The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 3, February, 1836

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Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 3, February, 1836

Author: Various

Release date: May 21, 2022 [eBook #68141]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: T. W. White, Publisher and Proprietor, 1836

Credits: Ron Swanson

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 3, FEBRUARY, 1836 ***

THE

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

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

Crebillon's Electre.

As we will, and not as the winds will.

RICHMOND:

T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.

1835-6.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 3

SELECTION IN READING

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY and Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States (No. X): by R. G.

A LAY OF RUIN: by Miss Draper

BALLAD: by W. M. R.

THE GOURD OF JONAH

THE COUSIN OF THE MARRIED, and the Cousin of the Dead: from the French

THE DUC DE L'OMELETTE: by Edgar A. Poe

THE ILIAD

RUSTIC COURTSHIP IN NEW ENGLAND

PALÆSTINE: by P.

MARTORELLI

LIVING ALONE: by T. Flint

THE VALLEY NIS: by E. A. Poe

NEW TESTAMENT

CASTELLANUS, or the Castle-Builder turned Farmer: by Nugator

SONG: by M. M.

LINES to Miss M——t W——s, of P. Edward

LIBERIAN LITERATURE

GIBBON AND FOX

STATIUS

LIONEL GRANBY, Chapter VIII: by Theta

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, of Jonathan P. Cushing

LINES on reaching the banks of the Mississippi at the junction of the Ohio, 1st July, 1818: by H. R. S.

SKETCHES OF LAKE SUPERIOR: by M. L. W.

GREECE: by Eliza

READINGS WITH MY PENCIL, No. I: by J. F. O.

CRITICAL NOTICES

PAUL ULRIC, or the Adventures of an Enthusiast: by Morris Mattson, Esq.

MARTIN'S GAZETTEER: by Joseph Martin

ROSE-HILL: by a Virginian

CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL

An Eulogy on the Life and Character of John Marshall: by Horace Binney

A Discourse on the Life, &c. of John Marshall, L.L.D.: by Joseph Story, L.L.D.

An Oration on the Life and Character of John Marshall: by Edgar Snowden

THE CONFESSIONS OF EMILIA HARRINGTON: by Lambert A. Wilmer

THE AMERICAN IN ENGLAND by Lieutenant Slidell

CONTI THE DISCARDED: with Other Tales and Fancies: by Henry F. Chorley

NOBLE DEEDS OF WOMAN

RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES: by Edward Lytton Bulwer

ANIMAL AND VEGETABLE PHYSIOLOGY, considered with reference to Natural Theology: by Peter Mark Roget, M.D.

CAREY'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

AUTOGRAPHY

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.                    RICHMOND, FEBRUARY, 1836.                    NO. III.

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

SELECTION IN READING.

Go to the Library of one of our Colleges; survey its five, or ten thousand volumes. You are astonished, that human thought or human industry could have produced such an accumulation of quarto upon folio, of duodecimo upon octavo—of Science, Literature—of History, Fiction—of Prose, and Poetry. But look into other collections northward of us, and in each, of several, you find more than forty thousand volumes! When you have wondered sufficiently at these, turn your 'mind's eye' to Europe; and behold, libraries containing each one hundred, or even one hundred and fifty thousand books! Look around you, then, and see how many hundreds every week is adding to the mass of tomes already in existence. Glance at the book-sellers' catalogues—at their notices in the gazette—at the monthly and quarterly "Lists of New Publications," in Magazines and Reviews—at the countless host of Reviews and Magazines themselves, and of newspapers, tracts, pamphlets, speeches, addresses—effusions of ten thousand various forms and merits—craving your attention and bewildering your choice! Go forth into society: in one circle, politics—in another, canalling, or railroad lore—in a third, some point touching the Campaigns of Bonaparte, the Wars of the League, the American Revolution, or the Conquests of Tamerlane—in a fourth, the beauties of Greek and Roman literature—in a fifth, some topic in Chemistry or Geology—in a sixth, Byron, Campbell, Moore and Wordsworth—in a seventh, the fifty last novels—are discussed by their respective coteries, each, as if that subject alone threw all others into the shade. And if you are not so torpid as to be incapable of excitement by sympathy with others, and by themes inherently interesting, or so self-possessed as to curb and regulate discreetly, the curiosity and proneness to imitation which will on such occasions be kindled in any but a blockhead—you cannot, for your life, help wishing to be familiar with each theme. You go home; and plunge headlong into a dozen different studies. Your acquisitions are huddled chaotically into your knowledge-box, so that you have a full, distinct idea, of no one subject: you can never get hold of what you want, at the moment when you need it; but must rummage over an immense pile of trumpery, with a bare hope, after all, of finding the useful article you want. You are a shallow smatterer.

If you would be otherwise, DARE to be ignorant of all books, and all things, which you are not sure will repay your trouble in reading them, or which are not parts of a pre-arranged course, laid down for you by yourself, or by some judicious friend. DARE to disavow an acquaintance with a fashionable novel, or even with a fashionable science, if it fall not within your plan. Always reflect, when the claims of a new book are pressed upon your notice,—that, if you have forty years to employ in reading, and can read fifty pages a day, you will be able, in those forty years, to accomplish only about SIXTEEN HUNDRED VOLUMES, of 500 pages each. Yes—out of the millions of tomes that litter the world, you can read, in twice the time that most, even of the studious, employ in reading—only sixteen hundred volumes! Surely, the motto of every one who reads for improvement, ought to be "SELECT WELL!"

"It is a great, nay the greatest part of wisdom," says an old philosopher, "to rest content with not knowing some things."1

1 ——"magna, immo, maxima, pars sapientiæ est, quædam æquo animo nescire velle."

Dugald Stewart justly observes, that by confining our ambition to pursue the truth with modesty and candor, and learning to value our acquisitions only so far as they contribute to make us wiser and happier, we may perhaps be obliged to sacrifice the temporary admiration of the common dispensers of literary fame; but, we may rest assured, it is thus only we can hope to make real progress in knowledge, or to enrich the world with useful inventions.

"'It requires courage indeed' (as Helvetius has remarked,) 'to remain ignorant of those useless subjects which are generally valued:' but it is a courage necessary to men who either love the truth, or aspire to establish a permanent reputation."2

2 Philosophy of the Human Mind, Vol. I.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

AND PRESENT CONDITION OF TRIPOLI, WITH SOME ACCOUNTS OF THE OTHER BARBARY STATES.

NO. X.—(Continued.)

To return to Algiers. The Dey having as he conceived, effectually closed every avenue to reconciliation with France, actively prepared to resist the attack which he had every reason to believe would soon be made on him. The fortifications of his capital had been much enlarged and strengthened since the bombardment by Lord Exmouth in 1816; the arsenal was well provided with naval stores and munitions of every description; the treasury was filled with specie, men were not wanting, and provisions could be procured in abundance from the interior. In this condition, he had no reason to dread an attack from a naval force, nor the consequences of a blockade however rigorously maintained. Against internal commotions he also felt himself secure. From the commencement of his reign, he had steadily though cautiously pursued the plan in which so many of his predecessors had failed, of preventing the enrolment of foreigners, and supplying their places by native troops; in this he had so far succeeded, that the number of the former in 1827 was less than seven thousand, while he had more than sixteen thousand Moorish soldiers, regularly disciplined and attached to his system, by the strongest ties of interest. When the whole military force of the country, consisted of a few foreigners, any one of whom might be raised to the highest offices of the State at the will of the remainder, it is not surprising that dissatisfaction and turbulence should have constantly prevailed; for under such circumstances the election of a new chief only caused a change in the ranks of the malcontents, without diminishing their numbers or their violence. That the alteration made by Hussein would contribute vastly to ensure the stability of his power, it is unnecessary to demonstrate; it had been often attempted by his predecessors and it is only extraordinary that it had not been effected long before.

Having secured this important object, Hussein no longer took pains to conceal his views with regard to rendering the Sovereignty hereditary in his family; he had no son, but his eldest daughter was married to Ibrahim, whom he raised to the office of Aga or Commander of the troops and Minister of War, and who appears to have been his intended successor; that officer having no children, his nephew was married to the Dey's youngest daughter, who was for that purpose divorced from her husband. It was also probably in furtherance of the same ends, that Hussein maintained a degree of state unusual in Algiers, manifesting in his intercourse with the ministers and officers, that he was a Prince, and not the mere chief of the Janizaries. In order to insure his personal safety he seldom appeared in public, but remained within the walls of the Casauba, surrounded by a chosen guard of Moors, sufficiently strong to defend that fortress against any attack which could be expected.

The French appeared by no means disposed to drive Hussein to extremities; their squadron generally consisted of two frigates, and four or five smaller vessels, which hovered before the entrance to the bay, but offered little or no impediment to the passage of vessels either outwards or inwards. Within a few days after the declaration of war, several Algerine cruisers quitted the harbor, and committed great ravages upon the unprotected commerce of France, sending their prizes into various ports of Barbary, and even of Spain. The prisoners were generally spared and brought to Algiers, in consequence of the Dey's humane or politic proclamation, that he would give for each living Frenchman twice as much as for his head alone. The inactivity and want of skill thus displayed by the blockading squadron, at length encouraged Hussein to bolder attempts. By great exertions, he had been enabled at the end of September 1827, to have ready a frigate, two corvettes, two brigs and six schooners in addition to the vessels at sea; this force however not being sufficient either in size or in weight of metal, to authorize a regular engagement with the heavy ships of the French, his plan was to surprise some one of them at a distance from the others, and endeavor to carry her by boarding. With this intention, which was kept secret until the moment for carrying it into execution, a number of soldiers accustomed to the sea having on the morning of the 4th of October, been suddenly embarked in the vessels, they set sail immediately and bore down upon the nearest French ship. The movement was immediately perceived by the rest of the squadron, and a general action, or at least a general discharge of guns on both sides ensued; this having continued for some hours, without any notable damage to either party, the Algerine Commander found that it was impossible to board any of the French vessels as they had the weather gauge of him, and in consequence he returned with his whole force into port. This action is duly noticed in the French papers; the commander of the squadron in his despatch, compliments his officers highly for the success of their efforts in preventing the Algerine flotilla from getting out of the harbor, and assures the Minister of Marine, that nothing but the heaviness of the sea prevented his destroying the greater part of them.

In the following spring, (1828) an offer was made by Admiral Collet to renew the negotiations for peace; and after some difficulties, Captain Bézart who commanded one of the French brigs, was allowed to enter Algiers and communicate with the Sardinian Consul on the subject. He subsequently had a conference with the Algerine Minister of Foreign Affairs, the results of which induced the Admiral to despatch him to Paris, in order to receive the instructions of their Government.

The French government probably received with satisfaction, the account that the Algerines were disposed to treat for peace. The Martignac Ministry which had just come into power, were employing every means to secure the tottering throne of Charles the Tenth against the efforts of the Liberal party, and they were anxious for the adjustment of a dispute, which occasioned an enormous addition to the budget of expenses without any return whatever. Dignity, or rather the fear of wounding the vanity of the nation, however forbade their seeming to make any advances after the Dey's insulting rejection of the demands first proposed to him. Great care was therefore taken to avoid any appearance of direct communication with the Algerine government; but the Admiral was instructed unofficially to hint, that if the Dey would send an ambassador to Paris, the differences between the two countries might be accommodated.

With these instructions Bézart returned to the African coast. During his absence Admiral Collet worn down with disease had retired to Toulon where he shortly after died; Admiral Botherel de la Bretonniere who succeeded to the command, on learning the views of the Ministers, instantly wrote a letter to the Dey in the sense enjoined by them, and despatched the Captain with it to Algiers. He arrived there on the 11th of September 1828, but when it was known that he only bore a communication from the Admiral, he was not suffered to proceed farther than the landing place on the mole, where he was required to await the answer. A Barbary Prince of a more pliable character than Hussein, might probably have gratified the French Ministers by sending an Ambassador to Paris, who would have figured in the pages of the Moniteur as a supplicant for peace; but the Dey was made of stubborn stuff. He had expected a direct communication from the French government, and was indignant at being addressed instead, by one of its officers not even an authorized agent; moreover the letter contained a proposition that he should take a humiliating step, without any assurance that it would be attended with favorable results. Seeing at once through the whole manœuvre of the French government, his reply was a peremptory order to Bézart instantly to quit Algiers.

