just as we should have

told it ourselves? Partridge would as soon have thought of admiring

Garrick's acting. The _king_ was the actor for his money, and Mr.

Bancroft's would _then_ have been the style for ours.

We have no doubt, for example, we should have been delighted with the

following passage, introduced into a description which closes the

author's remarks on the very question we have been discussing. We give

it for the benefit of any of our young friends, who may be preparing

an oration for the fourth of July. It would be nothing amiss, on such

an occasion, for a "moonish youth" not yet out of his first love

scrape. But from a grave historian, with a beard on his chin, we

cannot approve it. We give it as a sample. _Ex pede Herculem_. "The

humming-bird, so brilliant in its plumage, and so delicate in its

form, quick in motion, yet not fearing the presence of man, haunting

about the flowers, like the bee gathering honey, rebounding from the

blossoms out of which it sips the dew, and as soon returning" to renew

its many addresses to its delightful objects, "was ever admired as the

smallest and the most beautiful of the feathered race."

Alas! Alas! If this is the way to write history, we fear we shall have

to leave our northern neighbors to tell the story their own way. It is

a hard case. Let them write our books, and they become our masters.

But we cannot help ourselves. We cannot contend with those who can

write history in this style. Our only defence is not to read. A more

effectual security would be, not to buy. In that case they would not

write; and we should not only avoid being led into error, but might

escape the injury of being misrepresented to others. But Mr.

Bancroft's book is in print, and we must abide the mortification of

having all who may read it, think of our ancestors as he has

represented them. We have comfort in believing that they will not be

very numerous.

* * * * *

THE WRITINGS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON; being his Correspondence,

Addresses, Messages, and other Papers, official and private, selected

and published from the original manuscripts; with a Life of the

Author, Notes and Illustrations; Vols. II, III, IV, V and VI; by Jared

Sparks.--Boston: Russell, Odiorne & Co.

We regret that we deferred our notice of the second and third volumes

of this interesting and valuable work, until the appearance of the

other three. It has now so grown on our hands, that it is impossible

to do justice to it in an article of any reasonable compass. Yet we

know few works that we would more strongly recommend to the public.

We have little curiosity to peep into dead men's port-folios, and

perhaps the world has seen few that would not suffer in reputation by

being tracked, through all their walk in life, by daily memoranda and

documentary evidence. The man whose history, under this searching

scrutiny, shows "no variableness nor shadow {592} of turning," most

differ very much from the multitude, even of those we call the great

and good. Nothing certainly can show a fuller and firmer consciousness

of rectitude of intention, than to begin life with a purpose of

leaving behind a full and fair account of it. Such memorials carefully

written out and preserved, like the books of a tradesman, bespeak a

steadiness of honesty, that never for a moment distrusts itself. Which

of us, commencing a diary, would feel sure that he might not do

something to-morrow that he would not choose to set down? Which of us

opening a letter book, which should exhibit his whole correspondence,

would not be tempted to leave out something?

Here is a man who chooses that his steps shall all be in the light. He

begins life, by laying down to himself rules of action and deportment.

He commits these to paper, and hands them down to posterity, with a

full register of all his acts and words and thoughts. The remarkable

modesty of General Washington, would alone prevent us from

understanding this as a challenge to the whole world, to compare his

principles, professions and actions throughout, defying any imputation

of inconsistency.

There is nothing more remarkable in this, than the evidence it affords

of the early consciousness of a something distinguishing him from

other men, which seems, most unaccountably, to have found its way into

his humble mind. It is the most striking instance on record of the

_instinct of greatness_. It is a study for the metaphysician and

philosopher. From the beginning, the work is done as if for posterity,

and executed as if intended for the eyes of the world. This in a boy,

who never made any ostentation of himself, his endowments, or his

actions; who formed a very humble estimate of his own powers, and

seemed through life to seek no reward but his own approbation, is one

of those strange phenomena which we refer to the influence of a

peculiar nature, acting by inscrutable impulses, of which the subject

of them is hardly conscious.

Did it occur to General Washington, even at that early age, that he

might be a father, and that his children might find an humble pride in

looking over the unspotted page of his unpretending life? Perhaps so.

Perhaps this thought was all that his young ambition (that passion

which humility itself cannot extinguish in the breast of greatness)

ventured to whisper to his heart. If so, the anticipation has been

nobly and mysteriously accomplished. Like the patriarch of old,

childish though he was, God has made him the father of nations; and it

should indeed be the pride of us his children, to read the history of

his life; to trace his steps; to study the system of moral discipline

by which he trained himself to greatness and virtue; to know him as he

was; and to mould ourselves by his precepts and example. No man ever

left to his posterity so rich a legacy as the extraordinary work

before us; and we owe many thanks to Mr. Sparks for the labor which

has prepared it for the public eye.

We really think that it is in this point of view that this work is

most interesting and valuable. Its importance as affording authentic

materials for what is _commonly called_ history, strikes us less

forcibly; though in this respect it must be highly useful. It

certainly affords the historian more satisfactory materials for his

work, than can be supplied from any other source, or for any other

portion of history. But what is that? What is history, for the most

part, but a narrative of events, the results of which cannot be

effected by our right or wrong apprehensions of them. What matters it

at this day, whether we believe that Cæsar killed Brutus, or Brutus

Cæsar? What will it concern posterity whether the glory of the field

of Waterloo belongs to Wellington or Blucher? But when will it be

otherwise than important and profitable to study the process by which

Washington became what he was? When will it cease to be a lesson of

wisdom, to look narrowly into the private and public history of the

most fortunate man that the world has ever seen, and observe that the

quality which most eminently distinguished him from other men, the

quality to which his success, his prosperity, his usefulness, and his

imperishable glory are mainly attributable, was VIRTUE? Since the day

when the important truth was first proclaimed, that "in keeping God's

commandments there is great reward," when was it so illustrated as in

this instance? Had there been a flaw in the character of General

Washington, could the most malignant scrutiny have detected in his

history anything dishonorable, anything unjust, anything selfish,

anything on which reproach could fasten, he could not have

accomplished what he did. No man could, be his talents what they

might, who did not bring to his task such a character for virtue as

would secure the confidence of the well-intentioned, and shame the

artful and designing from their purposes. A vicious and corrupt people

who fight for conquest; a lawless banditti who fight for spoil, may be

led to victory by talent, enterprise, courage and energy; but the

triumphs of Freedom can only be achieved under the auspices of Virtue.

When men are in a mood to rally to the banner of one whose life is

stained with crime, they do but deceive themselves if they think they

are contending for freedom. _When they are prepared to take such a one

as_ "A SECOND WASHINGTON," _they are only fit to contend for a choice

of masters._ This is eternal truth; but it will not be truth to them.

But we wander from the work before us; though we trust what we have

said will dispose those "who have ears to hear" to set a high value on

the book of which we proceed to give a short account.

The first of these volumes contains all the papers and private and

public letters of General Washington, which could illustrate either

his character, or the history of the country, up to the commencement

of the revolution. It is a portion of history highly interesting,

especially to Virginians, and on which none but a doubtful light is

shed from any other source. Here we have an authentic account of

Braddock's war; a sort of war of which the readers of history have, in

general, no idea but that which is drawn from romances and tales. It

is a warfare which does not recommend itself to the imagination, by

the "pride, pomp and circumstance" so interesting to those who "kiss

my Lady Peace at home." But since the invention of gun-powder, there

is no fighting which gives so much room for the display of prowess,

courage, coolness and address, and in which victory is so sure to be

the prize of these qualities. "Many a brave man," says Don Quixotte,

"has lost his life by the hand of a wretch who was frightened at the

flash of his own gun." Not so in Indian warfare. The man who is scared

never escapes {593} but by flight. How should he? There he stands

behind his tree, while at the distance of a few yards stands his

enemy, watching with the eye of a lynx, with his rifle to his cheek,

and ready to put a ball through any part that is exposed for a moment.

To anticipate him; to get a shot at him; to draw his fire, and then

drive him from his shelter, is a business in which success depends on

steadiness, self-possession, and presence of mind, as well as

dexterity and skill. He who _thus_ kills his man, _is_ a brave man;

and hence, among the Indians, a display of scalps is a proof of

courage never questioned. It was in this sort of warfare that

Washington served his apprenticeship. It was there he learned to look

danger steadily in the face, and to possess his soul in calmness amid

the fiercest storm of battle. There is no such school. The _art_ of

war is what a Martinet may learn. But the faculty of carrying that art

into practice, of applying its rules in the crisis which shakes the

nerves, and unsettles the mind, is only acquired by the "taste of

danger." To him who possesses that, the rest is a school-boy's task.

The other four volumes of the work contain the papers relating to the

war of the revolution. Such a body of evidence, so completely above

all exception, can hardly be found on the subject of any other war. We

are not sure that any historian has ever yet taken the time and pains

to collate and digest the whole, and to deduce all the essential

results. The means of doing so are here put in the hands of the

public, and we may hope that some one qualified and disposed for the

task will address himself to it, and furnish the world with a history

at once succinct and accurate, in which references to authorities may

stand in place of discussions. It is a fault of contemporary history

that it is almost always given on partial and imperfect evidence,

which is liable to be afterwards explained away, contradicted and

falsified. It is not until some time after the event, that all the

testimony is in the hands of the historian. That time has now come as

to the American Revolution. A concise history may be now written with

references to this work, which taken in connexion with it, will be

more satisfactory and conclusive than any now in existence. But every

one who pretends to acquaint himself with all that is most

interesting, especially to Virginians, should secure a copy of this

book.

Mr. Sparks has given us some interesting specimens of the sort of

history that we contemplate. In his appendices he presents succinct

narratives of the principal actions of the war, the accuracy of which,

the reader has it in his power to test by the evidence in the body of

the work. This is judicious and in good taste.

But after all, the great charm and value of this work is, that it is a

cast from living nature, of the mind of "the noblest man that ever

lived in the tide of time." We cannot dwell too much on the

contemplation of his peculiar character. His high sense of moral

worth, and the lofty aspirations of conscious greatness, looking out

from behind the veil of genuine modesty and humility with which he

delighted to shroud himself: the chivalrous and daring spirit ever

champing on the curb of prudence, but never impatiently straining

against it: the native fierceness of his temper, occasionally flashing

through his habitual moderation and self-command; the promptitude and

clearness of his conceptions, so modestly suggested, so patiently

revised, so calmly reconsidered in all the intervals of action; all

these qualities combined and harmonized by honor, integrity, and a

scrupulous regard to all the duties of public and private life; all

made "to drink into one spirit" all "members, every one of them in the

same body," all working to the same end; _diverse_ yet _congruous_.

What is there in the history of human nature, so grand, so majestic,

so elevating to the heart and hopes of man?

