I mean--that I would dwell upon it a moment longer, and in a
larger view. Why, then, in the great scale of things, is labor
ordained for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer,
might it have been dispensed with. The world itself might have
been a mighty machinery for the production of all that man
wants. The motion of the globe upon its axis might have been
the power, to move that world of machinery. Ten thousand wheels
within wheels might have been at work; ten thousand processes,
more curious and complicated than man can devise, might have
been going forward without man's aid; houses might have risen
like an exhalation,
----'with the sound
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,
Built like a temple.'
gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, and soft
couches and luxurious banquets spread, by hands unseen; and
man, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving, richer than
imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself
in these Elysian palaces. 'Fair scene!' I imagine you are
saying; 'fortunate for us, had it been the scene ordained for
human life!' But where then, tell me, had been human energy,
perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off with one blow
from the world; and mankind had sunk to a crowd, nay, far
beneath a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries. No, it had _not_ been
fortunate. Better that the earth be given to man as a dark mass
whereon to labor. Better that rude and unsightly materials be
provided in the ore-bed and the forest, for him to fashion
into splendor and beauty. Better, I say, not because of that
splendor and beauty, but because the act creating them is
better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler
than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy
of honor than the idler. I call upon those whom I address,
to stand up for that nobility of labor. It is heaven's great
ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance
be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it _has
been_ broken down for ages. Let it then be built up again;
here if any where, on these shores of a new world, of a new
civilization. 'But how,' I may be asked, 'is it broken down?'
'Do not men toil?' it may be said. They do indeed toil, but
they too generally do it because they must. Many submit to
it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity, and they desire
nothing so much on earth, as escape from it." * * * "This way
of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal
system; under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their
lives in fighting and feasting It is time that this opprobrium
of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of
thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand,
scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy
soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature
has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam,
her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles,
and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and
vanity? It is treason to nature; it is impiety to heaven; it is
breaking heaven's great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat--TOIL, either
of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true
manhood, the only true nobility!"
The orator next passes to the policy and necessity of extending a
fostering care to the domestic industry of families, on their own
property, and laments the want of employment, oftentimes, for the
female members, who are in this country generally unwilling to seek
it beyond the paternal roof. Manufactures, as of woollen cloths,
stockings, etc. the culture of the mulberry, and the making of silk,
are recommended as purely domestic occupations. The suggestions in
regard to the disposition of our ample supply of water, when the
Croton shall roll its refreshing stores into the metropolis, are
conceived in a far-seeing and liberal spirit, and deserve earnest
heed. We need not ask the reader to admire with us the subjoined
extract, illustrating the advantages and comforts which have followed
in the train of mechanical improvements:
"Our steam-boats and rail-roads are tending constantly to make
us a more homogeneous, sympathizing, and humane people. A visit
to one's distant friends, every body knows, is a very pleasant
thing; but are its uses in the great family of society often
considered? Intercourse, in such circumstances, is usually an
interchange of all the thoughts, views, and improvements that
prevail in different parts of the country. 'Their talk is of
oxen,' if you please, or it is of soils and grains, or it is
of manufactures and trade, or it is of books and philosophers;
but it is all good--good for somebody at least--good in the
main for every body. Thus, our steam-boats are like floating
saloons, and our rail-roads like the air-pipes of a mighty
whispering gallery; and men are conversing with one another,
and communicating and blending their daily thoughts, throughout
the whole length and breadth of the land. These means of
communication are thus constantly interchanging, not only
different views, but the advantages of different kinds of
residence. They are imparting rural tastes to the citizen,
and city polish to the countryman. I cannot help thinking,
that in time, they will produce a decided effect upon city
residence; relieving us, somewhat, of our crowded and overgrown
population; sending out many from these pent-up abodes in town,
to the green and pleasant dwelling places of the country.