A few days after, the same proposition was conveyed more distinctly to the Dey through the Sardinian Consul, with an assurance on the part of the Admiral, that his Government no longer expected apology or reparation, but wished merely to place affairs between the two nations on their former footing. Hussein however remained firm in his refusal to make any advances, only telling the Consul, that after Peace had been signed at Algiers, he might perhaps to please the Ministers, send them an Ambassador. The French Government finding its recommendations thus treated, authorized the Sardinian Consul to inform the Dey, that no farther overtures would be made by it towards reconciliation, and that measures would be soon taken to obtain complete satisfaction for the injury committed against France. Hussein coolly answered, that he had men and ammunition in abundance, and that he preferred the fortune of war to making or seeming to make any apology.

The destruction of three Algerine feluccas of six guns each, was the next event worthy of note in the history of the war. These vessels were returning from a successful cruise and endeavoring to enter the harbor of Algiers on the 1st of October 1828, when they were discovered and chased into the adjacent Bay of Sidi Ferruch. The prize was soon recaptured; the other vessels took refuge close to the shore, under a small and ruinous battery mounting twelve guns, where they were attacked by the whole of the blockading squadron. After the first fire, the feluccas and the battery were abandoned; boats were then sent by the Admiral to destroy the vessels, which having been effected the fire was continued on the battery until it was nearly demolished. The loss on the side of the Algerines is believed to have been very small; the French had six men killed and seventeen wounded, by the bursting of a gun on board the Admiral's ship the Provence. This trifling affair was made the subject of a special report by the Minister of the Marine to the King of France, which may be found at length in the Moniteur of the 17th of October; it was so far important, as it enabled His Majesty to say in his Address to the Legislative Chambers in January following, that—"most striking examples had already taught the Algerines, that it was neither easy nor safe to brave the vigilance of his ships."

Another attempt on the part of the French to teach the Algerines prudence, was not attended with equal success; for on the 19th of June 1829, twenty-four of their men, who had landed in pursuit of the crew of a stranded Algerine vessel, were surrounded by Arabs and put to death. The heads of these unfortunate men were carried to Algiers, where the Dey paid for them according to the tariff established; they were however on the application of the Sardinian Consul immediately delivered to him for burial.

The Government of France was by this time convinced of the futility of the measures which had been for two years pursued with regard to Algiers. The blockade had produced none of the results which were anticipated; it had been maintained at an annual expense of more than seven millions of francs, and although the number of persons killed in action was small, yet many had fallen victims to the diseases occasioned by the climate; in return the Dey appeared less inclined than ever to agree to satisfactory terms of peace, and the commerce of France in the Mediterranean had been severely injured by his cruisers. The opposition had also taken advantage of the circumstances, and the Ministry were frequently denounced in the Legislature and in the public journals of Paris, for their vacillating and dishonoring conduct in the affair.

Unable to resist these demonstrations of their own inefficiency, the French Ministry prepared for more decisive operations, by assembling troops in the Southern Departments of the Kingdom and collecting vessels for their transportation. Before employing these extreme measures however, they were induced to make one more attempt at negotiation; the circumstances which led them thus to recede from the determination expressed in the previous year, are reported to have been the following.

The Dey had several times expressed to the Sardinian Consul, his admiration of the form and sailings of a brig called the Alerte belonging to the blockading squadron; something in his manner at length induced the Consul to inform M. de la Bretonniere, that possibly His Highness might be inclined to negotiate for peace, in the manner desired by the French Government, if it were understood that the brig would be presented to him after the signature of the treaty. The Admiral eagerly accepted this overture as he considered it, and authorized the Consul to say in general terms, that he had no doubt the Government of France would willingly accede to the Dey's wishes in this particular, if an arrangement of the difficulties between the two countries could be effected. Hussein's reply was encouraging, and the Admiral in consequence sailed for France to receive in person the instructions of his Government. He found the Ministers anxious to have the affair peaceably adjusted; they were ready to treat with the Dey provided it could be made to appear that he had himself proposed the negotiation, and were willing to promise the brig in return for the mission of an Algerine Ambassador to Paris. The Admiral was accordingly instructed to assure the Dey, that if he would comply with this formality, peace would be immediately signed and the brig would be presented to him; but in order that no proofs might exist of the advances made by the French Ministry, the whole negotiation at Algiers was to be conducted verbally, through an interpreter chosen for the purpose from the School of Oriental Languages at Paris.

With these instructions, and accompanied by M. Bianchi the interpreter, M. de la Bretonniere returned to the Bay of Algiers. The Sardinian Consul, who undertook to arrange the preliminaries of the negotiation proposed to the Dey that it should be conducted in conferences between His Highness and the French interpreter, who had arrived at Algiers for the purpose on the 23d of July. This, Hussein immediately refused to allow, and the Admiral was thrown into the very dilemma which he wished to avoid; that is to say he was obliged to write a letter, or to abandon the attempt at negotiation. In order to avoid this difficulty a letter was written in the Turkish language, proposing in very general terms the renewal of former relations between the two Governments, but saying nothing either about the Ambassador or the brig. Hussein in reply expressed his satisfaction at the offer which had been made by the French Admiral, whom he invited to come on shore and confer personally with himself on the subject. M. de la Bretonniere accepted this invitation, and accordingly entered the harbor on the 30th of September 1829, in his flag ship the Provence of eighty guns, accompanied by the brig which had been the proximate cause of the negotiation. He landed on the following morning, and had a long conference with the Dey, of which the particulars have not transpired. On the 3d of August they had another conference, which lasted but a short time; on this occasion it is said the Admiral insisted on the mission of an ambassador as an act of reparation to France, at which the Dey became so enraged, that he ordered him immediately to leave Algiers; certain it is that the conference was suddenly broken up, and the parties separated, each in a state of high excitement. M. de la Bretonniere immediately embarked, and sailed with his ships out of the harbor; on passing by the Mole the Provence received a shot from the fort, and although the flag of truce was displayed at her mast head, the firing was continued until she was beyond their reach. The ship is said to have received eighty balls; her port holes were however kept closed, for had she returned the fire, it is probable that she would have been sunk. That this flagrant violation of good faith was the result of the Dey's orders, no one in Algiers at the time for a moment doubted; Hussein however pretended that it arose from a mistake, and that he had only ordered a gun to be fired in case the ship should approach too near to the batteries, as a signal for her to keep off. He moreover dismissed from office the Minister of Marine, on whom the responsibility of the act rested; in so doing however, he only advanced one of his own ends, for the vacancy was immediately filled by the appointment of his son-in-law Ibrahim Kara-Dengirzli, the nephew of the Aga Ibrahim.

The feeble and distracted Ministry which authorized this negotiation, had been dissolved ere the news of its result arrived in France; and those who succeeded to power in that country, though possessing energy and union of purpose, were for some time wholly occupied in preparing to confront the liberal party at the ensuing session of the Legislature. No decisive measures were therefore taken with regard to Algiers during the remainder of 1829; the blockade was indeed maintained, but with so little rigor as to be scarcely more than nominal; the Algerine cruisers were spread over the western part of the Mediterranean, and occasionally appeared before Marseilles, while the French Admiral with the greater part of his ships remained generally at Port Mahon.

Attempts were made at this period, to effect an adjustment of the differences, by the Governments of Great Britain and Turkey, which were the most interested in preventing any change in the political condition of the Barbary States. When the British Government received the news of Hussein's flagrant violation of good faith, in firing upon the French Admiral, the Pelorus sloop of war was despatched to Algiers, where her commander Captain Quin united with the British Consul Mr. St. John, in endeavoring to prevail upon the Dey to propose terms of peace. This effort proving vain, the Pelorus sailed to Constantinople, where it was agreed between the Ambassadors of France and England, that the Sultan should be requested to interpose; to this the Turkish Government readily assented, and Halil Effendi a venerable and respectable Turk, who had long known Hussein and been much esteemed by him, was ordered to proceed to Algiers, and to entreat or command the Dey no longer to provoke the vengeance of his powerful enemies. Halil arrived in the Pelorus on the 28th of November at Algiers, where he was received with great kindness and affection by the Dey and by all classes of the inhabitants. His arguments and entreaties soon produced effects, from which the mediators augured the most favorable consequences; for Hussein after some days of reflection and consultation with his Ministers, agreed to propose to M. de la Bretonniere the renewal of the negotiations, offering him every assurance of honorable treatment in case he should come to Algiers, and as an earnest of the sincerity of his intentions, promising the surrender of all the French prisoners. The Pelorus sailed with these proposals on the 10th of December for Mahon, where she was detained nearly three months in expectation of the Admiral's reply; at length M. de la Bretonniere declared, that as he was still bound by the first instructions from his Government, he could admit of negotiation on no other terms, than the mission of an Ambassador to Paris to bear the explanations of the Dey. With this answer Captain Quin returned to Algiers on the 1st of April 1830; but no arguments could induce Hussein to adopt the measure proposed: "God is Great!" said he, "Let the French come."

In the mean time the French Ministry had taken a most serious determination. The insult offered by the Dey in firing upon M. de la Bretonniere, was concealed from the public as completely as possible; no mention of it was made in the Moniteur, yet it finally became known, and the opposition press of Paris eagerly seized the opportunity, to vilify the hated Ministry of Polignac for delaying to avenge the insulted honor of France. In this condition of things it became absolutely necessary for the Government to take some decisive step towards a conclusion of the war, in order to relieve itself from a heavy and increasing burthen of popular odium on this account. To effect this purpose, two plans were proposed in the Ministerial Council. Count de Bourmont the bold and active chief of the War Department, was in favor of an expedition sent directly from France, against the capital city of the offending Sovereign. Prince Polignac the head of the Ministry, was doubtful of the propriety of risking such an attempt upon a place defended by nature, by art, and above all by the savage fanaticism of the surrounding population; he moreover conceived that even if Algiers were to fall into the hands of the French, it would be impossible for them to retain it, without a constant expenditure of force and treasure, for which no return could be reasonably expected. His plan was therefore to arm against the Algerines, an enemy professing the same faith with themselves, who in the event of success might be bound by his interests, to pursue a policy accordant with the wishes of France and of Europe in general.

The ideas of Polignac were adopted by the King, and the French Ambassador at Constantinople was instructed to propose to the ambitious Pasha of Egypt, that he should undertake the conquest of Algiers, or even of all Barbary, in which France would under certain conditions aid him by the co-operation of its naval force. The Ambassador accordingly despatched M. Huder one of the officers of his Embassy to Cairo in order to submit this proposition to the Pasha; Mehemet Ali readily acceded to it, the projet of a Convention on the subject was drawn up, and the French agent arrived in Paris with it about the end of January 1830. The British Government had however by this time penetrated the secret of the negotiation, and ever jealous with regard to the occupation of the Barbary coast by any strong Power, its Ambassador at Paris was immediately instructed to protest against the plan. As the correspondence on this subject was never published, we have no means of knowing precisely the grounds of opposition taken by the British Ministry; they probably had reference only to the interests of the Sultan, which might be seriously affected by so great an addition to the force of his refractory Viceroy. Whatever may have been the influence of this opposition, the project of a co-operation with Mehemet Ali was abandoned, and it was determined that an expedition should with the least possible delay, be sent from France against Algiers.

Preparations for carrying this resolution into effect were immediately commenced in all the ports and arsenals in France, and they were prosecuted with a degree of vigor which excited the admiration of Europe. The various branches of the service were placed under the superintendence of the most experienced persons, apparently without reference to their known political inclinations; and all the resources of mechanical and medical, as well as military and naval science, were employed to add to the health and comforts of the soldiers and to give efficiency to their operations. Works relating to Northern Africa were examined with attention, and the records of preceding expeditions against Algiers were studied, in order to discover and provide against the circumstances which occasioned their failure. Toulon having been chosen as the place from which the armament was to sail, troops were collected in its vicinity, and prepared by peculiar exercises for the duties which they would be required to perform. Ships of war lying at the different naval establishments, were ordered to be fully equipped, and as soon as ready to be sent to the rendezvous, where a number of merchant vessels for the transportation of men and materials were bound by contract to assemble at the appointed time.