That virtue, which is never selfish in its ends, and ever scrupulous

in its choice of means, can rarely rise to a high place among the

great ones of the earth, unless associated with a strength of wing

which shall enable it to soar above those whose flight is unencumbered

by the clog of self-denial. Virtue in high places is thus so rare a

sight, that when we find it there, it so much engrosses our attention,

that we are apt to overlook the faculties by which it rose. Men like,

too, to delude themselves with the belief that their admiration is a

tribute to virtue; that the honors and emoluments they bestow are

given as the reward of virtue. Thinking thus, they think the better of

themselves, and are ready to take at his word the man who disclaims

any pretension to those more showy endowments which we reward for _our

own_ sakes. So we cheat ourselves; and so we cheat our benefactors;

not indeed of the fame _they_ prize most highly, but of that which

glitters brightest in the eyes of the world. Look at that wonderful

man, the blaze of whose glory pales even the "Julian Star" itself;

before whose power all Europe trembled, and America crouched; and let

us ask ourselves how far the extent of his achievements might have

been curtailed, had he ever permitted himself for a moment to "forget

the expedient in considering of the right;" and submitted to have his

choice of means limited by any regard to the laws of war or peace, of

man or God? His great maxim, that "in War, _time_ is every thing," was

well illustrated by the success of one, who never lost a moment in

working the complex problem of right and expediency. Compare the

rushing, desolating tempest of his career, with the cautious march of

Washington, picking his way with an anxious regard to duty, and ever

watchful of his steps, lest he might tread upon a worm. Compare his

abounding resources, all used without scruple, without reserve, with

the scanty means of the champion of our freedom, rendered yet more

scanty by his uniform care to do wrong to none, and never to soil his

hand, his name or his conscience with any thing unclean.

The fifth and last of _these_ volumes brings down the war to March

1780. How many more there will be, Mr. Sparks himself does not know.

He will go on with his selections until he shall have laid before the

public all that he deems most valuable of the writings of General

Washington. We trust that he will use discreetly and fairly his power

over the purses of his subscribers, who have engaged to take the work

for better for worse, be it more or less, at so much per volume. The

price is so liberal as to afford a high temptation; but we hope Mr.

Sparks will resist it. We should be sorry to see a work commencing so

nobly, degenerate into a mere book-making job. We hope not to have the

remains of the father of our country treated like those of an old

horse, whose heartless owner never thinks he has got all the good of

him, until his skin is sent to the tanner, his fat to the

tallow-chandler, {594} and his bones to the soap-boiler. Such is the

treatment which other great men have experienced at the hands of

"their children after the flesh;" dishonored in their graves by the

reckless and indecent publication of every thing to which their names

could give a market value. Let us bespeak a more considerate and

decorous use of the rich legacy left us by him whom we reverence as

the "father of our liberties."

It is perhaps, beside the general purpose of our remarks, to extract a

letter, illustrating a point in General Washington's character, of

which we have said nothing. That he was stern, and that he seemed cold

we know. It is equally certain that he was kind, courteous, and

tender, and it is delightful to see how eagerly his benevolence

catches at an opportunity to pour balm into the wounds of an enemy.

The following letter is found at p. 266, vol. 5.

"To Lieutenant General Burgoyne.

"_Head Quarters, March 11th, 1778_.

"Sir,--I was only two days since honored with your very obliging

letter of the 11th of February. Your indulgent opinion of my

character, and the polite terms in which you are pleased to express

it, are peculiarly flattering; and I take pleasure in the opportunity

you have afforded, of assuring you, that far from suffering the views

of national opposition to be imbittered and debased by personal

animosity, I am ever ready to do justice to the merit of the man and

soldier, and to esteem where esteem is due, however the idea of a

public enemy may interpose. You will not think it the language of

unmeaning ceremony, if I add, that sentiments of personal respect, in

the present instance, are reciprocal.

"Viewing you in the light of an officer contending against what I

conceive to be the rights of my country, the reverses of fortune you

experienced in the field cannot be unacceptable to me; but, abstracted

from considerations of national advantage, I can sincerely sympathize

with your feelings, as a soldier, the unavoidable difficulties of

whose situation forbade his success; and as a man, whose lot combines

the calamity of ill health, the anxieties of captivity, and the

painful sensibility for a reputation exposed, where he most values it,

to the assaults of malice and detraction.

"As your aid-de-camp went directly to Congress, the business of your

letter to me had been decided before it came to hand. I am happy that

their cheerful acquiescence in your request, prevented the necessity

of my intervention; and wishing you a safe and agreeable passage, with

a perfect restoration to your health, I have the honor to be, very

respectfully, &c. &c."

In General Burgoyne's reply, he says: "I beg you to accept my

sincerest acknowledgments for your obliging letter. I find the

character, which I before knew to be respectable, is also perfectly

amiable; and I should have few greater private gratifications in

seeing our melancholy contest at an end, than that of cultivating your

friendship."

How beautiful! How delightful is this exhibition of the best feelings

of the heart, under circumstances which the ferocious and brutish use

as a pretext for giving free scope to the worst! How truly does the

poet sing!

"Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light,

When first by the bewildered pilgrim spied,

It smiles upon the dreary brow of night,

And silvers o'er the torrents foaming tide,

And lights the fearful path by mountain side:

Fair as that beam, although the fairest far,

Giving to horror grace, to danger pride,

Shine martial faith, and courtesy's bright star,

Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of war."[2]

[Footnote 2: We implore the lenient judgment of our brethren of the

craft of criticism on this long quotation. We know that it is not

_selon les regles_ so to quote in a review. Besides it is trite as

well as long. But what could we do, when our heart was full of the

very sentiment which Scott has expressed so much better than we could?

To our readers, not of the craft, we say "regard rather our precept,

than our example."]

* * * * *

_The Italian Sketch-Book_. _Philadelphia: Key & Biddle_. This is a

very handsome duodecimo, and presents more than ordinary claims to

attention. It is the work of an American, and purports to be written

during a sojourn at Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome. The book is

chiefly made up of sketches and descriptions of these world-renowned

cities. It will be seen that there is nothing very novel in the

subject, and the question naturally arises "Who has not already heard

all that is worth knowing about Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome?"

But, notwithstanding the triteness of his theme, our American

traveller has contrived to throw an uncommon interest over his pages.

They are finely diversified with stories well-told, essays tending to

illustrate points of local or social interest in Italy, and much

descriptive writing which has all the force and fidelity of painting.

* * * * *

_Outre-Mer, or a Pilgrimage Beyond the Sea, by Professor Longfellow_,

is a work somewhat in the same style, and equally well written

throughout. "I have travelled"--says the Professor--"through France

from Normandy to Navarre--smoked my pipe in a Flemish inn--floated

through Holland in a Treckschuit--trimmed my midnight lamp in a German

university--wandered and mused amid the classic scenes of Italy--and

listened to the gay guitar on the banks of the Guadalquiver." The book

before us is a kind of running comment on the text of his travels,

and, as we have said before, has many of the peculiar traits which

distinguish the Italian Sketch-Book. It is, however, more abundant in

humor than that work, and is far richer in legend and anecdote. The

Professor tells a comic story with much grace, and his literary

disquisitions have always a great deal to recommend them.

* * * * *

_Voyage of the U.S. Frigate Potomac, under the command of Commodore

John Downes, during the circumnavigation of the globe in the years

1831-32-33 and 34: including a particular account of the engagement at

Quallah-Battoo, on the Coast of Sumatra_. _By J. N. Reynolds_. This is

a thick volume of nearly 600 pages, well printed, upon good paper,

with some excellent engravings, and published by the Harpers. Mr.

Reynolds, the author, or to speak more correctly, the compiler, will

be remembered as the associate of Symmes in his remarkable theory of

the earth, and a public defender of that very indefensible subject,

upon which he delivered a series of lectures in many of our principal

cities. With the exception, however, of seven chapters, the matter

forming the work now published is gleaned from the ship's journal,

from the private journals of the officers, and from papers furnished

by Commodore Downes himself. This fact will speak much for the

authenticity of the details, and very valuable information scattered

through the book. Mr. R. himself was not with the Potomac during the

circumnavigation, having joined her in 1832 at Valparaiso. Our readers

are, of coarse, acquainted {595} with the object of the Potomac's

voyage, and with the outrage perpetrated by the Malays on the ship

Friendship in 1831, which rendered it an indispensable duty on the

part of our government to demand an indemnity. The result of this

demand, and the action at Quallah-Battoo are graphically sketched by

Mr. Reynolds. Every body will be pleased, too, with his description of

Canton and of Lima. He writes well, although somewhat too

enthusiastically, and his book will gain him reputation as a man of

science and accurate observation. It will form a valuable addition to

our geographical libraries.

* * * * *

_The History of Ireland, by Thomas Moore, vol. 1_, in which the

records of that country are brought down from the year B.C. 1000, to

A.D. 684, has been republished by Carey, Lea & Blanchard. We intend a

very high compliment to the bard of Paradise and the Peri, in saying

that we think his prose very little inferior to his poetry. We have

not forgotten Captain Rock and Fitzgerald. The Epicurean (a very

anomalous Epicurean by the bye) is a model of fine writing. The Life

of Byron, in spite of a thousand errors, both of the head and of the

heart, and in spite too of its perpetually exciting our risibility at

the expense of the little cockney biographer himself, is a book to be

proud of after all, and should not be mentioned in comparison with a

certain absurd tissue of maudlin metaphysics, attributed (we hope

falsely) to Mr. Galt. And now, lastly, we have before us a specimen of

Moore's versatile abilities, in as temperate, as profound, as well

arranged, and in every respect as well written a history as Green Erin

can either desire or deserve. Very truly, Anacreon Moore is, in our

opinion, no ordinary man.

* * * * *

_Blackbeard, or a Page from the Colonial History of Philadelphia_.

_Harper & Brothers, New York_. This book differs in many striking

points from the ordinary novels of the day. The scene is laid in

Philadelphia, and the author is largely indebted for many pictures of

manners, things, and opinions in the olden days of the city of

Brotherly Love to the "Annals of Philadelphia." We think these volumes

will be read with interest in England, but as a mere novel they have

very few claims to attention. The style is clumsy and embarrassed. The

character of Oxenstiern is a piece of pure folly and exaggeration;

while the atrocities of Blackbeard, which are intended to produce a

great effect upon the mind of the reader, utterly fail of this end

from a want of the _ars celare artem_ in the writer. The book may be

characterized in a few words as odd, vulgar, ill-written, and

interesting.

* * * * *

_Pencil Sketches or Outlines of Character and Manners_. _Second

Series_. _By Miss Leslie_. _Philadelphia, Carey, Lea, & Blanchard_.