"The progress of communication during the last twenty years,
leaves us almost nothing to wish, and yet entitles us to expect
every thing. Many of you remember what a passage up the Hudson
was, thirty years ago. You remember the uncertain packet,
lingering for a wind at the wharf, till patience was almost
exhausted; and then, at length, pursuing its zigzag course,
now waving in the breeze, now halting in the calm, like a
crazy traveller, doubtful of his way, or whether to proceed at
all. And now, when you set your foot on the deck of one of our
newly invented fire-ships, you feel as if the pawings of some
reined courser were beneath you, impatient to start from the
goal; anon, it seems to you as if the strength and stride of a
giant were bearing you onward; till at length, when the evening
shadow falls, and hides its rougher features from your sight,
you might imagine it the queenly genius of the noble river, as
it moves on between the silent shores, and flings its spangled
robe upon the waters."
Scarcely less beautiful, are the following reflections upon the moral
tendencies of the mechanic arts, in leading the mind to the infinite
wisdom of Nature and of the Author of Nature:
"If an intelligent manufacturer or mechanic would carefully
note down in a book all the instances of adaptation that
presented themselves to his attention, he would in time have a
large volume; and it would be a volume of philosophy--a volume
of indisputable facts in defence of a Providence. I could not
help remarking lately, when I saw a furnace upon the stream
of the valley, and the cartman bringing down ore from the
mountains, how inconvenient it would have been if this order
of nature had been reversed; if the ore-bed had been in the
valley, and the stream had been so constituted as to rise,
and to make its channel upon the tops of the ridges. Nay,
more; treasures are slowly prepared and carefully laid up in
the great store-houses of nature, against the time when man
shall want them. When the wood is cut off from the plains and
the hills, and fuel begins to fail, and man looks about him
with alarm at the prospect, lo! beneath his feet are found,
in mines of bitumen and mountains of anthracite, the long hid
treasures of Providence--the treasure-houses of that care
and kindness, which at every new step of human improvement,
instead of appearing to be superseded, seems doubly entitled
to the name of _Providence_." * * * "All nature is not only
a world of mechanism, but it is the work of infinite art;
and the mechanic-inventor and toiler is but a student, an
apprentice in that school. And when he has done all, what can
he do to equal the skill of the great original he copies; to
equal the wisdom of Him who 'has stretched out the heavens
like a curtain, who has laid the beams of his chambers in the
waters!' What engines can he form, like those which raise up
through the dark labyrinths of the mountains, the streams
that gush forth in fountains from their summits? What pillars,
and what architecture can he lift up on high, like the mighty
forest trunks, and their architrave and frieze of glorious
foliage? What dyes can he invent, like those which spread
their ever-changing and many-colored robe over the earth? What
pictures can he cause to glow, like those which are painted on
the dome of heaven?
"It is the glory of art, that it penetrates and develops the
wonders and bounties of nature. It draws their richness from
the valleys, and their secret stores from the mountains. It
leads forth every year fairer flocks and herds upon the hills;
it yokes the ox to the plough, and trains the fiery steed
to its car. It plants the unsightly germ, and rears it into
vegetable beauty; it takes the dull ore and transfuses it into
splendour, or gives it the edge of the tool or the lancet; it
gathers the filaments which nature has curiously made, and
weaves them into soft and compact fabrics. It sends out its
ships to discover unknown seas and shores; or it plunges into
its work-shops at home, to detect the secret, that is locked
up in mineral, or is flowing in liquid matter. It scans the
spheres and systems of heaven with its far sight; or turns
with microscopic eye, and finds in the drops that sparkle in
the sun, other worlds crowded with life. Yet more is mechanic
art the handmaid of society. It has made man its special
favourite. It clothes him with fine linen and soft raiment.
It builds him houses, it kindles the cheerful fire, it lights
the evening lamp, it spreads before him the manifold page of
wisdom; it delights his eye with gracefulness, it charms his
ear with music; it multiplies the facilities of communication
and ties of brotherhood; it is the softener of all domestic
charities--it is the bond of nations."