The object of these preparations after having been communicated in general terms to the Governments of the other great European nations, were publicly announced by the King in his address at the opening of the Legislative session on the 2d of March 1830. The reply made by the Chamber of Deputies, shewed clearly that the Ministry would find no favor with that body; this had been anticipated and the session was accordingly prorogued, with a view to the ulterior dissolution of the intractable Chamber. The Liberal Party having by this time taken the alarm, their journals which had been previously filled with invectives against the Ministers for their apathy under the insults of a Barbarian, now loudly condemned the objects of the expedition and prophesied that it would be fruitless. The violence of these denunciations induced the Ministry to insert an article in the Moniteur of April 20th, which although unofficial, was afterwards formally acknowledged to be the expression of the sentiments of the Government. This article was composed with much care, and although no one of its statements taken separately can be contradicted, yet their arrangement, the omissions of important circumstances and the studied obscurity of the language on certain points, renders the result of the whole the opposite of that which would arise from a candid exposition. General Alexandre de Laborde made an able reply in the Constitutionnel of the 26th of the same month; he fully demonstrated the unimportance of the African Concessions, the seizure of which was made the principal grounds of the difference, in the Ministerial declaration; he shewed that the bad faith of the Government and of its agents had given the Dey just cause of discontent, that the weakness and indecision of the late Ministry had provoked and encouraged his insults, and that the real end of the expedition then in preparation, was to subdue, not the barbarians of Africa, but the friends of true liberty in France. Motives of patriotism, and feeling for the honor of the country may indeed have influenced the Ministry in adopting this resolution; but there can be no doubt that its principal object was to sustain the despotic party in France, by reproducing in the people that admiration for military glory, which experience has shewn to be incompatible with respect for institutions founded on equality of rights.

To the announcement of its intentions with regard to Algiers, the French Ministry received the most satisfactory answers from many of the Powers of the European Continent. The British Government however, which had manifested its disapprobation of the plan for establishing the Egyptian authority in Barbary, was still more unwilling that France should possess a country, "which in the hands of a more civilized and enlightened Government, could not fail to exercise an important influence over the commerce and maritime interests of the Mediterranean Powers." The French Ambassador at London, when requested to explain more fully, replied by "the most positive assurances of the entirely disinterested views of the Cabinet of the Tuilleries;" and the British Ambassador at Paris on addressing the same demand to Prince Polignac, was informed "that a satisfactory answer would soon be given respecting the objects of the expedition, and the future destiny of the Regency of Algiers in case of success."

Accordingly on the 20th of March the French Ambassador at London communicated to Lord Aberdeen then Secretary for Foreign Affairs, a letter from Prince Polignac, in which after enumerating the various grievances suffered by France from Algiers, and stating the conviction of his Government that treaties would be of no avail in preventing their recurrence, he declared that his Sovereign had resolved to seek redress by force, and at the same time to advance the interests of humanity, by abolishing piracy, Christian slavery and the payment of tribute to the Barbary Regencies; "and if," concludes the Prince, "in the approaching struggle, the Government now existing at Algiers should be dissolved, the King whose views in this question are entirely disinterested, will concert with his Allies respecting the new order of things, which should for the greatest advantage of the Christian world replace the system overthrown, and be most proper to secure the ends thus proposed by His Majesty." This letter was considered by the British Cabinet, as "scarcely affording that entire satisfaction which might be reasonably expected;" and its Ambassador at Paris was in consequence instructed to insist upon an official assurance from the French Government, that it "renounced all views of territorial possession or aggrandizement." The despatch containing this instruction was read to Prince Polignac, who repeated in general terms that "the expedition was not undertaken with a view to obtain territorial acquisitions," adding however that "he had no objection to give any assurance, which might be calculated to remove the uneasiness of the British Government."

For this assurance Lord Aberdeen waited for some time in vain; on the 21st of April the French Ambassador read to him a letter from the Prince containing a declaration sufficiently explicit and satisfactory; but he was not authorized to give a copy of it, and applications were again made to the French Government. Polignac whose only object was to gain time, evaded these applications by the liberal employment of petty artifices; at length on the 17th of May, when the expedition was about to sail, the French Ambassador delivered to Lord Aberdeen an official copy of a despatch addressed to him by his Government in the form of a circular to the different courts of Europe. In this circular the King of France declared to his Allies that his objects were to obtain redress for the injuries committed by Algiers, to secure the French possessions in Africa from future aggressions, and to receive indemnification for the expenses of the war, as well as to effect the abolition of piracy Christian slavery and the exaction of tribute; and that until these ends should be attained and sufficiently secured he would not lay down his arms nor recall his troops from Africa. In case the existing Government of Algiers should be overthrown, he would immediately concert with the other Powers as to the new order of things to be there established, for the greatest advantage of the Christian world; and as it was probable that they might soon be required to give their opinions on this subject, he invited each Government without delay to furnish its Representative in France with the proper instructions. "His majesty," says the French Minister in the despatch, "will appear at these deliberations, ready to furnish every additional explanation which may be desired, disposed to take into consideration the rights and interests of all, not bound by anterior engagements, at liberty to accept any proposition which may tend to assure the attainment of the result indicated, and free from all feelings of personal interest."

Not satisfied with such vague promises, the British Minister replied through the Ambassador at Paris, that although "no further suspicion could be entertained of any design on the part of the French Government to establish a military occupation of the Regency, or to accomplish such a change in the state of territorial possession on the shores of the Mediterranean, as should affect the interest of European Powers," yet "he could not avoid calling the attention of Prince Polignac to the peculiar situation of Algiers in its relation to the Ottoman Porte;" that although "many Governments of Europe had contracted engagements with that Regency as an independent State," and others "continued to regard the Barbary States as essentially dependant on the Turkish Empire," yet "the supremacy of the Sultan was allowed by all;" he therefore "submitted to the serious consideration of the Prince, what must be the effect of a precedent, which thus disposes of the rights of a third party, against whom no complaint whatever has been alleged." To this no reply was made, and the negotiation or rather the discussion ended.

The preceding statement of the correspondence between the French and British Governments, relative to the disposition to be made of Algiers in the event of its conquest, is drawn from the official letters which passed on the occasion; they were published in compliance with a call made by Lord Aberdeen in the House of Peers of Great Britain on the 3d of May 1833. From an examination of those documents, it appears that no engagement was entered into by the French Government to recall its troops from Algiers at any period; equally unfounded is the assertion made by the French historical writers, respecting the reply of Prince Polignac to the British Ambassador, that "France when insulted asked the aid of no power in avenging its honor, and would be accountable to none for the disposal of its conquests." It would be impossible to give a summary of the results of the negotiation more satisfactory, or drawn from a source entitled to greater consideration, than that presented by Lord Aberdeen when he called for the production of the Correspondence in the House of Lords; "no Convention was signed on the subject, nor was any express stipulation entered into for the evacuation of Algiers by the French force; but important engagements were contracted, which in reference to all the Powers interested in the commerce of the Mediterranean, and in the territorial arrangements of that part of the world, were calculated to allay apprehensions which might reasonably have existed respecting the occupation of Algiers by the French."

There were difficulties also within the Ministerial Council. The preparations for the expedition were nearly completed, before it was known who was to command it. Three Marshals and six Lieutenant Generals are said to have been successively proposed and rejected; at length the Moniteur of the 20th of April, the same which contained the defence of the objects of the expedition, announced that the King had appointed Count de Bourmont the Minister of War, to the command of the Army of Africa, as it was termed. The appointment to a station so responsible of a man who had betrayed every cause in which he engaged is said to have received the unwilling assent of the King; it was considered a fortunate circumstance by the Liberal Party, as it contributed to excite the indignation of the whole country, and to deprive the Government of the popularity, which it might otherwise have gained by the expedition.

On the day when his nomination was published, Bourmont left Paris for Toulon, the affairs of his Department having been committed during his absence to Prince Polignac. He was followed by the Minister of the Marine, and soon after by the Duke d'Angouleme, who as grand Admiral of France came to review the armament before its departure.

Certainly never did the harbor of Toulon, nor any other harbor exhibit a more gallant spectacle.

The Army of Africa was composed of thirty-seven thousand six hundred and fifty men; the number of horses employed in the different branches of its service was three thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, and the artillery consisted of one hundred and eighty pieces of cannon. This force was arranged in three divisions, which were placed severally under the commands of Lieutenant Generals the Baron de Barthezène, Count de Loverdo, and the Duke d'Escars; the Chief Engineer was General Valazé and the artillery was directed by Count de la Hitte. The number of ships of war was one hundred and three, including eleven of the line, twenty-three frigates and seven steam ships; they were manned by twenty-seven thousand seamen, and carried more than three thousand guns. They were arranged in three squadrons; the Squadron of Battle commanded by Admiral Duperré, who conducted the naval operations of the expedition; the Squadron of Disembarkation by Admiral Rosamel, and the Squadron of Reserve by Captain Lemoine. Between four and five hundred merchant vessels were engaged for the transportation of horses, provisions and materials, and many others were allowed to accompany the fleet, laden with various articles which might be needed. Of the equipments and accompaniments of this force, it would be difficult to convey an adequate idea, without entering into details which might not prove generally interesting; suffice it to say that no expense was spared to render them complete, and that nothing was neglected, which could contribute to the attainment of the end proposed. Upon the whole, the armament was superior to any other which in modern times has crossed a sea; those led by Charles the Fifth against Tunis and Algiers, the famed Spanish Armada sent by Philip the Second for the invasion of England, and even the mighty expedition conducted by Napoleon to Egypt being each inferior to it in appointments, in naval force, and in the numerical amount of the persons engaged.

All things being in readiness the embarkation of the troops was commenced on the 11th of May, and having been conducted with the utmost order and precision, it was terminated in a week. On the 25th the wind being favorable the first squadron sailed out of the harbor; the second followed on the 26th, and the third on the 27th. They directed their course for Algiers; it was however arranged that in case of separation by storm or other unexpected occurrence, the place of rendezvous would be Palma the capital of the Island of Majorca.

Scarcely had the first squadron quitted Toulon, ere it was met by a Turkish frigate escorted by one of the ships of the squadron which was blockading Algiers. The Turkish frigate bore no less a personage than Tahir Pasha the Capudan Pasha or High Admiral of Turkey, who had been sent by the Sultan with full powers to arrange the differences between France and the Dey. He had sailed first to Algiers, where he intended to command Hussein to accept the terms required by the French, and in case of refusal to depose him and take possession of the place in the name of the Sultan; but the commander of the blockading squadron off that place had received orders to suffer no ship to enter the harbor, and Tahir finding it impossible to land, hastened to Toulon in hopes that his representations might prevent the sailing of the expedition. Well was it for the Pasha, that he was not permitted to enter Algiers, for Hussein who knew of his approach and of the objects of his visit, had prepared to have him strangled as soon as he landed.

The Turkish Ambassador on meeting the French fleet, boarded the Admiral's ship, and had a conference with Bourmont which of course proved ineffectual; he then continued his voyage to Toulon, where he was placed in quarantine immediately on his arrival. Thence he attempted to transmit his communications to the Government, but great care had been taken to prevent them from reaching their destination. The British Ambassador asked explanations from the French Minister as to the objects of his visit, and endeavored to procure a hearing for him; but Prince Polignac adroitly evaded the questions, by confessing with the greatest apparent frankness, that he was entirely ignorant for what purpose the Turkish Ambassador was sent. Tahir at length seeing that it was useless to remain longer, and have "his beard thus laughed at," went back to Constantinople.

Before the scene of the history is changed to Africa, it may be stated, that on the 15th of May, while all France was intent upon the preparations for the departure of the expedition, an ordinance appeared in the Moniteur dissolving the Chamber of Deputies. A few days after a partial change was made in the Ministerial Body by the introduction of persons still more opposed to liberal institutions than those whom they replaced, and still more odious to the nation at large. The French Ministry subsisted as thus organized until the 28th of July, when Charles the Tenth ceased to reign.

A LAY OF RUIN.

BY MISS DRAPER.

'Twas nightfall—and the stars their pale light threw

Upon the Cortées, and her joyous crew,

Propitious heaven a friendly cool wind gave,

That fanned them gently o'er the silvery wave:

Upon the deck, mingled the gay and young,

In giddy motion—while the pleasant sound,

The lively note of merry music rung

In lightsome echoes, on the water round.

Oh! it is glorious, when on ocean far,

A prosperous crew their jovial revels keep,

Gazing on Beauty 'neath the midnight star,

And dancing on the bosom of the deep.

Amid his mates, thick gather'd round the mast,

The laughing sailor whistles loud, and sings

Of storm, and shipwreck, and strange dangers past,

Of sharks, and crocodile, and all such things

As eat men up at sea—and then anon,

Of Heathen temples, and of Christian domes,

Of Greenland Beauties, in a freezing zone,

And dark-ey'd Donnas, in their sunny homes.

Far from the rest—pensive, and silently,

Mute as a statue, Sobieski stood,

A banish'd Pole—a gallant soldier he,

Of noble aspect, and of noble blood.