This volume contains the Wilson-House--the Album--the Reading

Parties--the Set of China--Laura Lovel--John W. Robinson, and the

Ladies Ball. All these stories have been published before in different

periodicals, and have been extensively copied and admired. Miss

Leslie's writings have obtained her much reputation, both at home and

abroad, and we think very deservedly. She is a lively and _piquante_

sayer of droll and satirical things; and has a way of showing off _à

peindre_ the little weak points in our national manners. _The Gift_,

an Annual, edited by Miss L. and published by Carey and Lea, will make

its appearance in October. It will be splendidly embellished, and in

literary matter, cannot fail of equalling any similar publication.

Among the contributors will be found Washington Irving, Paulding, Miss

Sedgewick, and a host of _stellæ minores_. It will also have the aid

of Fanny Kemble's fine _countenance_, and very spirited pen.

* * * * *

_The American Quarterly Review for June_ has articles on National

Music--Poetry of the Troubadours--Judge Story's Conflict of

Laws--Immunity of Religion--Sigourney's Sketches--Memoir of Tristram

Burges--Shirreff's Tour through North America--Fenimore Cooper--French

Question--and Pitkin's Statistics. It includes also some Miscellaneous

Notices. This is, upon the whole, one of the best numbers of the

Quarterly which has been issued for some time. Most of the papers,

however, are still liable to the old charge of superficiality. The

_Poetry of the Troubadours_ is prettily written, and evinces a noble

feeling for the loveliness of song. But it is _feeble_, inasmuch as it

exhibits nothing of novelty, none of those lucid and original views,

in default of the power to produce which, a writer should forbear to

enter upon a subject so hackneyed. We depend upon our reviews for much

of our literary reputation abroad, and we have a right therefore, as

in a matter touching our national pride, to expect something of energy

at their hands. They should build up a reputation of their own, and

admit papers on no themes which can be found better treated elsewhere.

In the article on _National Music_, among much sensible, and some very

profound writing, there are occasional sallies which will not fail to

startle many an European _literateur_, and some broad assertions which

are very plausible and very unsusceptible of proof. For example. "It

may be observed"--says the reviewer--"that, accustomed as we are to

separate poetry and music, we must never forget that they were

inseparable among the Greeks." This we know is a very general

opinion--but, like some other passages in the review, should be

swallowed _cum grano salis_. The _Immunity of Religion_ contains some

animadversions on a sermon preached at Charleston in 1833, by the Rev.

J. Adams, D.D. President of Charleston College. This whole paper is,

in our opinion, a series of truisms from beginning to end, and the

writer, in gravely deprecating the union of church and state, and the

employment of force in matters of religion, forgets that he is

insisting upon arguments which not one enlightened person in a

million, at the present day, will take the trouble of gainsaying. The

review of _Mrs. Sigourney's Sketches_ we really do not like. The

harmony--the energy--the fire--the elevated tone of moral feeling--the

keen sense of the delicate, the beautiful, and the magnificent, which

have obtained for this lady the name of the American Hemans, have not

found an echo--so it seems to us--in the unpoetical heart of her

reviewer. But, because this is most evidently the case, are we to

think of blaming Mrs. Sigourney?

The other papers are generally respectable. The most interesting, in

our opinion, is that on Shirreff's Tour in North America.

* * * * *

{596} _Life of Kosciuszko_.--The Foreign Quarterly Review for March

1833, contains a notice of the biography of Thaddeus Kosciuszko, by

Charles Falkenstein, re-printed with additions and corrections during

the last year at Leipzic. From the opinions expressed by the

reviewers, we are led to believe that this work possesses great merit,

and that opinion is strengthened by the copious extracts made in the

review. Indeed the narrative of a life so filled up with romantic

adventure and enthusiastic patriotism as that of Kosciuszko, could

scarcely fail to excite great interest. The history of his life has a

peculiar charm to Americans, from the association of his name and his

achievements with the annals of our revolution. The recent struggle of

the Poles for emancipation from the yoke of their barbarian

master--its unfortunate termination--and the wretched enslavement of

that generous people, which France and England tamely suffered to be

sealed by the blood of her patriots, give to every portion of Polish

history which relates to her many contests for freedom, a romantic

interest. It is well said by the reviewer whose notice has made us

acquainted with Falkenstein's work, that "There is in the Polish

character a something of barbaric splendor and rudeness, of the very

spirit of Orientalism, mingled with European education and refinement,

an ardor of patriotic valor, alloyed by versatility, both no doubt

heightened, if not produced, by the strange exciting, or rather

distracting constitution of the old and truly republican monarchy of

Poland,--combined with such a gay, light, mirthful gallantry--whence

the Poles were once termed the French of the north--that all, blending

together, give the nation a peculiar hold upon the imagination.... In

fact what we have said of the Polish nation applies with peculiar

force to the nation's champion, Kosciuszko. His whole life is a

romance, and as such, is really quite refreshing in these matter of

fact days of steam engines, rail roads and compendious compilations of

cheap literature." We presume this book has never been translated;

certainly we have never heard of it in an English form, and we were

much interested in the summary of its contents given by the reviewer.

Kosciuszko, was it appears, like many other great men, crossed in his

first love. He attempted an elopement, was intercepted by the haughty

parent of his lady love, when a sanguinary conflict ensued. Kosciuszko

was wounded, and the lady dragged back to her paternal home. It was

this unfortunate affair which caused his resignation of his commission

in the Polish army, and induced him to cross the Atlantic and offer

his services to our forefathers. We are told that he reached the new

world utterly unprovided with letters of recommendation or

introduction, and nearly penniless. His biographer thus described his

first interview with Washington:

"'What do you seek here?' inquired the General with his accustomed

brevity.--'I come to fight as a volunteer for American independence,'

was the equally brief and fearless reply.--'What can you do?' was

Washington's next question; to which Kosciuszko, with his

characteristic simplicity, only rejoined, 'Try me.' This was done.

Occasions soon offered, in which his talents, science, and valor, were

evinced, and above all his great character was duly appreciated. He

was speedily made an officer, and further distinguished himself."

The first acquaintance of Kosciuszko and Lafayette, (two men who

resembled each other in many respects besides being pure and fearless

and disinterested patriots and philanthropists) is thus described:

"He had not been long in America, when he had occasion to display his

undaunted courage, as captain of a company of volunteers. Generals

Wayne and Lafayette, notwithstanding the heat of the battle in which

they themselves were fully engaged, observed with satisfaction the

exertions of that company, which advanced beyond all the rest, and

made its attacks in the best order.

"'Who led the first company?' asked Lafayette of his comrades, on the

evening of that memorable day (the 30th of September).

"The answer was 'It is a young Pole, of noble birth, but very poor;

his name, if I am not mistaken, is Kosciuszko.' The sound of this

unusual name, which he could hardly pronounce, filled the French hero

with so eager a desire for the brave stranger's acquaintance, that he

ordered his horse to be immediately saddled, and rode to the village,

about a couple of miles off, where the volunteers were quartered for

the night.

"Who shall describe the pleasure of the one, or the surprise of the

other, when the general, entering the tent, [would it not rather be a

room or hut?] in a village, saw the captain, still covered from head

to foot with blood, dust, and sweat, seated at a table, his head

resting upon his hand, a map of the country spread out before him, and

pen and ink by his side. A cordial grasp of the hand imparted to the

modest hero his commander's satisfaction, and the object of a visit

paid at so unusual an hour."

* * * * *

_Tocqueville's American Democracy_.--M. Alexis de Tocqueville, one of

the commissioners sent to this country by the French government, to

investigate the penitentiary system of the United States, and whose

report on that subject met with much attention, has recently published

an elaborate work under the title "De la Democratie en Amerique," 2

vols. 8vo. The work has not reached us, but from the extracts which we

have seen in the northern journals, we are induced to believe that it

possesses much merit, and presents the operations of our government in

a novel and striking point of view.

* * * * *

_German work on America_.--The first number of a work to be entitled

"The United States of North America in their historical,

topographical, and social relations," by G. H. Eberhard, is announced

as forthcoming at Hildburghausen. The publishers declare their

intention in this work, to "present a digested epitome of all that is

worth knowing respecting the United States, combining the utmost

completeness with accuracy and impartiality." The qualifications of

Mr. Eberhard for the task he has assumed, are said to be ample.

{597}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.] RICHMOND, JULY 1835. [No. 11.

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

PROFESSOR BEVERLEY TUCKER'S VALEDICTORY ADDRESS TO HIS CLASS.

The following correspondence and address have been sent us for

publication, by the members of Professor Tucker's class at William and

Mary College. We give place to them with pleasure, and commend the

admonitions of the amiable and learned professor to all young

gentlemen about to enter upon the practice of the law. The friendly

and paternal spirit of his advice, gives an uncommon interest to this

production, and shows that his have indeed been "labors of love."

WILLIAMSBURG, 5th July, 1835.

_Much Esteemed Friend:_--

I am requested, in the name of your class, to solicit you either to

have your Valedictory Address published, or deliver it to us for that

purpose. I sincerely hope for your compliance; and although our

exercises for the present session have ended--although we no longer

stand in the relation of students and professor--and notwithstanding

we are about to part (some of us) perhaps forever, we _must hope_ that

the _tie_ which has bound us together for the last eight months,

instead of _weakening_, will continue to "_grow_ with our growth and

strengthen with our strength," and that the day is _far_ distant when

that union shall break. Go where we may, a fond recollection of your

past services will be long cherished by us. We know the interest you

_have_ felt, and still feel in our welfare, and I hope your exertions

to promote the interest of those who have been placed under your care,

are duly appreciated. You have done _your_ duty, and all that has been

wanting must be charged to _us_. You have given us a chart by which to

steer our political ship, and _should_ we succeed in stemming the

current of opposition, may _you_ live to enjoy our triumph. Permit me

now, in conclusion, to tender you our united sentiments of the highest

esteem and respect.

WM. T. FRENCH.

* * * * *

WILLIAMSBURG, July 5, 1835.

_My Dear French:_--

I have great pleasure in complying with the request of my young

friends, so far as to hand the lecture to the printer. I am not aware

of any merit in it, such as your partiality sees, to justify me in

permitting you to incur the expense of publication. But in that

partiality and its source, I have more pleasure and more pride than I

could have in any composition. Self-love will not permit me to believe

that I possess the friendship of those who have been placed under my

care without having deserved it. Self-love is "much a liar," but is

always believed; and she could hardly tell me a tale more acceptable.

To acquit myself faithfully and satisfactorily of the duties of a new

and untried station, was the engrossing wish of my heart during the

whole course. When I remember the manner in which my class went

through their examination, and reflect on the pleasures of our

intercourse, the marks of confidence which I continually received, and

the affectionate feelings with which we part, I am sure I have not

altogether failed. But I should be unjust to you, if I did not say

that I am sensible how much your assiduity has done to supply the

defects of my instructions.

May God bless and prosper you all, (for I speak to all,) and make your

success in life not only honorable to yourselves and me, but to your

friends and country. May each of you be a gem added to the bright

crown with which the glory of her sons encircles the gray head of the

venerable and _kindly_ old college. If ever there was a heart in walls

of brick and mortar, it is surely there; and cold is he whose heart

does not warm to it. In her name, once again I say God bless you.