The Address is neatly executed, and will appear, as we learn, in the
'Journal of the American Institute.' It cannot fail to command a wide
perusal and general admiration.
* * * * *
MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. By J. G.
LOCKHART. Part Fifth. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.
EACH succeeding volume of this work impresses us more thoroughly
with the belief, that it is one of the most delightful biographies
which the present century has produced. This may seem extravagant
praise, to those who have not read the several 'Parts,' as they have
appeared; yet it will be deemed but simply just, by all who have been
so fortunate as to share with us in the pleasure of their perusal.
The work has been a God-send in these 'juice-drained' literary
times; and in the way of bright and eminent example, is now working
its gentle triumphs upon the hearts of thousands in this country.
We are more and more struck, as we read, with the great goodness,
as well as intellectual greatness, of the illustrious subject; with
the simplicity, truth, and sincerity ever in _alto-relievo_ in his
character; the beauty of his daily life, adorned with integrity
and honor; a course, public, literary, and domestic, replete with
the noblest traits, born of good and generous impulses, ingrained
and innate. The leading chapter in the 'Part' before us, describes
Scott's hospitality and urbanity, as host at Abbottsford. When at
the acmé of his fame, honored by kings and admired by the world, he
would cheerfully devote his precious hours to intruding lion-hunters,
and submit with patience and politeness to be over-poeted with small
browsers on Parnassus, bored with the solemn applauses of learned
dullness, the self-exalting harangues of the 'hugely literate,'
the pompous simpers of condescending magnates, the vapid raptures
of bepainted and periwigged dowagers, and questions urged with
'horse-leech avidity by under-bred foreigners.' Byron says of
himself that 'none did love him.' How different from his great
contemporary! Those who knew Scott, loved him not less than they
admired his genius. Without pretence or self-esteem at home, he
was equally so abroad. 'I am heartily tired,' he writes to his son
from London, where literary menageries for the reception of 'lions'
were constantly opened wide to him, 'I am heartily tired of fine
company, and fine living, from dukes and duchesses, down to turbot
and plover's eggs. It is very well for a while; but to be kept at it,
makes one feel like a poodle-dog compelled to stand for ever on his
hind-legs.' The spirit herein breathed, he preserved throughout his
life, which was spent in delighting the literary world, and in the
exercise of those qualities of the heart which 'assimilate men to
angels, and make of earth a heaven.'
In reading the volume under notice, we experienced an 'excess of
participation' in the richness of its stores. Hence it is full of
dog's-ears, and pencilled passages, which we find it impossible
to extract, and yet can scarcely consent to omit. For the present,
however, we yield to necessity, promising our readers and ourselves
the pleasure of an early renewal of this notice, after the volumes
shall have been completed. We make a single extract, representing
Scott as escaping from Abbotsford, upon which an avalanche of bores
had descended, and taking refuge in the summer-cottage of his
son-in-law, a mile or two distant. The touching allusion of the
biographer to his recent loss, will not escape the notice of the
reader:
"The clatter of Sybil Grey's hoofs, the yelping of Mustard
and Spice, and his own joyous shout of _reveillée_ under our
windows, were the signal that he had burst his toils, and meant
for that day to 'take his ease in his inn.' On descending,
he was to be found seated with all his dogs and ours about
him, under a spreading ash that overshadowed half the bank
between the cottage and the brook, pointing the edge of his
woodman's axe for himself, and listening to Tom Purdie's
lecture touching the plantation that most needed thinning.