It wanted not the aid of tongue to speak,

All Sobieski had been—or was now:

The silent tear, upon his manly cheek,

The thick, deep furrows of his lofty brow,—

His faded lip, his melancholy gaze,

Told the sad history of gone-by days.

And closely by his side a frail girl clung,

The proud Pole's daughter: with a tearless eye,

And pensive smile—upon his arm she hung,

Like some pale being from the distant sky.

A breeze arose—it was a joyous breeze—

And as they hurry through the parting seas,

From highest mast the anxious tars look out:

"Land, land ahead!" the hopeful sailors shout.

It blew a gale—it blew a heavy gale—

With dexterous hand they furl the rattling sail.

A tempest came—against a frightful rock

The Cortées struck—hearts quiver'd with the shock.

"Down with the life-boat,"—'twas a fearful cry;

And oaths, and prayers, went mingling through the sky.

By raging winds and furious breakers lash'd,

'Gainst the tall cliffs again the Cortées dash'd—

On the white waves a scatter'd wreck she lay,

And the wild billows roll'd her mast away.

Slowly, but safe, the crowded life-boat bore

Its precious burden, to the nearing shore—

And as with breathless haste the thankful crew

Leapt on the land, all hands were safe but two;

But two were wanting, two, and two alone,

The Polish Maiden! and the exiled one!

They two had linger'd on the Cortées, till

The hardy Captain, seeing all must fly,

Tore down a light boat; with a dismal cry,

And frantic rush, the slender bark they fill.

For life—for life—the weary sailors row'd.

For life—for life—Oh! 'twas a vain endeavor;

The little skiff o'erburden'd with its load,

Was slowly sinking in the waves forever—

Ah! which of them, with land in sight, could bear

To meet Death thus? Hope makes a coward brave,

And they who might have shudder'd in despair,

Kept fearlessly above the billowy wave—

The dexterous swimmers, reach'd the life-boat's crew,

And Sobieski could have reach'd it too;

But in one arm his terror'd child he bore,

And with the other battled with the sea:

Bravely he toil'd to gain the distant shore;

The rest were there already—only he,

And his wan daughter, with exhausted breath,

Were flying from the watery jaws of Death.

At length, the frenzied Pole beheld the land,

And eager, with a Father's tender hand,

Fondly, he raised Pascobi's drooping head;

She trembled not—her terror all had fled—

The Polish maid was with the fearless dead!

The distant thunder murmur'd through the air,

The lightning gleam'd amid the clouds afar,

The hollow wind went whistling—low, away

On unknown journies. Light, and lovely day

Were brightly dawning on that lonely spot,

Where lay the victim of the direful storm,

So still—so pale—so beautiful—with not

An eye to weep for her. In holy calm,

And silent grief, her sire was kneeling by—

Pascobi slept, as free from care as pain—

And 'twere a sin that e'en a father's sigh

Should wake that daughter into life again.

Once, Sobieski under Poland's sun

Had proudly lorded over lands his own—

And now, his Spirit could not stoop to ask

A Stranger to bestow on him a grave—

He took his pale child, 'twas a bitter task,

And buried her beneath the quiet wave.

BALLAD.

Far 'neath the dim mountains

The daylight dies—

And Heaven is opening

Her starry eyes;

The Moon o'er the tree-tops

Looks down on the stream,

Where the castle's broad shadow

Sleeps—dark as a dream.

From the Oriel-lattice

A bright Lady gazed—

Her eyes—sad—though tearless,

To heaven upraised.

Her brow was all paleness—

Yet beauty dwelt there—

A picture of sorrow

With raven dark hair.

She marked not the softness

Of dim vale and stream—

The mist on the mountain—

The lake's distant gleam—

She saw not the mimic

Dew-star in the grass,

Nor the pale damp that hung o'er

The haunted morass.

She heard not the owlet's

Sad song from the wood—

Nor the rush of his wings as

He sailed o'er the flood—

Nor rapid hoofs ringing,

And neigh echoed shrill,

As the hurrying horseman

Spurred over the hill.

Oh! her thoughts were far distant

Far—far—in the land,

Where her gallant crusader

Held knightly command.

She prays for his safety,

Who sleeps in his gore

By the crimson-dyed sands of

Far Galilee's shore.

The dark waving cypress

O'ershadows his grave—

A cross tells the pilgrim

Where sleepeth the brave—

And the horseman who knocks at

The castle-gate,

Hath a tale for its Lady,

A seal for her fate.

W. M. R.

THE GOURD OF JONAH.

The gourd mentioned in Jonah as springing up in one night, is in the Hebrew 'Kikajon.' St. Jerom and many others call it ivy. St. Jerom, however, acknowledges ivy to be an improper translation. The Kikajon, according to Galmêt, is a non-parasitical shrub found in the sandy places of Palestine. It grows with rapidity, and has thick leaves resembling those of a vine.

THE COUSIN OF THE MARRIED,

AND THE COUSIN OF THE DEAD.

[From the French.]

There was found, under the Restoration, a man who was surnamed The Cousin of the Married, and who merited the appellation by a course of industry and ingenuity truly singular. He repaired every morning to the office of the Mayor of the twelve districts of Paris, and stationed himself before the little grate, where are endorsed notices of all marriages about to take place. He read attentively the names of the affianced persons, learned their qualities, and informed himself of their fortune. When he obtained all this information, the ingenious Cousin made his choice, always deciding, however, in favor of that marriage which was expected to attract the greatest number of guests, and which promised the most sumptuous dinner. He would then buy an enormous bouquet, put on his fine black coat, a pair of open-work stockings and light pumps, and then take from his bandbox his new hat; so attired he would proceed cautiously among the carriages, with a buoyant step, to the church where the marriage ceremony was to be performed, join the crowd of attendants, and officiously offer to hold the nuptial veil. When the benediction was pronounced, he created himself Master of Ceremonies, leading the way to the carriages, giving his hand to the ladies, carefully lifting their dresses to prevent them from coming in contact with the coach wheels, shutting the coach doors and bidding the drivers proceed to the appointed hotel. For himself he was no less careful, as he always contrived to secure a place for himself in one of the carriages, so as to arrive with the rest of the company. It was then that he was brilliant, and then that his liveliness and gaiety served to beguile, with the company, the tedious hour before dinner. He had for all some remark to excite laughter—he repeated a pleasant little story, adapted to the time and circumstance of the assembly—he hastened the preparations for the repast—humorously recommended the guests to be patient, and to prepare their appetites for eating, and when all was ready he would announce the fact himself. He was the Major Domo of the house—the man indispensable—the commissary of the feast. Every voice was in his praise—"that gentleman is very amiable"—and if any one indiscreetly inquired his name, it was answered that he was presumed to be the parent or friend of the bride, or a cousin or an intimate friend of the groom.

But it was at the table that his efforts to please were particularly conspicuous. He would post himself in the place of honor—seize the great carving-knife—cut up the meats with admirable promptness and dexterity, and carefully and politely wait upon every guest. He directed the servants, overlooked the courses, and tasted the wines. Then when the dessert was brought, he would take from his pocket a piece of pink paper, mysteriously unfold it, and sing from it a stanza in honor of the newly married couple, composed by himself expressly for the occasion. The good fellow knew but one little story and but one stanza, but he served them up every morning in a new edition.

Unfortunately this witty sharper was one day detected in his career of imposition. Seduced by the attraction of great names, he went to the marriage festival of a rich nobleman of the Fauborg St. Germain. He had assisted at the mass—returned in an elegant barouche to the hotel—had glided unobserved into the parlor, and stood waiting for a suitable opportunity to rehearse his amusing little story, and to commence his impromptu remarks, so often before repeated. All at once he became the object of general attention; all at once he found all eyes fixed upon him. The mistress of the feast had counted her plates and her guests, and had ascertained that of the latter there was one too many. She was astonished to find on inquiring the name of the Cousin, that no one knew him, and that no one recognized him as a friend. For the first time the Cousin of the Married lost his self-possession and his assurance. How was he to escape the gaze of the eyes fixed upon him? How was he to answer the questions which might be addressed to him? Presently, a gentleman advances towards him and asks—"By which of the married couple were you invited—on which side are you?"

"On which side?" said the Cousin of the Married, taking his hat, "on the side of the door;" and so saying, he quickly descended the stairs and left the house. Since that day no one has heard tell of him.

But if we have no longer the Cousin of the Married, we have now the Cousin of the Dead, an expression equally as significant as the first.

Ruined by the Revolution of 1793, the Count of V***, was obliged to accept of a very modest employment. In consequence of a change in the Ministry, the old clerk was compelled to leave his office, with no other resource to sustain life, than a miserable income of 400 francs per annum. He was old, and alone in the world. His strength did not permit him to labor, and by constantly dwelling on his poverty, he became melancholy, and subsequently fell dangerously sick. By carefully attending to the advice of a physician, who generously refused to accept the small sum the old man offered to give for his services, he became, in time, somewhat restored. This physician prescribed for his patient, on pain of a relapse, frequent exercise and a daily ride. You may judge of the poor man's embarrassment! How could he ride every day in a carriage, when his little income was scarcely sufficient to procure the essentials of life? The smallest excursion in a cabriolet cost twenty-five sous—one excursion per day would be four hundred and fifty francs per annum, and his whole yearly income amounted to only four hundred. At that time omnibusses were not invented.

He was beginning to despond when the heavens sent him succor. In passing near St. Rock, he observed that the gate of the church was hung in black, and that a long line of vehicles were in waiting to conduct a funeral procession to Père La Chaise. The coachmen were on their seats, and their strong and beautiful horses, covered with the trappings of mourning, were awaiting with impatience, the moment of departure. The advice of the physician recurred with great force to the mind of poor V***—a feeling of jealousy glided into his inoffensive heart. He envied the fortune of those who could thus ride gratis—he envied, for one instant, the happy destiny of the deceased, in being conveyed to his last earthly home, in a splendid hearse, drawn by four magnificent horses. Feeling a curiosity to know the name and history of one upon whom fortune had so lavished her favors, he entered the church and piously knelt down among the mourners. V*** had on his only black coat, and he was immediately taken for one of the friends of the deceased, and after the ceremonies in the church, was offered a place in one of the funeral carriages. The occasion was too opportune to be neglected, and he gladly jumped into the wished-for carriage.

On the way, a thousand ideas passed through his imagination. He thanked heaven for having furnished him with the means to fulfil, in so economical a manner, the recommendation of his physician. He accompanied the corpse to the grave—saw the coffin laid in the tomb, and on leaving the churchyard, he found the coach in waiting, and the coachman ready to convey him home.

Since that event V*** has become the willing assistant of all public interments; and what was, at first, only useful as a means of exercise, has become for him a pleasure and a delight. He goes to a funeral as others go to the theatre, to a ball, or to a festival. He daily reads the lists of deaths in the city, and these lists are to him a journal, and the only one for which he conceives there is any use. Still more, he has taken lodgings opposite the dwelling of the undertaker, and every morning he crosses the street to converse with the undertaker, and inform himself of the burials of the day. He puts on his blue surtout or his black dress, according to the rank and fortune of the deceased, the expenses of the funeral, &c., and for all grand ceremonies he wears crape on his arm. V*** is now generally known by the title of the Cousin of the Dead. For fifteen years he has not missed a single funeral. His views are too liberal to adopt party feelings; he has assisted to inter Bellart and Manuel, Talma and the Bishop of Beauvais, a female follower of St. Simon and the lady Superior of the Convent of Minimes, and he hopes to live to inter many other characters equally distinguished. He once presented to the Chamber of Deputies, a petition for a law interdicting the embalming of infants, by which the number of funeral processions is materially lessened.

The Cousin of the Dead possesses a remarkably expansive sensibility, and an extraordinary quantity of sympathy for the afflictions of others. He feels the grief of a bereaved mother, the despair of a heart-broken widow, the sorrow of a childless father, with the poignancy of truth. Many a legator, in noticing his sorrow at the grave, has taken him for a disinherited relative; many a mother has been gratified to see him shed tears over her favorite son, and many an husband, on losing a beloved wife, has been astonished at his grief over her remains. He composes funeral orations for all illustrious persons; the burial place is his life and his world. At times, struck with the appearance of grief depicted on his countenance, the friends of the dead have desired him to be the principal mourner.

One day, during the burial of a personage of considerable importance, the Cousin of the Dead was observed to shed an abundance of tears. One of the mourners approached him and desired that he would make a few appropriate remarks—jeter quelques fleurs sur le cercueil—on the individual whose remains they had just deposited in the cold grave. The procession closed around him as he prepared to speak.