Yours faithfully,

B. TUCKER.

* * * * *

ADDRESS.

Neither duty nor inclination will permit me to take leave of you,

young gentlemen, without offering a few remarks, of general

application to the subject of our late studies.

We part, perhaps to meet no more. Some of you go into the active

business of life, some to pursue your researches under other guidance.

To both alike, my experience may enable me to suggest thoughts, and to

offer advice, which may be found of some practical value.

Whether your immediate destination is to the bar or the closet, you

will alike find the necessity of continuing your studies. To give them

such a direction as may be profitable and honorable to you, is my sole

remaining duty.

There are many branches of the law which you will still find time to

investigate at leisure. Many years will probably elapse, before you

will be called to take the _sole_ management of any case involving

valuable rights or intricate questions. The land law, and the

perplexing minutiæ of chancery jurisdiction, will be of this

description. When engaged in such cases, you will commonly find

yourself associated with older and abler counsel, from whom you will

then obtain, at a glance, more insight into these difficult subjects

than I have been able to afford. Under such guidance, {598} you will

have opportunities to investigate the law, with an eye to its

application to your case. You will then see the practical value of the

principles with which you have been made acquainted, and may execute

your first tasks in that line, as successfully as if you were already

imbued with every thing but that knowledge which nothing but study and

practice combined can afford.

But though, in regard to matters of this sort, a general acquaintance

with the grand principles of the law is as much as you can be expected

to carry to the bar, there are other duties which you must assume, in

a complete state of preparation. Let me particularize a few of these.

You will find it then of the utmost importance, to be thoroughly

acquainted with the science of pleading. I have not concealed from you

that the loose practice of our courts dispenses habitually with many

of its rules, and has done much to confuse them all. But they still

retain all their truth, all their reasonableness, and much of their

authority. The courtesy of the bar will indeed save you from the

consequences of any mistake you may make in the outset. But though

this may screen your errors from the public eye, they will not escape

the animadversion of your brethren. They will be prevented from

forming such an estimate of your acquirements, as will lead them to

recommend you to their clients, in the hope of obtaining from you

valuable aid. It is by such recommendations that young men most

frequently gain opportunities to make an advantageous display of

talent, and an introduction into that sort of business which is, at

once, a source of honor and profit.

It sometimes happens, (though, to the credit of the profession such

occurrences are rare,) that a young man, on his first appearance at

the bar, encounters adversaries who do not extend to him the

forbearance which youth has a right to expect. He is taken at a

disadvantage. His want of experience and readiness lays him open to a

more practised opponent, who ungenerously strikes a blow by which his

client is injured, and he himself is brought into disrepute. To him

who is really deficient in capacity or acquirement, such an attack is

sometimes fatal. To him who, on a fit occasion can retaliate on his

adversary, it is of decisive advantage. Mankind are generally disposed

to take sides with the weak and injured party, and to visit with their

indignation any ungenerous abuse of accidental advantages. A young man

therefore, thus assailed, is sure to have with him the sympathy of the

profession and of the public. They look, for a time at least, with

interest to his course. They are impatient to see him redress himself;

and, until he has done so, all the rules of comity and forbearance

which generally regulate the practice, are suspended in his favor.

_He_ is free to take advantages of his ungenerous assailant, which,

under other circumstances would be denounced as ungentlemanly. And

they would be so, because they would be in violation of the covenanted

rules of the profession. But between him and his adversary there is no

such covenant. A state of war abrogates all treaties. It follows that

all the maxims of courtesy which forbid any advantage to be taken of

slips in pleading, do not restrain him; and he is free to hold the

other up to all the strictness of the law. It is expected he should do

so. If he does not, it is concluded that he does not know how. But if

he has once carefully studied the science and made himself acquainted

with its principles, he stands on strong ground, and sooner or later

his triumph is sure. The older and more hackneyed his adversary, the

greater his advantage; for it is true in law, as in morals, that evil

practice vitiates the understanding. The _habit_ of loose pleading

unsettles the knowledge of the rules and principles of pleading, and

many nice technicalities are totally forgotten. There is not, for

example, one old county-court lawyer in a hundred, who remembers that

$100 means nothing in pleading, and that a declaration in which the

sum should be no otherwise expressed, would be so bad as to make it

doubtful whether even the sovereign panacea of our late Statute of

Jeofails would cure it. But though _this_ be doubtful, there is no

doubt that, on demurrer, it would be fatal. A demurrer then, being

filed and submitted _sub silentio_, it is probable that such a defect

would escape even the eye of the court. In that case a reversal of the

judgment would be sure, and a triumph would be gained that would

gratify the profession, and command the admiration of the multitude.

A thousand cases of the same sort might be suggested, where an old

practitioner, though on his guard, (as he must be against one whom he

has provoked to retaliation,) would, from a mere defect of memory, or

the established influence of vicious practice, fall into blunders

which would place him at the mercy of an adversary who has his

learning more fresh about him. How many, for example, will remember

where to stop the defence, in drawing a plea in abatement, or to the

jurisdiction of the court? How many ever think of the necessity of

entitling their pleadings? How many know how to take advantage of this

defect, even when it occurs to them?

But though you should escape the attack of any illiberal practitioner,

yet cases will occur, in which the nature of the controversy will

require great accuracy in drawing out the pleadings to a precise and

well defined issue. In such cases, no disposition to mutual or

_self_-indulgence in the bar, can prevent the necessity of pleading

correctly. In such cases, opportunities will be offered you of

reciprocating the kindness of your seniors, by lending them the aid of

your pen, and assisting them {599} to recall forgotten technicalities.

The value of such aids will raise you in their esteem, establish you

in their regard, and ensure you their good offices. Out of such

circumstances grow alliances which are strength and honor to both

parties. A well read young lawyer, associated with one of less

learning but more experience, sagacious, vigilant, and versed in human

nature and the established though irregular routine of business, is

like the lame man mounted on the shoulders of the blind. Their powers

are not merely united; they are reciprocally multiplied; they fall

together habitually. Their joint success commands confidence and

practice, and finally the fruit of all their triumphs enures to the

benefit of the survivor.

But there is another point of view in which an intimate knowledge of

the rules and principles of pleading is of permanent advantage,

notwithstanding all the looseness which our practitioners habitually

indulge. It has been well said, that "the record is the lock and key

of the law." You will often find that without this interpreter, the

ancient books are sealed to you. It is by this alone that you will

sometimes be able to discover the point really decided. The concise

notes of the old reporters taken for the use of those already familiar

with the great principles and leading maxims of the science of

pleading, are perfectly unintelligible to the mere sciolist.

It often happens too, that a lawyer undertakes a suit or defence which

cannot be sustained, and thus involves his client in unnecessary

expense. Such blunders would often be avoided by a ready familiarity

with the science of pleading. The attorney has but to ask himself,

"how shall I frame the declaration or plea?" and the answer shows him

the impossibility of making good his case. He advises accordingly;

and, though the advice be at the moment unpalatable, it will be

afterwards remembered with gratitude and respect. No reproach is

keener or more just, than that of a client who has been decoyed into

expensive litigation by the rapacity of the disingenuous, or the

blunders of the unskilful. A place among those whose advice may be

relied on, is the safest and most honorable at the bar. It cannot be

lost without some great error. It gives a lien on posterity. The

father hands down to the son a respect for his constant and faithful

adviser. Friend communicates it to friend; neighbor to neighbor. The

showy qualities which are the gift of nature to others, are

neutralized by it. The plain man, destitute of such endowments,

becomes the patron, the dispenser of business and benefits to him

whose eloquence shakes the court--commands his gratitude, secures his

friendship, and, on all admissible occasions, makes this envied talent

his own.

There is another subject on which an ever ready preparation is even

more indispensable than on the subject of pleading. I mean that of

_evidence_. On this, of necessity, we have touched but lightly. It

would be properly, one of the principal subjects of a second course.

To stop short between a cursory notice of it and a thorough

investigation, such as we have not had time to make, might mislead the

student. He might overrate his knowledge if he found himself as well

acquainted with that as with other branches of the law; and supposing

he had enough, might venture to the bar without acquiring more. But

this is a topic of which a superficial knowledge will not do, even at

the beginning. It must be understood perfectly; it must be understood

distinctly; it must be wrought into the very texture of the mind, and

ever present there. The occasions on which this knowledge is wanted,

can rarely be anticipated. They start up like fire from the ground,

and he whose information is not various, exact and ready, is liable to

be disconcerted, embarrassed and disgraced. They often occur in those

apparently plain cases, which the partiality of friends sometimes

intrusts to the sole management of an untried lawyer. To be baffled,

through want of skill in such cases, is to injure those who have

sought to serve you. It mortifies and discourages your friends, and

what is worse, it disheartens you.

You will be often employed too, to set aside an office judgment, and

plead, _pro forma_, in a case admitting of no defence on the merits.

In such a case, where nothing is expected, your adversary, however

able, may be unprepared through some neglect of his client. Relying on

your rawness and want of skill, he may venture to trial. You strike at

the gap in his armor with the dexterity of a veteran; he is nonsuited,

and your success is the immediate source of honor and emolument. You

find yourself gazed at, followed, and employed by those who never saw

you before, and who know nothing of you but that, in a plain case,

admitting of no meritorious defence, you had just baffled one of the

first men at the bar. The consequence is, you are presently engaged in

business of more consequence, and if you acquit yourself well in it,

your practice is established and your fortune made.

To these two subjects then, of pleading and evidence, I advise you to

apply so much attention as to make you feel sure that you understand

them thoroughly. Having done this, let them be again revised

immediately before you go to the bar, and let them, in all the early

stages of your practice, be the constant objects of your attention and

study. You can never understand them too well, and your knowledge of

the last especially, can never be too ready. It is by ignorance on

these topics, that men lose causes they ought to gain. Such defeats

are disgraceful and ruinous. When the right of the case is against

you, it is your {600} misfortune; but you are never blamed. But to be

defeated with law and fact both on your side, is to be weighed in the

balance and found wanting.

And here let me say a word of the cases which you lose, because the

law is against you. For these there is one short rule. "Though you

lose your case, do not lose your temper." It is easy for a young man

to argue himself into a conviction of the justice of his client's

case; but if you do not make others see it too, you must learn to

distrust that conviction. Remember that the argument which has

convinced you, without convincing others, came to you through the

favorable medium of self-love. A young man who doubts the justice of

his first cause just after having argued it, must be either very dull,

or very philosophical, or the case must have been utterly desperate.

On the other hand, remember that the judge is rarely exposed to any

undue bias. He can scarcely ever have a motive to do wrong; and he is

a man of tried integrity, practised to resist and overcome the

influence of such motives. Then remember that he is old, learned and

experienced, selected from among his fellows for his endowments; and

thus learn to acquiesce in his decisions with that cheerful

complacency which so well becomes a young man, distrustful, as all

young men should be, of his own judgment.