After breakfast, he would take possession of a dressing-room
up stairs, and write a chapter of _The Pirate_; and then,
having made up and despatched his packet for Mr. Ballantyne,
away to join Purdie wherever the foresters were at work--and
sometimes to labor among them as strenuously as John Swanston
himself--until it was time either to rejoin his own party at
Abbotsford or the quiet circle of the cottage. When his guests
were few and friendly, he often made them come over and meet
him at Chiefswood in a body toward evening; and surely he never
appeared to more amiable advantage than when helping his young
people with their little arrangements upon such occasions. He
was ready with all sorts of devices to supply the wants of
a narrow establishment; he used to delight particularly in
sinking the wine in a well under the _brae_ ere he went out,
and hauling up the basket just before dinner was announced;
this primitive process being, he said, what he had always
practised when a young house-keeper, and in his opinion far
superior in its results to any application of ice; and in the
same spirit, whenever the weather was sufficiently genial, he
voted for dining out of doors altogether, which at once got rid
of the inconvenience of very small rooms, and made it natural
and easy for the gentlemen to help the ladies, so that the
paucity of servants went for nothing. Mr. Rose used to amuse
himself with likening the scene and the party to the closing
act of one of those little French dramas, where 'Monsieur le
Compte,' and 'Madame la Comtesse,' appear feasting at a village
bridal under the trees; but in truth, our 'M. le Comte' was
only trying to live over again for a few simple hours his own
old life of Lasswade.
"When circumstances permitted, he usually spent one evening
at least in the week at our little cottage; and almost as
frequently he did the like with the Fergusons, to whose table
he could bring chance visitors, when he pleased, with equal
freedom as to his daughter's. Indeed it seemed to be much a
matter of chance, any fine day when there had been no alarming
invasion of the Southron, whether the three families (which, in
fact, made but one) should dine at Abbotsford, at Huntly Burn,
or at Chiefswood; and at none of them was the party considered
quite complete, unless it included also Mr. Laidlaw. Death
has laid a heavy hand upon that circle--as happy a circle I
believe as ever met. Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay voices
for ever silenced, seem to haunt me as I write. With three
exceptions, they are all gone. Even since the last of these
volumes was finished, she whom I may now sadly record as, next
to Sir Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight of all
those simple meetings--she to whose love I owed my own place in
them--Scott's eldest daughter, the one of all his children who
in countenance, mind, and manners, most resembled himself, and
who indeed was as like him in all things as a gentle innocent
woman can ever be to a great man deeply tried and skilled in
the struggles and perplexities of active life--she, too, is
no more. And in the very hour that saw her laid in her grave,
the only other female survivor, her dearest friend Margaret
Ferguson, breathed her last also. But enough--and more than I
intended."
A spirited portrait by RAEBURN, pronounced the most faithful of the
early likenesses taken of Scott, prefaces the present volume, which
presents its usual excellence of paper and typography.
* * * * *
RORY O'MORE. A NATIONAL ROMANCE. By SAMUEL LOVER, Esq. In two
volumes, 12mo. pp. 429.
OLD Dan Tantalus himself was not more sadly bothered, than is
a reviewer, tied to certain limits of space, and feeling the
impossibility of dividing with his readers the pleasure of perusing
a work of rare spirit and humor. Such emotions are ours, and such a
work is 'Rory O'More.' Mr. LOVER has no superior in depicting--with
the nicest perception of character and the keenest eye for fun--the
peculiarities of the Irish people. We can give the reader no better
idea of his ability and manner, than by saying, that he effects all
with his pen which POWER achieves in his admirable personations of
his countrymen. There is a life, a vraisemblance in his pictures,
which will win for them enduring applause. This is our verdict; and
we ask the reader to confirm it, as sure we are they will, by a
perusal of the volume whose title stands at the head of this brief
and inadequate notice.