"The tomb," said he, "is again about to enclose the remains of a distinguished citizen." He stopped for a moment, and inquired, in a low voice, the name of the deceased. He was answered, "Augustin Leger."

"Augustin Leger," he resumed, "was a man, grave and austere. His long life was but a continued series of virtuous and benevolent acts. He was entirely devoted to the holy, the legitimate cause of——"

He was a regicide!

"The rights of the sovereign people. His disinterestedness——"

He was a usurer!

"His laudable economy, his aversion to luxury, his unassuming and modest deportment, had gained for him universal esteem. But still more worthy of admiration were his virtues in private life—his patience, his humility, and his devoted and unchangeable attachment to the wife of his bosom, the lady of his choice."

He had been divorced!

"For his children he cherished the most affectionate and tender regard."

He had driven them from his house!

"Virtuous friend! May the earth rest lightly on thy coffin!"

THE DUC DE L'OMELETTE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

And stepped at once into a cooler clime.

Cowper.

Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of The Andromache?1 Ignoble souls!—De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en est breve—assist me Spirit of Apicius!

1 Montfleury. The author of the Parnasse Reformé makes him thus express himself in the shades. "The man then who would know of what I died, let him not ask if it were of the fever, the dropsy, or the gout; but let him know that it was of The Andromache."

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to the Chaussée D'Antin, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. It was "All for Love."

That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau, he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.

He buries his face in the pillow—the clock strikes! Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Duc?——"Horreur!—chien!—Baptiste!—l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu as deshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans papier!" It is superfluous to say more—the Duc expired in a paroxysm of disgust.

*              *               *               *               *

"Ha! ha! ha!"—said his Grace on the third day after his decease.

"He! he! he!"—replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an air of hauteur.

"Why, surely you are not serious"—retorted De L'Omelette. "I have sinned—c'est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no actual intention of putting such—such—barbarous threats into execution."

"No what?"—said His Majesty—"come sir, strip!"

"Strip indeed!—very pretty i' faith!—no, sir, I shall not strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre ever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?"

"Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee just now from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy robe-de-chambre is a shroud of no scanty dimensions."

"Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! In the meantime au revoir!"—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of his whereabouts.

The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it bien comme il faut. It was not very long, nor very broad,—but its height—ah, that was appalling! There was no ceiling—certainly none—but a dense, whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he glanced upwards. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like C——, parmi les nues. From its nether extremity hung a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby—but from it there poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never dreamed of such when drugged with opium he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God Apollo! The Duc muttered a slight oath decidedly approbatory.

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their tout ensemble French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled—it was not colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.

But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here; for did he not paint the —— ? and was he not consequently damned? The paintings!—the paintings! O Luxury! O Love!—who gazing on those forbidden beauties shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the golden frames that lie imbedded and asleep against those swellings walls of eider down?

But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup—mais! The Duc De L'Omelette is terror-stricken; for through the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly of all fires!

Le Pauvre Duc! He could not help imagining that the glorious, the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted window panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless and the damned! And there too—there—upon that ottoman!—who could he be?—he, the petit-maitre—no, the Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with his pale countenance, si amerement.

*              *               *               *               *

Mais il faut agir—that is to say a Frenchman never faints outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L'Omelette is himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points also. The Duc had studied under B——, il avait tué ses six hommes. Now then il peut s'echapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his Majesty does not fence!

Mais il joue!—what a happy thought! But his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable" of the Abbé Gualtier. Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d'Ecarté."

But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but not more desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he not skimmed over Pere Le Brun? was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un? "Si Je perds," said he, "Je serai deux fois perdu," I shall be doubly damned—voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders) Si Je gagne Je serai libre,—que les cartes soient prepareés!

*              *               *               *               *

His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence. A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thought of his game. His Majesty did not think—he shuffled. The Duc coupa.

The cards are dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king! No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart.

They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.

"C'est à vous à faire"—said his Majesty cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from the table en presentant le Roi.

His Majesty looked chagrined.

Had the drunkard not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and the Duc assured his Majesty in taking leave "que s'il n'etait pas De L'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le Diable."

THE ILIAD.

Mr. H. N. Coleridge says there would be no difficulty in composing a complete epic poem with as much symmetry of parts as is seen in the Iliad, from the English ballads on Robin Hood.

RUSTIC COURTSHIP

IN NEW ENGLAND.

[From the lips of an Octogenarian.]

Won by the charms

Of goodness irresistible.

Thomson.

"You see, ma'am," said the old man, "my mother died when I was twelve years old. About that time old Mr. C—— came down, and set up for a great marchant. Well, his wife was sick, and she sent to ——, where she came from, for a widow-woman to come and take care of her. This widow-woman had three children. Her husband, had been a sea-faring man, and he was wracked and lost down there at Halifax,—and left his wife with nothing at all, and these three children to take care of."

"Well, my daddy, ma'am, fell in with her, some how or other, and married her. She was a nice woman—as good a mother as ever was,—and had great larning, and knew how to do every thing,—only she didn't know nothing about country-work, you see. Well, her oldest daughter came down, (for my dad had agreed to take one of the children,) and she was a nice gal; and a while after the boy came down. Well, there was nothing said; we all worked along; and the daughter she got married—married Mr. H——, (you know his folks?—) he broke his neck afterwards, falling from his horse."

"Well, a while after this tother daughter came down. Debby was dreadful plain!—I thought she was dreadful plain!!—but she was a nice gal—smart, working—and good to every body. You see, there were four young children of the second crop, and they had got ragged; and Debby spun, and wove, and clothed, and mended them up. Well, she went back,—but they couldn't live without her, and sent for her again, and so she came. She took care of every thing—saw to my things, and had them all in order,—and every thing comfortable for me in the winter, when I went in the woods,—but I thought nothing, no more than if she'd been my sister."

"Well, by this time I was a youngish man; and in my day, the young folks had a sort of a frolic every night. I used to go,—and sometimes went home with one gal, sometimes with another,—but never thought of Debby. Well, there was a Mr. —— came to see her, but she wouldn't have nothing to say to him; and after that, one came from the Shoals—a rich man's son; his father gave him a complete new vessel, and every thing to load her; but Debby wouldn't have nothing to do with him nother. Then I wasn't worth so much as this stick!—Well, I wondered, and so I says to mother, 'Mother, what's the reason Debby wont take this man?—she'll never better herself!'—'Don't you know, John?' says mother. 'No.' So I says to Debby—'Why don't you have him, Debby?' 'Because,' says Debby, says she, 'if I can't have the one I want, I wont have nobody!'"

"Well, I thought nothing,—but went on, frolicking here, and frolicking there, till one night as I was going home, just towards day, with one of my mates, says I, 'Tom,' says I, 'I wont go to another frolic these two months! If I do, I'll give you a dollar!'—'You?' says he—'you'll go afore two nights!' 'Well, you'll see,' says I.—Well, I stayed at home steady; and after a while says father, says he to mother, 'Suzy,' says he, (for that was the way he always spoke to her—) 'Suzy,' says he, 'I guess John has got tired of raking about so,—and I'm glad of it.' 'I hope he has,' says mother."

"Well, one day we were all sitting at table,—mother sot there,—and father sot there,—and the hired man next him,—(for we had a hired man, and hired gal,) and Debby was next to mother, and the gal next, and I between the hired man and hired gal. Well, mother was joking the hired man and gal,—(she was a great hand to joke,) and I cast an eye at Debby, and I thought, 'I never see any body alter as you have, Debby!'—She looked handsome!—Well, Debby was weaving up stairs; and I was mowing down by the well, close by the house; and I felt kind of uneasy, and made an excuse to go in for a drink of water. Well, I went in;—and I went up stairs, and into tother chamber—not the one where Debby was weaving,—(for I was kind of bashful, you see,—) and then I went in where Debby was—but said nothing,—for I had never laid the weight of my finger on the gal in my life. At last, 'Debby,' says I, 'what sort of a weaver are you, Debby?' 'O, I guess I can get off as many yards as any body,' says she; 'and I want to get my web out, to go up on the hill to sister's, this afternoon.' 'Well,' says I, 'tell her to have something nice, for I shall be up there.' 'We shan't see you there, I guess,' says Debby. 'You will though,' says I; 'see if you don't!' Father had a great pasture on the hill,—a kind of farm like, (for my father was a rich man!—) so just afore night up I goes, and they had every thing in order. So a while after supper I says to Debby, 'Debby, 'tis time for us to go, for 'twill be milking-time, by the time we get home.' So we went right down across,—and on the way we talked the business over. I married her—and a better wife never wore shoe-leather!"

PALÆSTINE.

Palæstine derives its name from the Philistæi, who inhabited the coast of Judæa. It has also been called "The Holy Land" as being the scene of the birth, sufferings and death of our Redeemer. It was bounded on the north by Syria, on the east by Arabia Deserta, on the south by Arabia Petrea, and on the west by the Mediterranean. The principal divisions of the country were Galilea in the north, Samaria in the middle, and Judæa in the south. This country is at present under the Turkish yoke; and the oppression which it now experiences, as well as the visible effects of the divine displeasure, not only during the reign of Titus, and afterwards in the inundations of the northern barbarians, but also of the Saracens and Crusaders, are more than sufficient to have reduced this country, which has been extolled by Moses, and even by Julian the Apostate, for its fecundity, to its present condition of a desert. Galilea, the northern division, is divided by Josephus into Upper Galilea, called Galilea of the Gentiles because inhabited by heathen nations—and Lower Galilea which was adjacent to the sea of Tiberias, and which contained the tribes of Zebulon and Ashur. Galilea was a very populous country: containing, according to Josephus 204 cities, and towns, and paying 200 talents in tribute.

The middle district, Samaria, had its origin in a division of the people of Israel into two distinct kingdoms, during the reign of Jeroboam. One of these kingdoms, called Judah, consisted of such as adhered to the house of David, comprising the two tribes of Judah and Benjamin. The other ten tribes retained the name of Israelites under Jeroboam. Their capital was Samaria, which also became the name of their country. The Samaritans and people of Judæa were bitter enemies. The former differed in many respects from the strictness of the Mosaic law. Among the Judæans, the name of Samaritan was a term of reproach.

The southern division, Judæa, did not assume that name until after the return of the Jews from the Babylonian captivity—though it had been called long before "the kingdom of Judah," in opposition to that of Israel. After the return, the tribe of Judah settled first at Jerusalem; but afterwards spreading over the whole country, gave it the name of "Judæa."

The only rivers of any note in Palæstine are the Jordanes, and the Leontes, which latter passes through the northern extremity of Galilea. The Jordan, according to a curious story of Philip the Tetrarch, has its origin in a lake called Phiala, about ten miles north of Cæsarea of Samochon. This is said to have been ascertained by throwing into the lake some straw which came out where the river emerges from the ground, after having run fifteen miles beneath the surface of the earth—Mannert the German, thinks this fabulous, and places the source of the river in Mount Paneas, in the province of Dan. The Jordan holds a south-westerly course—flows through the lake Samochon, or Samochonites, or as it is called in the Bible, Merom; after which, proceeding onwards till received by the sea of Tiberias, or lake of Genesareth, it emerges from this, and is finally lost in the Dead Sea. In ancient times it overflowed its banks annually, about the period of early harvest; and thus differing from most other rivers, which generally swell in the winter, it was supposed to have a subterraneous communication with the Nile. But now, we can perceive no rise, which is probably owing to the channel having been deepened by the swiftness of the current. The name is supposed to be derived from the Hebrew "Jarden," on account of the river's rapid "descent" through the country.

The Dead Sea, called also Asphaltites, from the "asphaltos," or bitumen, which it throws up, is situated in Judæa, and near 100 miles long and 25 broad: but is called by Tacitus "Lacus immenso ambitu." Its waters are extremely salt; but the vapors exhaled from them are found not to be so pestilential as they have been usually represented. It is supposed that the thirteen cities, of which Sodom and Gomorrah, as mentioned in the Bible, are the chief, were destroyed by a volcano, and once occupied the site of the Dead Sea. Earthquakes are now frequent in the country. Volumes of smoke are observed to issue from the lake, and new crevices are daily found on its margin.

The country is mountainous. The range of Libanus, so named on account of their snowy summits, from the Hebrew "Lebanon," white, is imperfectly defined. The principal part of them lies towards the north of Galilea, but the name of Libanus is sometimes given to several parallel chains, which run through the whole extent of Palæstine. Between two of these ranges lay a valley so beautiful that some have called it a terrestrial Paradise; though situated in a much higher region than the greater part of the country, it enjoys perpetual spring—the trees are always green, and the orchards full of fruit. Libanus has been famed for its cedars. Mount Carmel is a celebrated mountain, properly belonging to Samaria, but on which the Syrians had an altar, but not a temple, dedicated to their god Carmelus. A priest of this deity, according to Tacitus, (Lib. 2, cap. 78,) foretold the accession of Vespasian to the throne.