Above all things, never stimulate the dissatisfaction of your client.

You tell him he is wronged. He believes you. _You_ blame the judge.

_He divides_ the blame between the _judge_ and _you_. Was the judge

prejudiced _against you_? Do not say so, or men will not employ you to

practice before him. Was he ignorant? was he dull? was he inattentive?

You had the same chance to awaken his attention, to rouse his dulness,

to enlighten his ignorance, as your adversary. If you did not succeed,

another might, and your client will try another the next time. Let him

believe, if he can bring himself to do so, that he only failed because

the law was against him, and there is nothing to prevent his trying

you again. Better so, than to gratify him for the moment by catering

to his evil passions, at the risque of injustice to another, and

injury to yourself. Apart too from the injustice, prudence forbids

that any blow be struck at men in power, which is not well aimed, and

sure to take effect. He that throws up stones, endangers his own head.

"He that spits against the wind," said Dr. Franklin, "spits in his own

face."

There is another consideration to be regarded here. The profession is

a _unit_. Its respectability depends on that of the head. It is an

arch, of which the bench is the key-stone. Let them who should uphold

it, withdraw their support, and all will fall together. Would you

degrade the seat to which you aspire? Would you dim the lustre of that

honor, which is to be the brightest reward of a life spent in the

labors of your profession? Hardly more unwise is the youth, who would

revoke the prerogatives of age, forgetting that he shall himself be

old.

But there is a present advantage in a gentle and complacent

acquiescence in the unfavorable decisions of the court. It engages the

sympathy, the respect, and good will of all who witness it. Among

others it bespeaks the regard of the judge himself. However impartial

he may be, this will not be without its value. If he is seen to be

your friend, men will employ you, in the _hope_ that his friendship

may produce a bias in your favor. Your very enemies will serve you, by

charging him with partiality, in the hearing of those who may wish to

avail themselves of it by engaging your services. Besides, man is but

man. We lean to conviction from those we love. Why else is the

eloquence of a lovely woman so persuasive? We may man ourselves

against prejudice; but the very effort to do so unfixes the attention,

and the words of one who is odious to us are lost in air. But the

voice of a friend is music to the ear, and sinks into the mind. He is

a poor metaphysician who undervalues the influence of the affections

on the very sense of hearing.

It is of great importance, in this point of view, that you should not

misapprehend the relation between the bar and bench. A young man

entering into life, is apt to magnify the consequence and authority of

office; and he naturally falls into the belief that the incumbent is

disposed to presume upon it, and abuse its powers. There can be no

greater mistake than to apply this notion to a judge. The beautiful

fiction of Law, by which the members of the profession are considered

as brethren, of whom the judge is but the elder, hardly deserves the

name of fiction. There is no corps animated by a spirit so truly

fraternal, nor is there any member of it to whose comfort this spirit

is so essential, as the judge himself. Few men attain to that

elevation, without learning that the sanction of judicial authority is

opinion. The judge is armed indeed with the process of contempt. But

what is its true use? To conciliate the forbearance of others by his

forbearance in refraining from the use of it. In this view, it is

right that he should have it. But his comfort, his respectability, the

very stability of his office are secured, not by the power that he

_does_, but that which he does not exercise. Depend on it, among all

the brethren of your profession, you will find none to whom your

friendship will be so desirable as the judge himself.

Remarks of the same sort may be made with regard to your intercourse

with the members of the bar. You will find them for the most part

gentlemen and friends, disposed to lead you gently by the hand.

Requite their courtesy in kind. If an advantage is taken of you, I

have told you how to retaliate. You will have the whole {601} bar on

your side. But such cases are rare. You will probably meet with

nothing illiberal. None will crow at you until your spurs are fully

grown. No sarcasm will be dealt out against you, unless by a junior

like yourself. In such case, in general, pass it by. It will be

thought that your self-respect restrains you from affording sport to

the by-standers, and you will rise in the respect of others. Men

naturally respect those who are seen to respect themselves. You may

indeed be sometimes provoked to retort, by attacks which will make a

retort necessary and proper. In that case, your previous habit of

forbearance will stand your friend. It will dispose others to presume

you to be in the right, and to approve your conduct. It will enable

you to reflect; to do nothing rashly; to choose your words; to measure

the force of your blow; and to strike without laying yourself open. To

such rencounters apply the advice of Polonius to his son:

"Beware

Of entrance into quarrel, but being in

Bear it, that the opposer may beware of you."

If you are compelled to strike, let no second blow be necessary, and

you will not soon be called to give another.

I might multiply remarks of this sort without end, and perhaps with

little profit to you; for it is too true, "that no man learns wisdom

by another's experience." I am bound to own that it is not by the

practice of these maxims that I have learned their value. But

experience has perhaps convinced me of it somewhat sooner, because

they were inculcated in my youth, by one whose advice I fear was never

justly appreciated until his voice was hushed forever. My suggestions

to you may answer the same end. If, when my head lies low, the

recollection shall come to your minds accompanied by the feelings it

awakens in mine, my labor will not be lost or unrewarded.

But there is one maxim learned in that same school, which no one who

expects to thrive by his profession must neglect. The success of a

lawyer and his honor as a man depend on his fidelity and punctuality.

I need not recommend these to you. But a single auxiliary rule, in the

observance of which there is perfect safety, may be of use.

"Whenever you receive money for a client, always consider that

_specific_ money as his. Set apart the identical dollars and cents,

just as you received them, done up into a parcel labelled with his

name, and accompanied by a statement showing the amount received and

the balance due after deducting your fees and commissions. Let a

counterpart of this statement be drawn up in a book kept for the

purpose, and always carried with you; and at the foot of this

counterpart, take your client's receipt." In this proceeding there is

something level to the apprehension, and obvious to the senses of all

men. It will engage confidence, and multiply in your hands that sort

of business, which, if not the most honorable, is the least laborious,

and not the least profitable.

And now, my young friends, we close a relation which has been to me

one of the happiest of my life. God grant it may prove equally

profitable to you. If it does not, the fault is in me. I have indeed

the satisfaction to know that my exertions are appreciated by you, at

more than their real value; and that wherever your lots may be cast,

you will long remember the months we have spent together with feelings

responsive to my own. It has been my endeavor to divest the subject of

our studies of its dryness, and to render it, if possible, less

unpalatable than you had expected to find it. The task was difficult,

but I hope I have not altogether failed. I have felt it my duty too,

to lay aside the pedagogue, and to disarm my office of all austerity.

In doing this I had but to yield to my natural disposition. The rules

of our institution indeed placed me _in loco parentis_. But the

relation of an elder brother was more congenial to my feelings. I am

happy to believe that it has been so filled, as to establish the

sentiments appropriate to it in each of our minds; and that, when the

infirmities of age shall overtake me, there is not one of you who

would not extend an arm to stay my tottering steps, as there is not

one on whose shoulder I would not lean with confidence.

But my method of instruction was not adopted merely because it suited

my disposition. I believed it most appropriate to the subject of your

studies. It in some measure prepares you to enter in its true spirit

into that relation to the heads of your profession, of which I have

spoken. You will find few judges to whom the authority of office will

not be as irksome as it is to me; and it will be in your choice to

establish, between yourselves and your brethren of the bar and bench,

the same sentiments which make our separation at once pleasant and

painful.

I cannot take leave of you without offering and inviting

congratulations on the distinguished harmony which has pervaded every

department of our venerable institution. It has been a complete

fulfilment of the reciprocal pledges passed at the commencement of the

course, "that you should be treated as gentlemen, and that you would

so demean yourselves." How far this desirable end has been promoted by

the peculiar character and structure of the society of this place, you

are capable of deciding. We must have been unwise, not to avail

ourselves of the aids afforded by the moral influence of a circle of

gentlemen and ladies, intelligent, refined, polite and hospitable,

zealous for the honor and order of the college and the happiness of

its professors and students. It is this ever present influence that

has enabled us to dispense with the rigor of discipline, elsewhere so

necessary. It is this which enables William and {602} Mary College to

preserve its distinctive characteristics. In any other situation they

would soon disappear. The city and the college have grown together.

They are moulded on each other. Each is a part of each. Each is

necessary to the other. You might learn as much, or more, elsewhere;

but where else would you leave behind, from what other place would you

carry with you so much of those kindly affections, the cultivation of

which is not the least important part of education? On these we have

determined to stake the usefulness, the permanency, and the prosperity

of our institution, and in these we find a reward for our labors,

which nothing can take away.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS ON THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,

By a young Scotchman, now no more.

_Boston, 1832_.

DEAR HENRY,--Mr. Paulding and Miss Sedgewick, are, in my opinion,

inferior in genius to the American writers I mentioned in my last.

They may be classed as the secondary novelists of this country, though

in general literature, Paulding is equal if not superior to Cooper.

His tales are usually short and want interest; but his characters are

well sketched, his incidents natural, and his opinions and

observations characterized by good sense. There is, however, an

affectation of humor in what he writes, that does not please me. It

seems to consist more in the employment of quaint terms and odd

phrases, than in the incident or character itself, and would appear to

be the result of an early and frequent perusal of the works of Swift

and Rabelais. His productions are neat and sensible, but not very

imaginative or striking. The interest or curiosity of the reader is

never powerfully excited, but he never fails to please by the manner

in which he conducts his plots; the easy and perspicuous style he

employs, the clear and happy illustration of the vice or folly he

holds up to indignation or scorn, and the successful though sometimes

exaggerated developement of the character he wishes to portray. In

both Paulding and Cooper there is an overwhelming American feeling,

which bursts forth on all occasions, and which, to a foreigner, seems

to partake of the nature of deep rooted prejudice. It results,

however, I have no doubt, from an ardent love of country, increased

perhaps by the silly contumelies and sarcasms of the reviewers and

travellers of our country. Mr. Paulding has not displayed any great

depth or expansion of mind in anything he has yet written, though he

has tried his wing in both prose and verse. His forte is satire,

which, like that of Horace, is more playful than mordant and bitter.