FOOTNOTE:
[16] Since the above was in type, we have met, in the scientific
deliberations of the 'Mudfog Association,' reported by the humorous
'Boz,' in the last number of 'Bentley's Miscellany,' with the remarks
of two members greatly prone to these '_figures_ of speech.' They
are too characteristic to be omitted here. The one stated, that he
'had found that the total number of small carts and barrows engaged
in dispensing provisions to cats and dogs in the metropolis, was
one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The average number of
skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each cart or barrow,
was thirty-six. Now multiplying the number of skewers so delivered,
by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred
and forty-eight skewers daily, would be obtained. Allowing that, of
these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, the
odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally
devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the animals
supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or the
enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers
annually, were wasted in the kennels and dust-holes of London, which,
if collected and warehoused, would in ten years' time afford a mass
of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a first-rate
vessel of war for the use of Her Majesty's Navy, to be called the
'Royal Skewer,' and to become, under that name, the terror of all
the enemies of England!' This speaker was followed by an amateur
philanthropist, of kindred parts, who had ascertained, from authentic
data, 'that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing
population of a town in Yorkshire, was, in round numbers, forty
thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their
houses was only a fraction over thirty thousand, which, upon the
very favorable average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten
thousand seats in all. From this calculation, it would appear--not
taking wooden or cork legs into the account, but allowing two legs to
every person--that ten thousand individuals, (one half of the whole
population,) were either destitute of legs at all, or passed the
whole of their leisure time in sitting upon boxes!'
EDITORS' TABLE.
A GLANCE AT BY-GONE TIMES.--Commend us to an old newspaper! Well
does COWPER term it a 'happy work,' that 'folio of four pages.' In
what a faithful and striking spirit of delineation are the features
of the hallowed years behind the mountains called up, as one pores
desultorily over a file of time-worn gazettes! It is exploring a
Herculaneum of history, and ferretting out the minuter fragments
which lie buried beneath the rubbish of old days, and which are
fertile in materials for reflection, instruction, and amusement. A
kind female friend (God bless the women! they are always devising
some good or kind action,) has sent us an old volume of the BOSTON
CENTINEL, the most ancient newspaper of which the Union can boast.
Greatly have we fructified by the contents thereof; and at the risk,
perhaps, of beguiling some reader, who may prefer neoterics before
ancients, of a hearty yawn or two, we propose to devote a couple of
pages, or more, to a notice of the dingy folio-tome in question.
After all, Solomon was right, when he said, 'The thing that hath
been, is that which shall be, and that which is done, is that which
shall be done;' there are few 'new things under the sun.' In glancing
over these abstract and brief chronicles of the olden time, we find
many points of resemblance between the past and the present. Then,
as now, metaphysical adepts imagined they were invigorating their
intellects, in the same manner as archers strengthen their arms,
by shooting into the air; political wranglers were 'blowing the
bellows of party, until the whole furnace of politics was red-hot
with sparks and cinders;' popular fallacies were flourishing, and
wonderful seemed the vigor of their constitutions; commentators were
elucidating old authors into obscurity, quite after the manner of the
present era; many of the _religii_ seem to have had religion enough
to make them hate, but not enough to love, their brethren; officious
meddlers were looking over other people's affairs, and overlooking
their own; tragedians were strutting on public boards, 'with tin
pots on their heads, for so much a night;' and small comedians, with
brass enough to set up a dozen braziers, were quarrelling among
themselves, and parading their importance and grievances before
a public who cared nothing for either; there were public fêtes,
frequent clamors of rejoicing communities, and occasional violent
effervescence of popular transport. In short, to draw a long summary
to a close, we have come to the conclusion, that notwithstanding the
gradual desuetude of many old customs and observances, we have a
great deal, at this much-boasted epoch, in common with the vanished
generation. But gone are their eternally repeated sorrows and joys,
the vain delusions, and transient struggles. Time has thrown his
all-concealing veil over them. The bigotted polemic has found that
men may journey heavenward by different roads, and that charity
covereth many sins; ultra metaphysicians have learned, that there
are realities enough to be sought after in life, and that a morbid
yearning for the shadowy and intangible cannot come to good; and
the actor, a forked shade, stripped of his regalities, and 'ferried
over in a crazy Stygian wherry,' has entered upon a new theatre of
action, where, unlike the one he has left behind him, the scenes and
actors know no change. But let us turn over the ancient daily budgets
to which we have alluded, and from which we are keeping the reader,
who we will suppose looking over our shoulder, quite familiarly, and
asking a great many questions.