The principal towns in Galilea were Dio-Cæsarea, Jotapata or Gath, Genesareth, and Tiberias. Tiberias was built by Herod, near the lake of the same name, and called after the emperor. After the taking of Jerusalem, there was at Tiberias a succession of Hebrew judges, till about the time of the abdication of Dioclesian and Maximinianus. Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis, says that a Hebrew copy of St. John, and the Acts of the Apostles, was kept in this city.

The chief cities of Samaria were Neapolis, Antipatris, Archelais, Apollonia, Samaria, and Cæsarea. Cæsarea, was the principal, and was anciently called "Turris Stratonis." It was much embellished by Herod, who named it Cæsarea in honor of Augustus—and was the station of the Roman governors. Samaria was situated on Mount Sameron, and was the residence of the kings of Israel, from the time of Omri, its founder, to the overthrow of the kingdom.

In Judæa, were the cities of Engedi, Herodium, Hebron, Beersheba, Jericho, and Jerusalem. Jericho was in the tribe of Benjamin, near the river Jordan; and is called by Moses the city of palm-trees, from the palms in the adjacent plain, which are also noticed by Tacitus. It was destroyed by Joshua, but afterwards rebuilt. Jerusalem, the capital, was anciently called Salem, or Jebus, by the Jebusites, who were in possession of it till the time of David; but it was then called by the Hebrews Jeruschalaim, signifying "the possession of the inheritance of peace." The Greeks and Romans called it by the name of Hierosolyma. It was built on several hills, of which Mount Sion, in the southern part of the city, was the largest. To the north was Acra, called the "second," or "lower city"—on the east of which was Solomon's temple, built on Mount Moriah. North-east of this was the Mount of Olives, and north of it Mount Calvary, the place of the crucifixion. This city was taken by Pompey, who thence derived his name of Hierosolymarius. It was also taken and destroyed by Titus, (in the year of our Lord 71, by the account of Tacitus—but according to Josephus,) on the 8th of Sept. A.D. 70—2177 years after its foundation.

In this siege 110,000 persons are said to have perished, and 97,000 to have been made prisoners, and as Josephus relates, sold as slaves, or thrown to wild beasts for the sport of the conquerors.

P.

MARTORELLI.

Martorelli was occupied for two years in a treatise to prove that the use of glass for windows was unknown to the ancients. Fifteen days after the publication of his folio, a house was found in Pompeii all whose windows were paned with glass.

LIVING ALONE.

BY T. FLINT.

There are, to whom to live alone,

Sounds in their ear the funeral moan

Of winter's night breeze, sad and deep,

A prelude of sepulchral sleep.

To live alone I have no dread,

And careless hear upon my bed,

Between the wintry night wind's howl,

The hootings of the forest owl;

Reckless I wrap myself in gloom,

And court endurance for the tomb.

Time was, my feelings were not so:

When Spring upon the drifted snow

Breath'd warm, and bade the waters flow;

When turtles coo'd; on the green hills

Skip'd the spring lambs, murmur'd the rills,

And spread their cups the daffodils,

I was as gay, and with me played

Full many a budding, blue-eyed maid;

My heart, the merriest thing of all,

Bounded within me at the call

Of laughing nature. Ah! 'twas then

The thought of living far from men,

And festive throngs, and social glee,

Had seemed a living death to me.

I loved; but I was plain and poor—

My fair one rich—and from the door

She sign'd my passport—bade me go,

And, as I might, digest my wo.

One shrug'd, and said, "he must confess,

To cling to one so purposeless,

Would be a folly all would blame

As more than due to friendship's claim."

Another cut our feeble tye,

Because I pass'd all chances by

To mend my fortunes, unimprov'd,

Too weak to be sustain'd, or lov'd.

At last I found a pretty one,

Who lov'd me for myself alone.

I was thrice dear to her, but she

A thousand times more dear to me:

I was the happiest one that liv'd,

And should have been, while she surviv'd.

I saw her suffering, saw her fail—

And in my eye the sun grew pale;

Nature's stern debt she early paid,

And in the earth my gem was laid:

My heart then grew, as marble, cold—

And, fortune's worst endur'd, grew bold.

Supine in nature's busy hive,

Men deem'd me dead, though still alive.

One and another slid away,

And left me lonely, old and gray.

'Tis all a vanity, I said,

And to my lot bow'd down my head—

Found pensive gladness in my gloom,

A prelude requiem of the tomb,

And felt myself too sternly wise

With useless grief to blear my eyes.

As my slow hours still strike their knell,

I fancy it my passing bell,

And strive, ere yet I pass away,

To grow insensible as clay.

THE VALLEY NIS.

BY E. A. POE.

Far away—far away—

Far away—as far at least

Lies that valley as the day

Down within the golden East—

All things lovely—are not they

One and all, too far away?

It is called the valley Nis:

And a Syriac tale there is

Thereabout which Time hath said

Shall not be interpreted:

Something about Satan's dart

Something about angel wings—

Much about a broken heart—

All about unhappy things:

But "the valley Nis" at best

Means "the valley of unrest."

Once it smil'd a silent dell

Where the people did not dwell,

Having gone unto the wars—

And the sly, mysterious stars,

With a visage full of meaning,

O'er th' unguarded flowers were leaning,

Or the sun-ray dripp'd all red

Thro' tall tulips overhead,

Then grew paler as it fell

On the quiet Asphodel.

Now each visiter shall confess

Nothing there is motionless:

Nothing save the airs that brood

O'er the enchanted solitude,

Save the airs with pinions furled

That slumber o'er that valley-world.

No wind in Heaven, and lo! the trees

Do roll like seas, in Northern breeze,

Around the stormy Hebrides—

No wind in Heaven, and clouds do fly,

Rustling everlastingly,

Thro' the terror-stricken sky,

Rolling, like a waterfall,

O'er th' horizon's fiery wall—

And Helen, like thy human eye,

Low crouched on Earth, some violets lie,

And, nearer Heaven, some lilies wave

All banner-like, above a grave.

And one by one, from out their tops

Eternal dews come down in drops,

Ah, one by one, from off their stems

Eternal dews come down in gems!

NEW TESTAMENT.

The Greek of the New Testament is by no means, whatever some zealots assert, the Greek of Homer, of Anacreon, or of Thucydides. It is thickly interspersed with Hebraisms, barbarisms, and theological expressions. The Evangelists differ much in style among themselves. St. Matthew is not as pure as St. John, nor he as St. Paul. St. Luke is the most correct—especially in the Acts.

CASTELLANUS,

OR THE CASTLE-BUILDER TURNED FARMER.

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was

Of dreams that wave before the half shut eye,

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass

Forever flushing round a summer sky.

Thomson.

MR. WHITE,—It is a long time since I threw my mite into the treasury of your book; Nugator's occupation's gone! was my ejaculation when last I wrote to you. The same devouring element which has recently plunged New York in misery and gloom, had just then triumphed over much of my earthly possessions, but over none more foolishly prized than sundry small wares which were intended for your market. As there was no prospect of getting Congress to extend the time of the payment of my bonds, to which one would think I was as justly entitled as the rich merchant, I had to set to work as best I might to repair the ravages of fire. In the midst of saws and hammers, of bricks and mortar, my ideas have been so vulgarized, that you must not expect to see a Phoenix rise from my ashes. From me you must never expect any thing but trifles, as my signature portends; yet when I reflect that this world is made up of small things as well as great, and that the former are as essential to constitute a whole as the latter, and that your book ought no more than the world to consist altogether of the grand, but should sometimes admit the trifling, I am encouraged to begin again, although already scorched by more fires than one, having encountered the fire of some of your critics. As the mouse sets off to greater advantage the bulk of the mammoth, the critics should rather be pleased than otherwise, to see my wretched skeleton in contrast with the vast proportions of some of your contributors,—but enough.

Romances and novels made my neighbor Castellanus a castle-builder; nothing can be more dissimilar than the world he inhabits and that ideal one in which he has always lived; like certain persons who shall be nameless, he has been literally in the world and out of it at the same time, and his experience therefore might justify a seeming paradox. I think it was Godwin in his Fleetwood, who drew so beautiful a contrast between our night dreams and day dreams. Castellanus never could bear the former, attended by hag and night mare, where we are forever struggling to attain some goal, which we can never reach; he did not like to start affrighted out of sleep; to sink through chasms yawning beneath his feet;

"Nor toss on shatter'd plank far out upon some deep."

No, I have heard him exclaim, "Give me the dreams of day; let me recline upon some bank in summer shade, supine, where fancy fits her wings for pleasant flight, and quickly ushers me into her radiant halls. No hope defeated can there make me grieve; no cup untasted from my lips be dashed; no light, receding ever, there can shine, but whatsoever there be of joy or love to mortals known, is seized at once and easily made my own." There are few persons, perhaps, who do not at some period of life, construct these gay castles, yclept in air, and well indeed is the appellation bestowed, for though more splendid far than the works of old; more passing rare than all of which we read;—Balbec's! Palmyra's!—none could excel them,—yet in a moment they will topple down, nor leave one marble column, spared as if to point to the scene of desolation and to mourn for its brethren, broken, ruined, and overthrown. Such monuments are sometimes seen standing amid that decay, produced by Goths and Vandals; and Goths and Vandals still in modern times will break, irruptive, on the castle-builder's chosen spot—misfortunes! griefs! pale care! tormenting debt!—Then fancy, all thy revelry is forgotten; reluctantly from our sweet couch, we rise and homeward frowning hie to toil and writhe and fret. But such is the skill of the artist, that he has but to ramble forth where all is still and wave his wand, when in an instant, like the enchantment of old, his shining palaces will upward climb. It is not so, alas! with those works barbarians overturned; none know how to raise them to such sublime heights; lost are those arts by which they towering rose, and we but gaze on them to sigh and curse the hands which slew them.

This practice of castle-building had been the habit of Castellanus from his boyhood. It gave him a strange unsocial turn and made him shun the inmates of his father's house. He fled all company, and the pleasures which others pursue were rarely pleasures to him. One enjoyment he had which never palled. Some lonely seat beside a "wimpling burn" or waterfall, where human sounds fell distantly; there with book in hand, he drank in the lulling music with which such a place is fraught; there would he draw forth, unseen, some old romance with worn and dusky lid, of "haunted Priories" with bloody hand, or dark "Udolpho" with its deep mysteries, its gliding ghosts, and secret pannels. Then would fall the curtain on this mortal vale and all its hateful realities, and his rapt soul would revel in the high wrought tale of fancy. For him these fictions had an unspeakable charm—gallant youths were his companions. He trod with them over Alps and Appenines, where banditti lurked amid the dreary forests and lights were seen to glance and disappear. Soft maidens, too, were there, whose superhuman charms won every heart; encompassed by ten thousand dangers, he could not leave them, until he saw them safely locked in love's triumphant arms. Though a very ugly fellow, he had deceived himself into the belief that he should one day or other marry one of these delightful creatures, and had even settled that her name should be Julia, and thought he should be one of the happiest fellows upon earth; but, Mr. Editor, who do you think he now is? a clodhopper!! aye a miserable clodhopper! The owner of land and negroes!! In that one sentence, I sum up all of human misery—and what do you think is his wife's name? Peggy! Phœbus what a name!

"Cobblers! take warning by this cobbler's end."