The productions of Miss Sedgewick which I have seen, are remarkable

for good sense, but without much vigor of imagination. She succeeds

best in quiet life. The delineation of the workings of passion, and of

stormy and powerful emotions, are beyond the reach of her powers; but

what she attempts she always does well. Her plots are generally

without complication, and display no great fertility of invention; the

incidents are not very striking and the characters are sometimes tame,

and occasionally extravagant. They are not like the delineations of

Miss Edgeworth, or Miss Mitford. You cannot form an idea of the

nationality of the individual she sketches, and would as soon take him

for a native of any other country as of her own. There is a manifest

defect in this particular, in all the novelists I have mentioned. With

the exception of the Indians who are occasionally introduced, there is

scarcely any difference between their Americans, and the inhabitants

of other lands. Cooper has indeed presented a finer gallery of

American characters than any other writer, especially in his sketches

of the early settlers or pioneers; but his characters, except in a few

instances, are not usually distinguished by striking national

peculiarities. This may possibly originate from the singular fact that

in this country where men are free to rove where inclination leads,

and to be under no other restraint than that which religion, law, or

decency imposes, there is less peculiarity of character or

individuality, than in any other portion of the globe with which I am

acquainted. They have not yet attempted to give as in England,

sketches of American society as it now exists, or may have existed

since the organization of their government. Whether such pictures

would indeed be interesting I am not prepared to say; but from the

society in which I have mingled, I do not think it has variety enough,

or differs sufficiently from that of other civilized nations to render

such pictures striking or amusing. Genius, however, can accomplish

every thing, and might give to what appears to be vapid and

_ennuyant_, some novelty and interest.

There are some other novelists in the United States, whose

productions, as they have sunk, or are rapidly sinking into oblivion,

it is scarcely necessary to name. One of these is a man of talent,

who, you will recollect, was an occasional contributor to the literary

periodicals of our country, while a resident there. I mean J. Neale.

His romances, from their wildness and extravagance, have been but

little read, and are now nearly forgotten. He still, however, employs

his pen, I understand, in doing what he can to edify and amuse his

countrymen. Novel reading has been legitimatized by Sir Walter Scott,

and though his productions furnish an admirable standard, nothing in

the nature of romance now goes amiss, and the demand for works of

fancy seems to increase in proportion to the number issued from the

press, and the food that is furnished. Although the Americans are

great novel readers, there is not {603} much of romance in their

character. There is too much matter-of-fact about them; they are too

calculating and money-making to serve the purposes of the novelist.

They form but indifferent heroes and heroines of romance, and hence

Cooper is obliged to resort to the sea to rake up pirates and

smugglers, or to go back to the revolution or the early settlement of

his country to find characters and incidents calculated to give

verisimilitude and interest to his tales.

In dramatic literature, but little has yet been done in the United

States. Few appear to have devoted much of their attention to dramatic

composition. I have seen but ten or twelve American plays in the

course of my researches; and these, though they possessed a good deal

of merit, have been suffered to sink into neglect, and are rarely

performed. A much larger number, however, would appear to have been

written and prepared for the stage. According to a catalogue I have

lately seen, no less than 270 dramatic pieces have either been

prepared for the theatre of this country, or written by Americans. Of

these many were of course got up for temporary purposes, and when

these purposes were answered were no longer remembered; but you will

be surprised to learn that of this number, commencing in 1775, there

are no less than _thirty-three tragedies_, the best of which are those

which have been recently brought out, Metamora, Ouralasqui, a prize

tragedy by a lady of Kentucky, and a combination of tragedies, by

Paine, called Brutus, which has been on the stage for several years.

The rest are scarcely remembered. The writer who seems to have devoted

the largest portion of his time to dramatic literature in this country

and who may be called the father of the American drama, is Mr. Dunlap,

who has figured for many years in the various characters of dramatist,

manager, and painter. His dramatic pieces amount to about 50, and he

has already outlived their fame. Some of his translations from the

German are still exhibited; but his original compositions are now

never performed, and are almost forgotten. Mr. J. N. Barker of

Philadelphia, stands next in point of fecundity, having given birth to

ten dramatic bantlings in the course of his life, some of which are

very creditable to their parent, but none are, I believe, stock plays.

The prejudice against native writers was at one time so strong that

the managers deemed it prudent to announce Mr. Barker's Marmion, Sir

Walter's poem dramatized, as the production of Thomas Morton the

author of Columbus. Mr. Dunlap was also I understand obliged to resort

to the same expedient in relation to two or three of his plays; but as

moon as it was known, their popularity, which had at first been

considerable, immediately ceased, and they were laid upon the shelf.

Such are some of the difficulties with which the American writer has

to struggle; but these I am happy to learn are now giving way, and a

more liberal spirit is beginning to prevail. It is to be hoped that

the dramatic muse of America will soon be enabled to triumph over all

the impediments which she has had to encounter, and repose in the same

bower and be crowned with the same chaplet as her more fortunate

sister of romance. Among the American plays which accident brought

under my notice, was a comedy in five acts, entitled the "Child of

Feeling," published in 1809, and written by a citizen of Washington.

It seems to have been a juvenile production, written without much

knowledge of the world, but with a due regard to the unities. The

dialogue wants sprightliness and the plot interest, and I merely

mention it now because its contains among its _dramatis personæ_ a

character which is to me entirely original, and which if he really

existed, the author must I think have caricatured in his copy. He is

called Etymology, and does not belie his name, for he is constantly

occupied in tracing every word that is spoken by himself or others to

its root, and makes as may easily be supposed, some comic and

ludicrous blunders. Till very recently, the author of even a

successful play received scarcely any compensation for his labor, and

the fame he acquired was but of short duration. Now however, it is

otherwise, and both reputation and emolument attend the successful

dramatist. The comedies, by American writers that I have seen, are not

remarkable for their wit or humor, and therefore do not long retain

their hold upon the stage. Dramatic exhibitions are not however held

by the Americans in very high estimation, and this may be one of the

causes of the low state of dramatic literature here. But the principal

causes would appear to be the want of leisure, the devotion of the

people to higher and more lucrative avocations, and the facility with

which dramatic productions of established merit and popularity can be

obtained from England. These causes operate in like manner I conceive,

to prevent the attainment of that high poetical excellence which has

yet to be reached by the worshippers of the muse in this country. The

following remarks on this subject by an American writer are so

pertinent, that I will transcribe them for your information. "We

regret to say," says he, speaking of American poetry, "that much less

has been done than might reasonably have been expected, even during

our short political existence. We have indeed as yet scarcely done

anything at which an American can look with conscious pride, as a

trophy of native poetic genius. The ponderous and vapid Epic of

Barlow, and the still more leaden and senseless heroics of Emmons, are

far from giving reputation to the poetry of our country; and the

fugitive and occasional pieces of Percival, Bryant, Halleck, &c. are

not exactly such as we should select as a proof {604} that we have

done much in poetry. We have been in existence as a nation for upwards

of half a century, and yet we have produced nothing that is certain to

reach posterity, or that can be classed higher than the minor

productions of Moore, Campbell, or Byron, of the present day. There is

an apparent want of originality, and too great an appearance of

imitation in the poetical efforts of our native bards to carry them

far down the stream of time, though it must be conceded that they have

discovered in these efforts no ordinary portion of genius. There would

seem to be something either in the nature of our political

institutions, or in the general character of our pursuits, which is

inimical to the developement of high poetical power. We are not a very

imaginative people; we prefer the reality to the ideal; we pursue the

substance rather than the shadow. Our ambition is early fired by

political distinction, or our exertions are directed to the attainment

of competency or wealth. The public mind has been led into a train of

thinking somewhat adverse to the indulgence of poetical enthusiasm,

and not calculated to render it susceptible of deep and intense

delight from the contemplation of poetical beauty. It has been led to

consider that the highest efforts of genius are those which are

displayed at the bar or in the senate, and to regard the power of

forensic and parliamentary eloquence as the loftiest exhibition of

intellectual excellence. To that which the mind is early taught to

respect and admire its greatest exertions will be directed, and hence

the number of those who resort to the profession of law, the career of

legislation, or the pursuits of commerce," &c.

It is unquestionably true, that no great original poetical work of

distinguished merit has yet made its appearance in the United States,

but it cannot at the same time be denied, that the individuals this

writer has named, with Bryant, Sigourney, Willis, and several others,

possess a fine poetical vein, the _mens divinior_ of Horace. Some of

their effusions contain passages of great beauty and splendor, and may

be fairly classed with those of the first poets of our country. Most

of them however, have merely what Mad. De Genlis calls the "art of

making verses;" and either from the want of encouragement, the

stimulus of praise, or continued enthusiasm, wing their flight briefly

into the regions of poetic fancy, and seldom afterwards attempt any

more lofty or daring excursions. But I must pause. I will endeavor in

my next to bring my remarks on the science and literature of the

United States to a close.

FINE PASSAGE IN HOOKER.

Hooker in his Ecclesiastical Polity says, "The time will come when

three words, uttered with charity and meekness, shall receive a far

more blessed reward, than three thousand volumes written with

disdainful sharpness of wit."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----.

The dial marks the sunny hour,

Every brilliant moment noting,

But it loses all its power

When a cloud is o'er it floating,

As if gloom should be forgot!

Thus on Time has Mem'ry dwelt,

Tracing every fleeting minute,

When thy radiant smiles were felt

Courting each, if they were in it,

Noting none if they were not!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PARAPHRASE

Of a figure in the first volume of Eugene Aram.

Tho' the Moon o'er yonder river

Seems a partial glance to throw,

Kissing waves that brightly quiver

Whilst the rest in darkness flow,

There's not a ripple of that stream

Unsilvered by some hallowed beam.

Thus in life the bliss that mellows

Ills, that else the soul would blight,

Seems to fall upon our fellows

Like that glance of partial light;

Yet each spirit sunk in sadness,

Feels in turn its ray of gladness!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY SISTERS.

Tho' I have sworn in other ears,

And kissing, sealed the oath in tears,

Have owned a little world divine,

Between my Sarah's lips and mine,

And more than mortal blessed have felt,

While there in Heav'nly bliss we dwelt,

Yet I _loved_ not.

But when I look, dear girls on ye,

E'en in the look my worlds I see;

No vow has passed--our years have proved

That we have ever truly loved--

And in your every prayer I hear,

My name so kindly whispered there,

Oh! then I _love_.

ROSICRUCIUS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

Sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from harm,

No foe shall come nigh thee while strength's in this arm;

As thy sweet breath comes o'er me wild wishes may rise,

But honor still whispers--Remember the ties

Which bind her to one to whom she is dear

As his hopes of a heaven, she's all he has here.

Yes, far be it from me my friend to betray--

To gain thy affections, whilst he, far away,

But little suspects me, or dreams I would dare

To deceive his heart's treasure--so lovely, so fair:

Then sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from harm,

No foe shall come nigh thee while strength's in this arm.

J. M. C. D.

{605}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GRAYSON GRIFFITH.

There is in a pleasant part of the Old Dominion, a thrifty village

named Goodcheer. The inhabitants, from the first settlement of the

place, were kind, and bland, and social. Indeed many of them went

further. They jested, they fiddled, they danced, they sang songs, they

played at cards, they drank wine, they frolicked. Yet was there among

them a strong and steady current of public opinion against acts of

very low and gross meanness or depravity. They were not liars, or

thieves, or swindlers, or rakes.