Yes, ye castle-builders! look upon his undone condition and take warning. Take warning, parents, and bring up your children to suit the sphere in which they are to move. I shall not trouble you with the why and the wherefore of his present condition, but suffice it to say that such it is, and then picture to yourself the untold miseries he must endure when I depict to you the sort of life he is leading, with such passions as I have already described his ruling ones to be. Imprimis: there is Peg—but I had better say as little as possible of her, out of respect for the ladies and out of regard for my friend, because in truth like "Jerry Sneak," he has not eaten a "bit of under crust since he was married," but follow me if you please upon his farm, and let me introduce you to his plagues and tormentors. Let us look for the overseer—we shall find him, if at home, which is seldom the case, seated on a stump, with the symbol of his office under his arm. There he is, you see, mounted on his throne lazily looking at the laborers; working the land to death by injudicious cultivation; extorting the last drop of vitality from it; a foe to every species of improvement, and obstinately bent upon going on in the jog trot of his predecessors. This is Castellanus' companion ex necessitate. Shades of the Orvilles and Mortimers! pity him. What can there be in common between them? What can they talk about? About Evelina and Amanda?—cottages covered with woodbine and honeysuckle?—landscapes and glorious sunsets?—the warbling of birds?—Oh no, Suk and Sall, negro cabins or pig-styes, corn fields and——yes, they can talk of birds, but they are blackbirds and crows, and devil take their warbling—of sunset, but only to lament the shortness of the days. His (the overseer's) themes are rogues and runaways—he is eloquent upon hog-stealing, and neither Simon Sensitive nor Timothy Testy could recount more readily the miseries of human life. His are the miseries of Geoponies. Rot—rust—weevil—fly and cutworm, haunt his imagination and dwell upon his tongue. Castellanus had rather be a dog and bay the moon than discuss such subjects. But my friend's delight was once in horses; it was one of the few pleasures he had. His fancy was early captivated by Alexander mounting Bucephalus; a horse gaily caparisoned and mounted by a steel clad knight, was a sight upon which his imagination feasted. The red roan charger of Marmion at the battle of Flodden had thrilled his every nerve,

"Blood shot his eyes—his nostril spread

The loose rein, dangling from his head

Housing and saddle bloody red."

Oh what a picture! and that I should be obliged to exhibit to your view the counterfeit presentment. The ploughboys are just coming out of the stable with their master's horses going to plough. Here, sir, is Buck-e-fallus, as the negro boys call Bucephalus. There is no difficulty in mounting him; they have knocked out one of his eyes; he has a blind side and cannot see the shadow cast by the sun. If his spirit was ever as high as his namesake's, he has lost it now—that little ragged urchin can ride him with a grape-vine—raw-boned, spavined and wind-galled! let him pass and let us see the next. This is Smiler! "Lucus a non lucendo," I suppose; alas! he never smiles—he reminds one of Irving's wall eyed horse looking out of the stable window on a rainy day. His look is disconsolate in the extreme; from the imperturbable gravity of his manners, you perceive he is dead to hope; melancholy has marked him for her own; bad feeding, constant toil, and a lost currycomb, have made him "what thou well may'st hate," although he once "set down" as "shapely a shank" as Burns' Auld mare Maggie ever did. Do you see that long legged fellow, that Brobdignag, mounted upon the little mare mule? His legs almost drag the ground, and he ought in justice to toat (aye, sir, toat, a good word, an excellent word, and one upon which I mean to send you an etymological essay some of these days,) the animal he bestrides. There are some singular traits about that mule Golliver, as the boys by a singular misnomer call her. She keeps fat "while other nags are poor;" it is because she lives in the corn-field. She can open the stable-door by some inscrutable means, some sort of open sessame; gates are no impediments to her, and even ten rails and a rider cannot arrest her progress. She seems to have a vow upon her never to leave the plantation; she will go as far as the outer gate with her rider, but if he attempt to pass that boundary his fate is sealed. He is canted most unceremoniously over her head and made to bite the dust; that gate is her ultima Thule; her ne plus ultra; the utmost bound of her ambition. She has acquaintances enough, as Old Oliver says, and wishes not to extend the circle. Her policy is Chinese, or perhaps like Rasselas, she once escaped from her happy valley and was disappointed in the world—"one fatal remembrance" perhaps casts its "bleak shade" beyond that gate.—I know not in sooth, but heaven help me! what am I doing? If I go on thus, with the whole stud of my neighbor, and write at large upon every thing which torments him, I shall never have done. Suffice it then, that I give you a hasty, panoramic sketch of what he has to encounter in his rides over his farm. See him mounted on his little switch tailed grey, which has the high sounding title of White Surrey, and whose tail is nearly cut off at the root by the crupper—the mane in most admired disorder, and fetlocks long and bushy. Now what does he behold? Barren fields—broken fences—gates unhinged—starving cattle—ragged sheep—and jades so galled that they make him wince—hogs that eat their own pigs and devastate his crops—mares that sometimes cripple their own colts—cows on the contrary which have so much of the milk of vaccine kindness, that they suffer their offspring to suck after being broken to the cart—bulls even, that suck—rams, so pugnacious, that they butt his mules down, as the aforesaid Gulliver can attest, for often have I seen her knocked down as fast as she could rise—upon my life it's true, Mr. Editor, and you need not add with Major Longbow, what will you lay it's a lie? It was amusing to see the ram, with head erect and fixed eye, moving round in a small circle and watching his opportunity to plant his blows, with all the pugilistic dexterity of Crib or Molyneux. I once knew my unfortunate neighbor to have a fine blooded colt, foaled in the pasture with his mules. These vicious devils had no sooner perceived that the colt was without those long ears which characterize their species, than they set to work with one accord to demolish the monstrous production, and in spite of all the efforts of the mother, which fought with a desperation worthy of some old Roman, beset by a host of foes, succeeded in trampling to death her beautiful offspring. What a picture this is of some political zealots and envenomed critics, who no sooner perceive that a man has not asses ears, like themselves, than they commence a senseless outcry against him and compass his destruction. I have somewhere read of a madman, and perhaps he was right, who, when confined, protested he was not mad; that all mankind were madder than he, and that they were envious of his superior intellect and therefore wished to put him out of the way. Castellanus goes to ride out with Cecilia, Camilla, the Children of the Abbey, or some such book in his pocket, and so engrossed is his mind with the elegance and refinement of those personages, that he can scarcely bear to go where his overseer is. He shuns him as much as Lovel did Captain Mirvan, or old Mr. Delville Mr. Briggs. He turns with horror from the pictures of desolation and mismanagement around him, and hastens home to find consolation in the bosom of his heroines, not of his Peggy, for he cannot yet say "Non clamosa mea mulier jam percutit aures"1—and in truth that virtuous lady has a tongue, and with it can ring such a peal about the above mentioned unproductive state of things, that he had rather hear the "grating on a scrannel-reed of wretched straw;"—or, to be less poetical, and to come back to what he hears every day, he had rather listen to the music of his own cart-wheels, which grate so harshly and scream so loudly that they may be heard a mile off. The inevitable result of all I have told you, Mr. Editor, is, that my neighbor is actually sinking three or four per cent. upon his capital every year, and must come to beggary unless you can arouse him from his ridiculous castle-building and novel reading. I wish you could see the style in which he moves with his cara sposa to church; they have come down, as we say, to an old gig, which cannot be quite as old as Noah's ark, because no two of the kind were ever seen in this world, and therefore could not have been preserved at the time of the Deluge, although the brass mountings on the muddy and rain-stiffened harness are of so antique a fashion, that we might well suppose the ingenuity of that celebrated artificer in brass, Tubal Cain, was employed in their construction. This crazy vehicle is drawn by the overseer's horse, which is borrowed for the "nonce,"—because neither Buck-e-fallus nor Smiler, nor any of the stud are fit to go, and Gulliver, besides being a mule, has declined, as I have already shewn, having any thing to do with our "external relations;" and furthermore, because this is the only conceivable mode in which my neighbor can obtain a return for that unlimited control which the said horse exercises over the corn in his corn-house. The contrast between the long lean figure, and rueful and cadaverous countenance of Castellanus, and the short figure resembling "the fat squab upon a Chinese fan," and the ruddy countenance of Mrs. Castellanus, is very striking;

They sit, side by side, in the gig, sir, as solemn

As Marriage and Death in a newspaper column.

How they ever came together, except by the fortuitous concourse of atoms, I cannot divine, for certainly without disrespect, I may say, that however charming Mrs. Castellanus may be, she is not

A beauty ripe as harvest,

Whose skin is whiter than a swan all over,

Than silver, snow, or lilies—

nor has she

————————a soft lip

Would tempt you to eternity of kissing,

And flesh that melteth in the touch to blood.

But we may cease to wonder at their union, when we reflect on the couples we see every day,—so totally dissimilar in taste and external appearance, that we may almost believe with St. Pierre that we love only those who form a contrast to ourselves. "Love," he says, "results only from contrasts, and the greater they are, the more powerful is its energy. I could easily demonstrate this by the evidence of a thousand historical facts. It is well known, for example, to what mad excess of passion that tall and clumsy soldier, Mark Anthony, loved and was beloved by Cleopatra; not the person whom our sculptors represent of a tall, portly, Sabine figure, but the Cleopatra whom historians paint as little, lively and sprightly, carried in disguise about the streets of Alexandria, in the night time, packed up in a parcel of goods on the shoulders of Apollodorus, to keep an assignation with Julius Cæsar."

NUGATOR.

1 Nay, what's incredible, alack!

I hardly hear a woman's clack.—Swift.

SONG.

This is no "dark and dreary world,"

'Tis full of life and beauty—

Yet not to him, all "primrose path"

Who's in the way of duty—

And yet, to cheer him on the road,

The way-side flower is springing,

While to the charms of Nature's day

The wild-bird's sweetly singing.

There is a bliss in Virtue's path

Above all sensual thinking—

Would he might prove it, he who hath

"Joy"—Is there "joy in drinking?"

Believe it not—for who hath wo?

Oh, who hath saddest "sorrow?"

"Contentions," "wounds," night-revels show,

That blush to face the morrow.

"The wine is red," but "look not thou

Upon it;" false and glowing,

"'Twill sting thee like a serpent's tooth,"

While brightly it is flowing.

Eschew the joys of sense; they are

Unto my sober thinking,

But glozing o'er the black despair,

The deep, deep wo of drinking.

Look ye around where frowns "the curse"—

'Tis but disguised blessing;

The heart that trusts the living God,

Feels not its "doom" oppressing.

Thine, thine the heart, and thine the doom,

When done this earth's probation,

To realms of endless light and joy

A sure and bright translation.

Yet, e'en "the light that's now in thee,"

(Ah! 'tis no idle thinking,)

Will darken'd by "a demon" be,

If thou hast "joy in drinking."

M. M.

LINES

To Miss M——t W——s, of P. Edward.

From her own garden Nature chose,

In all its blooming pride the Rose,

And from the feathered race the Dove:

Then Margaret, on thy cheek she threw

The blushing flower's most beauteous hue,

And formed thy temper from the bird of love!

Oh! what delight it is to trace

The modest sweetness of thy face—

Thy simple elegance and ease—

Thy smile, disclosing orient pearl—

Thy locks, profuse of many a curl—

And hear thy gentle voice, that never fails to please!

LIBERIAN LITERATURE.

We are perfectly serious in speaking of Liberian Literature. Yes—in Liberia, a province on the coast of Africa, where, thirteen years and a half ago, the tangled and pathless forest frowned in a silence unbroken save by the roar of wild beasts, the fury of the tornado, the whoop of the man-stealer, or the agonizing shrieks of his victims on being torn from their homes to brave the horrors of the Middle Passage and of the West Indies—in Liberia, the English language is now spoken; the English spirit is breathed; English Literature exists; and with it, exist those comforts, virtues, and pleasures, which the existence of Literature necessarily implies. Plantations—farm-houses—villages, built of brick, stone, and wood—glass windows, carpeted floors, papered walls, and neat if not elegant furniture—well-supplied tables—stores, filled with various merchandize—churches, where neatly dressed throngs devoutly send up the note of praise—bands of infantry and artillery, properly organized, armed, and trained—schools, in which hundreds are inducted into the pleasant pathway of knowledge—and (the most expressive sign of all) a NEWSPAPER, filled with instructive and entertaining matter—all these, amid an industrious and thriving population of three or four thousand, have taken place of the savage forest and its unlovely concomitants. What heightens—indeed what constitutes the wonder—is, that the main operatives in this great change are not white men. The printer and the editor of the newspaper—the merchants—most of the teachers and all the pupils—the owners and cultivators of the farms—the officers and soldiers in the military companies—the throng in the churches—are all colored people, except some score of whites, whom the climate, generally fatal to white men, spares yet awhile, as if in gratitude for their benefactions to Africa.

What we especially had in view, however, when we began this article, was neither rhapsody nor dissertation upon the march of Liberia to prosperity and civilization—unparalleled as that march is, in the annals of colonization—but a notice (a critical notice, if the reader please) of the aforesaid newspaper; by way of instancing the literary condition of the settlement. Cowper calls a newspaper, "a map of busy life—its fluctuations, and its vast concerns:" and indeed we can imagine no surer index to the moral and intellectual character of a people, than the 'folio of four pages,' which periodically ministers to, and constantly takes its tone from, their prevailing tastes, tempers, and opinions.—We have before us half a dozen numbers of the "LIBERIA HERALD;" coming down to No. 4, of the sixth volume, dated October 31, 1835, whence we learn that it has existed for more than five years. It is printed on a sheet as large as many of our village papers, and larger than several which we occasionally see.