In this village lived Gregory Griffith, the tanner, whose industry and

probity earned for him a respectability and an independence rivalled

by none except the old patriarch of the village, more generally known

by the name of the Major. Gregory had married the eldest daughter of

old farmer Ryefield, a woman well suited to make him happy. Her

disposition was easy, and her habits industrious and economical. They

were a bonny couple.

"The day moved swiftly o'er their heads,

Made up of innocence and love."

Fourteen months after their marriage, their first born son, a lovely

child, smiled in the face of his parents. Him they called Grayson. Nor

was he the only pledge of their love. They alternately rejoiced over a

daughter and a son, until their quiver was full, having four sons and

three lovely daughters. The death of their second child, who bore her

mother's name, had in the fourth year of their marriage, wrung the

bleeding hearts of these parents, and chastened their feelings to

sober thinking. Between their first born and their third child lay an

interval of nearly five years--a period which Mr. and Mrs. Griffith

always spoke of with deep emotion.

Grayson, in his childhood, had but feeble health--a circumstance which

secured to him very indulgent treatment. This indulgence rose to

excess after the death of the lovely Martha, his little sister. So

soon after the death of the daughter, as the gay villagers could with

propriety, they planned a general meeting at Mr. Griffith's. They

came, and after some time spent in sober enjoyment, a game of whist

was proposed. The proposal sensibly affected Mrs. Griffith. She seemed

to feel that it was too soon after her babe's death. The tears started

in her eyes, and she sought a place to weep. She went to her toilet

and bathed her face, and returned with an air of constrained

cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Griffith had taken his seat with a second

company who were playing loo. Before Martha's death, Grayson had been

regularly carried to the nursery, as the sun threw his lowest and

latest beams on the summit of a hill in sight from the portico. But

after the death of his sister, he was encouraged to spend the evening

with his parents; and when overcome by sleep, his cradle and his

pillow were the bosom and the lap of parental fondness. And when

company was present, he was often awake until a late hour. On this

evening every one had something to say to Master Grayson. All the

ladies kissed him, and more than one promised him a daughter for a

little sweetheart. When whist and loo became the amusement, Grayson

was much interested, especially when he saw his father dealing out.

The very beaminess of his eye seemed to throw a charm around the

figures on every card. At first he said nothing. At last he went to

his mother and said: "Mamma, won't you teach me to do like papa? O, I

wish sister Martha was not dead, that she might see the pretties papa

has got. Mamma, what are the papers with the hearts on?" The mention

of Martha's name overcame Mrs. Griffith. She led Grayson to her

bed-room, and wept and kissed him until, overcome by sleep, he forgot

his joys and his sorrows until the next day. The nurse having lodged

the sweet boy in the long crib at the side of his parent's bed, Mrs.

Griffith returned to her company. Either her appearance, or a sense of

propriety in her guests, operated a speedy dissolution of the party.

The company being gone, Mr. Griffith said he wished he had not

consented to play that evening--that Martha had been dead but a year,

and that he really thought that as his child had been taken to heaven

when not two years old, it was time for him to begin to think of

preparing to meet her. Mrs. Griffith wept at the mention of Martha's

name, repeated what Grayson had said, observed that she had felt

badly, but that they must not be melancholy. She also said it was very

kind in the neighbors to endeavor to cheer them up. It was after

midnight, in the month of June, before these parents slept at all. At

the very dawn of day Grayson awoke his parents by kissing them often,

and calling their names aloud. So soon as he could get his father's

attention, he said: "O father, what were those pretty things you had

in your hand last night? Father, were they yours? May I have some?

Can't I do as you did with them? Father, what was you doing? Please,

sir, give me some to carry to school to-day." Mr. Griffith was not

displeased that Grayson did not wait for an answer to his

interrogatories. To his request for some to carry to school, he

replied that Mr. Birch, the teacher, was a religious man, and would

not let the boys carry such things to school. Grayson said: "And an't

you religious too, papa?" and kissed him. Mr. Griffith looked at his

wife. They both smiled confusedly.

After breakfast, some of the neighbors called and inquired for the

welfare of the family. Some of the ladies kissed Grayson, as did his

mother, and he went to school. At play-time he told the children what

he had seen, and one of the older boys explained the matter to the

rest of the company. He said the old people loved fun, and also played

for money--and yet they would not let their boys play. "Never mind,"

continued he, "I can make fun, if you will all beg some pins and bring

here to-morrow. Now, fellows, don't forget--bring a good many." The

next morning every mother and sister were faithfully plied for pins,

and every boy's sleeve was brightened with them. Before the teacher

had arrived, the elder boy, before named, had taught all his juniors

two ways of playing pins--one on a hat, and the other called "heads or

points." In a few days one boy had secured all the pins, and kept them

safely in a little case made of a section of reed. The spirit of

gambling, however, did not expire with the loss of the pins. Indeed

the loss of the many was the gain of one, and that one was the object

of profound admiration.

In a day or two, one of the boys came to school with an ear of white

and another of red corn, and a piece of {606} chalk in his pocket, and

whispered to all his play fellows that now they would have fine fun.

Every urchin was restless for play-time. Grayson Griffith was sure the

master's watch must have stopped or must be too slow, and said so. At

length the hour of recreation came, and as soon as all were fairly out

of the teacher's hearing, the aforesaid boy prepared to teach his

fellows the game of fox and geese. With his chalk he chequered a

board, and arranged his white and red grains in proper order--calling

the white grains of corn geese, and the red foxes. Soon he initiated

every boy, and Grayson Griffith among the number, in the mysteries of

the game.

Ere long it was proposed that every boy should ask for a cent at home,

and bring it to school. It was done. Grayson Griffith asked for one

cent, and his father gave him two, and his mother one. They said he

was old enough to have pocket money. He was now nearly eight years

old. In the playtime, all the boys agreed to throw heads or tails,

until they had won or lost the money that could be had. At the end of

the sport, Grayson had seven cents--but on his way home, he dropped

one in the grass, and by throwing heads or tails with another boy, he

lost three more--so that at night he had no more and no less than in

the morning.

That evening he asked if his father would go to the race next day. His

father replied he did not know. "Well," said Grayson, "I bet you three

cents and my barlow knife against ninepence, that Colonel Riley's

Firefly will beat General Hobson's young Medley." "You will bet?" said

Mr. Griffith. "Why, yes," said Grayson, "did not you bet at loo,

father?" Grayson and his father, as by mutual consent, waived the

conversation.

Next day Grayson told at school what had occurred. Mr. Griffith did

not go to the races; but in the evening some of the gentlemen came to

see him, and induced him to bet as high as twenty dollars on a game at

loo. Grayson seemed hardly to notice the occurrence, yet he was in

reality closely observing, and caught several of the expressions of

the gentlemen visiters. The next day, at a game of fox and geese, he

cried "Damme soul." And as he went to school he kept saying, "Clubs

are trumps--high, low, jack and the game." He thought it sounded

pretty.

In the meantime Mr. Griffith's family increased. He had now three sons

and a daughter; and Grayson would often promise to show his little

brother how to play fox and geese when he should grow a little larger.

Mrs. Griffith had also played at cards when any very special company

was present, or she was much urged.

Mr. Griffith about this time gave a hundred dollars towards building a

church in the village, and subscribed twenty dollars a year towards

the minister's salary; and many of the people had become very serious,

and even religious. The good minister, like his master Jesus Christ,

was very fond of children. All the children knew him in six weeks

after he went to live in Goodcheer, and they all loved him. They would

speak to him all the way across the street. One day Mr. Goodnews (for

that was the minister's name) called at Mr. Griffith's, and asked

Grayson if he knew how many commandments there were. His answer was,

"I bet you I do." "But," said Mr. Goodnews, "I never bet, my dear

little boy. Did not you know it was wrong to bet?" "No," said Grayson,

"it is'nt--Father and mother bet." Mrs. Griffith's face colored, and

she stammered out, "My son, you ought not to tell stories, even in

fun. You will make dear Mr. Goodnews think very badly of your

parents." "Any how, mother, it is true," said the boy.

When Grayson was eleven years old, he was allowed to go to the races.

Here his fondness for sport and gaming was much increased. He also saw

many things that he did not understand, and some that made him

shudder. His parents had given him at different times money, which he

had saved, and adding to which, what he received that morning, the sum

total amounted to one dollar and a quarter. The race that day was

chiefly between two noted animals, Major Clark's Rabbit, and Colonel

Nelson's Yellow Gray. Betting ran high. At first Grayson bet

twenty-five cents in favor of Rabbit; then he bet fifty cents against

twenty-five on the Yellow Gray; then he bet his remaining fifty cents

against another fifty cents in favor of Yellow Gray. In the meantime

he bought some beer and some cakes, and paid away twenty-five cents of

his money. When he first remembered that he might lose, he thought he

would not be able to meet all his engagements; but on reflection he

discovered, that let who would win, he could not lose all. The race

was run. Rabbit was beaten, and Grayson got his seventy-five cents,

and paid what he had lost, and had now left one dollar and a half. At

first he thought he would go home, and started--but a boy stepped

forward and said, he could show him some _tricks_--that he had a

rattle-come-snap, &c. Grayson went with him into the bushes, and there

Grayson lost one dollar at some sort of game, became vexed, and went

home. At night he would have determined never to bet any more, had it

not been that some gentlemen came to his father's, and talked

earnestly about their gains. Then the thought entered his mind that it

was entirely owing to good luck that some succeeded, and that he would

have better luck another day.

A few days after the races, Mr. Griffith was called to see his mother

die. She had been a very worldly-minded, proud woman--but her last

sickness had humbled her. With her last breath she spoke of herself as

a great sinner, and of her salvation as doubtful, and most solemnly

warned all her children not to follow her example. The minister at

Goodcheer went over to preach the funeral sermon, and returning in

company with Mr. Griffith, he thought he perceived some seriousness in

his manner, and introduced a very friendly and solemn conversation on

the importance of preparing for death. From that time Mr. Griffith

began to change, and in twelve months he and his wife both joined Mr.

Goodnews's church. They also presented their five children to the

Lord. This was a great change, and was much spoken of by the

villagers. It is thought the father and mother were both truly

converted. The day the children were baptized, Grayson did not behave

well in church, yet he dared not to do anything very wrong. The next

day, when one of the boys laughed at him for being baptized, he at

first thought he would say nothing, and had he done so, all would have

been well. But the laugh tormented him. So in going home from school

he made fun of it, and said the old people had got mighty religious.

When he got home he felt dreadfully at seeing Mr. Goodnews at his

father's; but he {607} soon left the house, and took the old cat in

his arms, and called the dogs, and went to chase cats in the old

field.

His parents with difficulty prevailed on him to attend Sabbath school.

He said five days and a half in a week were enough to go to school. He

also disliked to come to prayers. He was frequently out until a late

hour at night, and once was found with some very bad boys in an old

house on a Sabbath night, doing what he called "projecting." His

parents had all along opposed the cold water men, and had allowed

Grayson to have some sweetened dram in the morning out of their cups.

And even after Mr. and Mrs. Griffith joined the church, it did not

seem easy to conquer in a day all their prejudices against the

temperance society. These things led Master Grayson to drink julaps,

and punch, and even grog. But he did not drink much. He had also

learned to use profane language to an extent that was very distressing

to some pious people who had heard him; but his parents supposed he

never swore.

When Grayson was sixteen years old, he read Hoyle on Games; and though

he understood very little of what he read, he conceived that gaming

must be a very profound science. Especially was this impression

deepened by hearing a member of congress say, that Hoyle was as

profound as Sir Isaac Newton. He read Hoyle again, and even on the

Sabbath. His parents began to suffer much uneasiness about him; they

sometimes wept over his case; they took great pains to make religion

appear amiable--but he was eager in his pursuit of vanity.

When Grayson was eighteen or nineteen years old, he became acquainted

with Archibald Anderson, a most unworthy young man, of low breeding

and much cunning. Archie persuaded Grayson to go a pleasuring the next

Sunday--told him he had found a bee-tree, and that they would get some

girls and go and take the bee-tree next Sunday. They went, and

although Grayson tried to think it fine fun, it was a very gloomy day.

A thousand times did he wish himself in church. At night he came in

late, and went immediately to bed. Next day his father inquired where

he had been. But Grayson let him understand that young people must not

be watched too closely. In a day or two Mrs. Griffith became alarmed

at finding in Grayson's apparel evident preparations to elope; but

gentle and kind treatment soon seemed to regain his confidence.

Mr. Griffith had, in the course of business, previously borrowed a

thousand dollars from one of his neighbors, who had since removed to

the city of Allvice--and wishing to raise his bond, he gave Grayson

$1060, being the principal and interest for one year, and money to buy

himself a suit of clothes, and started him to town. Grayson had never

been to the city before, and his hopes were very high. On the evening

of the third day's ride, he arrived in the city of Allvice, and put up

in Blockley Row, at Spendthrift Hotel, next door to the sign of the

Conscience-seared-with-a-hot-iron. After supper he went to the

bar-room, and asked a young man "how far it was to any place where he

could see some fun." "What, the theatre," said the young man. "Any

place where I can see a little fun," said he. The young man said,

"follow me." Ere long they were at the door of the theatre, where

Grayson saw in large letters over a door--"The way to the pit." He

knew not what it meant, but said to the young man, "Don't let us go

that way." "No," said his companion, "we will go to the gallery. You

know _they_ are in the gallery." Grayson knew not who was meant by the

emphatic _they_; but following his guide, was soon in a crowd of black

and white women, and young and old men. Taking the first lesson in the

species of crime there taught, he stepped down a little lower, and

asked to what place a certain door led. He was told, "to the boxes."

Entering that door, he found many a vacant seat, and listened--but

when others laughed, he saw nothing to laugh at, until the clown came

on the stage. At him he laughed--he roared. Yet he felt as if he had

lost something, but could not tell what it was. "In the midst of

laughter the heart is sad," were words he often repeated, as he sat in

a box alone. The play being ended, he endeavored to find his way to

the hotel, but was greatly discomposed at remembering that his money

had been left in his saddle-bags, and they not locked, and that he had

not seen them since he came to town. At length he reached his

lodgings, and found all safe. He went to bed, but could not sleep.

Most of the night was spent in reflection, or rather in wild and vain

imaginations. A little before day a well dressed gentleman was shown

into the room where our young hero lay, there being two beds in the

room. The new inmate took a seat, and sighed; he paced the floor; he

took out his port-folio, and wrote a few words; he dropped his pen and

said, "What a fool." At length Griffith (for he is now too old to be

called by his given name,) ventured to inquire whether he could in any

way assist his room-mate to a greater composure. "O sir," said the

man, and sighed. At length the stranger said: "Eight days ago I left

home with $3,600 to go to the north to buy goods. I came here day

before yesterday, and to-night they have got the last cent from me at

the faro bank. And now, O what a fool!--I had rather take five hundred

lashes than do what I must,--write to my partner or my wife to send me

money to carry me home." Griffith expressed regret, but of course

could offer no consolation. He resolved, however, to pay the $1,060 as

soon as he could find the man to whom it was due. This he accordingly

did before nine o'clock next morning. The rest of the day he walked

the streets. Every little while $3,600 kept ringing in his ears. At

night, not having bought his suit of clothes, he went to the bar, and

there found the same young gentleman who the night before had

accompanied him to the theatre. Griffith took a seat by a window, and

the well dressed young man came to him and said: "Young gentleman, I

see you are fond of real genteel pleasure; let us go down into hell,

and win those fellows' money." Perhaps more mingled emotions never

agitated a bosom. In the first place he had been called a young

gentleman--an honor which, though he had deserved it before, had

seldom been given him. Then the idea of "real and genteel pleasure."

But the very sound of "going down to hell!" He would not go in "the

way to the pit" the night previous--and now could he go to hell? At

length he concluded that it was a mere nickname, and that the place

was really no worse than if it were called heaven, and he replied, "I

don't care if I do." They both left the room and went to the stable.

"Stop a minute," said Griffith, "let me see if Decatur has a {608}

good bed and a plenty to eat." In half a minute he satisfied himself

that his horse fared well, and he followed his young acquaintance into

one of the stalls, through which they passed by a blind door into a

long, narrow and dark entry. "Follow me," said the young man.

Presently they entered a large room. Griffith was struck with the

abundance of good things to eat and drink, which too were all free for

visiters. At a table on one side, sat an old man with a playful

countenance. He rose and said: "Last night a man won $3,600 at this

table." Three thousand six hundred dollars thought Griffith--and "how

much had he to begin with?" said he to the old gentleman. "Only a ten

dollar note," was the reply. In another part of the room, Griffith saw

a young man sitting behind a table, and leaning against the wall, with

his hat drawn down over his forehead, and wearing a heavy set of

features. Before him on the table lay three heaps of money--one of

silver--another of gold--a third of paper. Griffith eat some very fine

blanc mange on the table, and drank a little brandy, after which he

concluded he would risk ten dollars on a card. He did so, and put a

ten dollar bill into his pocket. His next risk was five dollars, which

he lost. With various success he spent an hour, at the end of which he

had tripled his money. He then retired to his room, and slept until a

late hour in the morning. Then he went to a merchant tailor, and

ordered his new suit, and spent the day in musing--visiting

factories--attending auctions, and laying plans for the night. "If I

had held on I might have broke them," said he; "I should have gotten

$3,600!" Night came, and with it a self-confident feeling peculiar to

the young gambler. He returned alone through the stall into "hell,"

and there lost all he had but five dollars. The next night he won

$150. The next night, which was to be his last in the city, he went,

and for a time succeeded. Once he had $700 in pocket, but before

day-light he had lost every cent he had, and making known his

situation, two men who had won his money, gave him each five dollars,

and advised him to leave town at day-light. That was a wretched night

to Griffith. His couch was a "bed of unrest." His very dreams were

startling. At daylight he paid his bill, and had remaining three

dollars and a quarter. He mounted Decatur, and with a heavy heart

journeyed towards the village of Goodcheer. When he found himself in

sight of home, he felt in his pocket and found he had seventy-five

cents. He also felt for the cancelled bond, but could not find it.

Riding into the woods, he examined his saddle-bags, and found the bond

in a waistcoat pocket. Seizing it with great joy, he shed a tear, and

mounted again. All the way home he had thought much of the manner in

which he should account for not having the new clothes. At length

seeing no way of escape, from confusion at least, in case his father

should inquire respecting the matter, he cherished the hope that his

father would say nothing. So he paced along, and got home just in time

for dinner. There was an air of affected cheerfulness in young

Griffith's gait and manner, that was unusual. He did the best he

could--took care early to deliver the cancelled bond--said he was not

much pleased with the city, and told something of what he had seen.

Next day his father asked if he had gotten the new suit. He replied

that he had concluded not to get it then, and reddened very much. Mr.

Griffith told his wife that he had fears about Grayson. They both

wept, and agreed to pray for him more than usual.

In the course of time, young Griffith being twenty-one years old, left

his father's, with $700 and Decatur, to seek his fortune in the West.

He soon obtained employment, and in the course of two years was able

to commence business as partner in a new firm. But, unfortunately, he

was not satisfied in the village where he was, but broke up and went

to the town of Badblood, where he opened a store. He was not long here

until a quarrel commenced betwixt him and one of his neighbors. The

occasion of the quarrel was a disagreement as to the beauty of a piece

of music. One declared the other to have a bad taste, and this was

regarded as insulting. Of course a challenge was given, and accepted.

The day of combat arrived. At the first fire no blood was spilt. This

was owing to the great agitation of both the combatants. At the second

fire Griffith wounded his antagonist slightly, but himself received no

wound. At the third fire Griffith's right arm was broken, and his

antagonist was wounded in the thigh. Here the seconds and friends

interfered, and declared they had fought enough. Had it not been for

public opinion, they would have thought that it was enough to be shot

at once a piece. But they were both content to quit, and even to drink

each other's health, before they left the ground. In the course of

eight or nine weeks, they were both in their usual health, and

attending to their accustomed duties.

The effect on Mr. Griffith's family on learning that Grayson was

expected to fight, was very distressing. The day the challenge was

given, Griffith wrote to his father thus:

_My very dear Father:_--On the morning of the day on which this shall

reach you in due course of mail, I shall have settled an affair of

honor. I do not love to fight, because I neither like the idea of

killing or being killed. If I go on the ground, I shall certainly take

life or lose it. I can't help it. I should be posted as a coward, if I

did not. Mr. B. will write you as soon as it is decided. Love to

mother and the children. God bless you. I can't bear an insult. Your's

ever,

G. GRIFFITH.

An entire week was this family in suspense, when at last, by request

of the father, dear Mr. Goodnews, the minister, was at the office, and

got the letter and opened it, and read the account as before given. He

immediately went to Mr. Griffith's, and found both the parents in bed

with a high fever, and their countenances covered with wan despair. As

he entered the door he tried to look cheerfully. "Grayson is dead,"

said the almost frantic mother. "No, he is'nt," said the minister.

"Then he is mortally wounded," said she. "No, he is not," said he.

"Then he is a murderer; he has killed a man! O, my first-born

Grayson!" "My dear Mrs. Griffith," said the good minister, "the Lord

is better than all your fears. Grayson and his antagonist are both

wounded indeed, but neither mortally." "O bless the Lord, bless the

Lord," said Mrs. Griffith, and swooned away. On using proper means she

was restored, and became calm and quiet; but it was an hour before Mr.

Goodnews could read the whole letter to her. Mr. Griffith suffered

greatly, but was much {609} occupied with the care of his wife. He

really feared that things would have terminated fatally. In a few days

the parents rallied, and wrote Grayson a most affectionate and solemn

letter, which he never answered.