Its contents (considering where, and by whom they are selected, composed, and printed) are in the highest degree curious and interesting.

The shipping list for August, exhibits eleven arrivals, and six departures—that for April, five arrivals, and three departures—for February, 1835, six arrivals, and four departures—for October, three arrivals, and two departures. In the August number, are four distinct paragraphs, each mentioning a ship arrived with emigrants to the colony.

A striking feature in the Herald, is the great quantity of original matter which it contains—either editorial, or communicated. The number whence the above quotation is made, has four columns of editorial articles; and three sensible communications from correspondents—one of them detailing the murderous attack of the natives, in June last, upon the new settlement at Edina. Another tells of an excursion, on which we dare say it will please our readers to accompany the "peregrinator." If he does twaddle, he twaddles to the full as agreeably as many correspondents of American newspapers, and more usefully.

"For the Liberia Herald.

"Mr. Editor: I was induced, a few days since, by special invitation, to visit Caldwell. The occasion was one of the most honorable: the interchange of conjugal vows; the celebration of the nuptials of a couple, who conscious of mutual affection, made their offering at the hymeneal altar. The ceremonies were performed at 7 o'clock, P.M.; after which, the company (small but agreeable) enjoyed the flow of soul and social innocent merriment, until 9, when the happy pair returned, and the company dispersed. I repaired to Mr. Snetter's quarters, where I obtained lodging, comfortable in itself, but rendered much more so, by his peculiarly agreable manners. After breakfast, on the ensuing day, we peregrinated the settlement. Mr. Jameison's farm particularly attracted my attention. The quantity of land he has under cultivation, as also the advanced state of the produce, equally excited astonishment. He has potatoes, cassada, beans, peas, and rice, &c., growing with a luxuriance that I never before witnessed in this country. The cultivation of the latter article has not been much attended to, until lately; its culture has been supposed to be attended with so much difficulty and labor, as to deter from the attempt. The apprehension however, was groundless, and the perseverance of Messrs. Palm and Nixon, has given us evidence, in the most extensive field of rice ever before cultivated in this country, that the difficulties are such only as attend every experiment where there is the want of resolution to undertake it. The settlement of Caldwell is assuming the feature of a regular, farming village. The Agency Farm under the management of Mr. Snetter, is in forward condition.

Yours, &c.                 L. R. J."

But the greatest curiosity in this August number, is a critique upon Miss Fanny Kemble's Journal. Yes, reader—think of Mrs. Butler, and all the "terrifying exactions" of her redoubtable book, subjected, on the very margin of Guinea, to the criticism of an African Editor, who treats her as unceremoniously, if not as justly, as any critics on this side of the Atlantic, or on the north side of the Mediterranean. Imagine him in his elbow chair at Monrovia, his broad nose dilating and his thick lips swelling with conscious dignity, while he thus passes judgment upon one who perhaps would hardly suffer him to clean her shoes. The errors of spelling and syntax (the unsexing of the authoress included) are doubtless attributable to the printer: but there are some queer expressions, which seem the editor's own, and which are rather characteristic of African magniloquence.

"Francis Ann Butler.—To the politeness of the supercargo of the Brig Eliza, we have been indebted for a peep at the Journal of Miss Kemble, or as announced by the title page, Francis Ann Butler. From the celebrity of the tourist, we had anticipated much; but a perusal of the book treated us to a most vexatious disappointment. On the literary merit of the work, we do not feel ourselves competent to decide. But as it is an immunity allowed ignorance, to admire where it cannot comprehend, we avail ourselves of the privilege, and put in our share of admiration at the bold and beautiful figures which adorn the pages; such as 'Miniature Hell:' 'ghastly smiles of the Devil;' 'Blue Devils,' &c. These are certainly beauties of which we had no conceptions, until we got hold of the work. We may be allowed to say, as we pass, that they are not exactly in unison with that soft and tender delicacy, of which our imagination had composed the fair sex, of the higher order. We regret much that the work is not accompanied by a Lexicon, adapted to the style. The want of one has deprived us of much gratification; as doubtless the excellences of the work is locked up in such words as 'daudle,' 'twaddle,' &c., which are to us 'daudles' indeed, or in plain English, unexplorable regions. Such works may be of utility in communities, where there is sufficient discrimination to separate the little grain from the redundancy of chaff, without being chocked [choked] by it, but we can see no earthly advantage to us in reading them.

"We will venture to say, however, that if the notes are by the same hand, the authoress possesses a pretty considerable share of what may be called sound discriminating judgment on some particulars."

One number of the Herald contains some very sensible observations (editorial) upon the "Relations between France and the United States;" in which the probability of war is spoken of, and its occurrence earnestly deprecated. The danger from it, to Liberia, is considered: fears having been entertained by some, lest France might involve that colony, as she once did the British settlement at Freetown, in her quarrel with the mother country.

"The case, however," says the editor, "is not exactly parallel: Freetown and the whole colony of Sierra Leone, ever since their establishment, have been under the British flag, and as such, considered a member of the British empire—and therefore, its destruction, it might be argued, was perfectly in unison with the established principles of war. Ours is an experiment for political existence;—having a distinct and peculiar flag, owing allegiance to no government, but to that which is represented by the flag that floats over Liberia.

"We recollect having read, that at the time the great Navigator Captain Cook, was on his voyage of discovery, war broke out between England and France, and it was requested that Capt. Cook, should the enemy fall in with him, be allowed an unmolested passage. The French king replied, that he warred not on science, nor with the principles of humanity; and that an expedition undertaken for the benefit of all, should never meet obstruction from the flag of France."

A paragraph in the same number, announcing the organization of a Court of Appeals, with appellate jurisdiction in cases where the sum in dispute exceeds $100, expresses the orthodox republican sentiment, that "Laws are made for the benefit of the poor, as well as the rich; and in legislating, the former should be more especially kept in view."

And in the next column is mentioned the establishment, at Caldwell, of a FIFTH Baptist Church in the Colony.

Another number states important and cheering facts in regard to the progress of TEMPERANCE. Five hundred and three persons had signed the pledge of total abstinence from the use or sale of spirits, in the space of one month.

"So great an influence have these Societies exerted upon the community at large, that a sight of the liquid death has become rare.

"To Liberia's honor be it trumped, that for ten gallons sold in the Colony four months back, there is not one now. There are a few that advocate the cause of alcohol; but they cannot support their opposition long. Public opinion is issuing her imperious edicts, and every opposer will soon be awed into silence."

From the October number we extract the following item.

"Sabbath School.—On Sunday the 19th instant, a Sabbath School was opened in the Second Baptist Chapel: 33 children and 3 adults presented themselves, and had their names registered as scholars. Suitable books, such as would enable us to arrange the children in classes, are very much wanting. As it is, each having a different book, we are obliged to hear them singly, which makes it extremely laborious, and precludes the possibility of more than one lesson each, during the hours of school."

We would gladly copy a perspicuous and rational account which is given in several chapters, of the climate and seasons of Africa, the soil of Liberia, and the method of clearing lands; besides many other sensible and interesting articles, which say a great deal for the editor, correspondents, and readers, of the Herald: but we have so far exceeded the space we had allotted for this subject, that we must here close our remarks.

No one can read the Liberia Herald, without not only wonder, that so much intellect should emanate from such a source, but the strongest persuasion, that a colony, which in so brief a time has given such striking evidences of advancement in whatever distinguishes civilized from savage man, must succeed.

GIBBON AND FOX.

Gibbon, the historian, was at one time a zealous partizan of Charles Fox. No man denounced Mr. Pitt with a keener sarcasm, or more bitter malignity. But he had his price. A lucrative office won him over to the ministry. A week before his appointment he had said in Mr. Fox's presence, "that public indignation should not be appeased, until the heads of at least six of the ministers were laid on the table of the House of Commons."

This fact is found stated in the hand writing of Mr. Fox, on a blank leaf of a copy of Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which was purchased after Mr. F's death, at a sale of his effects. The anecdote is followed by these lines, also in Mr. F's hand writing.

King George, in a fright,

Lest Gibbon should write

The story of Britain's disgrace,

Thought no means so sure

His pen to secure,

As to give the Historian a place.

But the caution was vain—

'Tis the curse of his reign,

That his projects should never succeed.

Though he write not a line,

Yet a cause of decline

In the Author's example we read.

His book well describes

How corruption and bribes

Overthrew the great Empire of Rome;

And his writings declare

A degeneracy there

Which his conduct exhibits at home.

STATIUS.

In Statius' Poem on the Via Domitiana, are these lines.

Qui primo Tiberim reliquit ortu,

Primo vespere navigat Lucrinum—

making a distance of one hundred and twenty-seven miles commonly travelled by the Romans in one day.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAPTER VIII.

——The yews project their shade; the green

Spreads her soft lap; the waters whisper sleep:

Here thou mayest rest secure.

Vacuna, by Sneyd Davies..

Leaving with speed the painful spectacle of my wounded friend, I fled into the close and matted undergrowth of the forest, and pausing for a moment to deliberate, I resolved to return to Chalgrave, and brave the remote risk of a criminal prosecution for an offence which juries tolerate with mercy, and courts with connivance. I was willing to trust to that deep-seated public opinion which enacts laws through one principle, and controls their execution from another; and from whose opiate breath the grim repose of the duelling law has never awakened. I passed through many of the classic paths of the old college, and suddenly diverging from the view of its rude and grotesque steeple, advanced into the broad road. I had not walked far before I perceived that I was pursued. Reasoning upon the principle that retreat is more or less allied to meanness, I soon found the hand of my pursuer firmly fixed on my shoulder, while he said, with a stern voice, "Mr. Granby, you are my prisoner! I arrest you in the name of the Commonwealth."

The powerful and iron grasp which was rivetted to my shoulder, declared the utter folly of resistance. Through the fading twilight I could discern the form of a roughly-built, and the countenance of a brave man; while the odd mixture of his apparel, coarse boots and a gaudy watch-chain, white ruffles and broad plated buttons, told the brief history of many a struggling argument between his purse and gentility.

"Release me," said I, "and this (showing a purse, through the net-work of which a golden sea leaped up to the eye,) shall be your reward."

"Mr. Granby," he replied, throwing his hand suddenly from me, as if a serpent had stung him, "we are now equal. I will teach you that I am as far above dishonor as you are. Put up your purse, for I solemnly swear that you shall not leave this spot until you have satisfied me for your gross and ungenerous insult. Take this pistol—I have another; either make an apology or fight. I will measure the distance, and you may give the word."

I was struck at once by the innate honor and Virginian feeling of the man; and throwing the pistol aside, I tendered him my hand, expressing at the same time my regret in having acted so indiscreetly.

"Why do you arrest me?" continued I. "It was an open duel, and Mr. Ludwell is not dead."

"Is that then the case?" he replied. "Will you pledge me your honor that such is the truth? I was told that it was an unfair duel, and I have put myself to great inconvenience to arrest you."

I gave the pledge required, and I was immediately released from the grasp of the Commonwealth; her chivalric man of law professing himself satisfied of my innocence, complimenting me on being a gentleman, and wishing me good night with a profound and dignified bow. I was in no humor to moralize on this singular scene; yet I could not forbear to smile at this strangest of all paradoxes—that he who was prepared to enforce the duelling law, should be so far elevated above its vulgar penalty, that he could at pleasure either neutralize its severity, or trample on its express ordinances, lending a credulous heart to the dreamy nonsense of chivalry, and a deaf ear to the trumpet-tongued voice of Be it enacted. Such is public opinion, and such are laws; when in conflict, a Mezentian union—when acting in harmony, the firmest and most durable base for the fabric of government.

Pursuing my course, I fortunately encountered Scipio, who was going to the college with his accustomed budget of letters, and dismounting him, with orders to go and attend the sick couch of Arthur, I took his horse, and rode rapidly on to Chalgrave. The night wore sullenly and gloomily away, and ere morning, one of those fast, yet light snow-storms, which rush on with a momentary though softened fierceness, had thrown a spotless mantle around the trees, the hills and plains of Virginia. I passed two or three of our negroes on the skirts of the plantation, standing with slouched hats and folded arms, like so many statues of ebony on a marble floor. 'Tis then that melancholy spreads its deepest gloom over a Virginian farm—a solitude fearful, still, and echoless—while all nature bows to its stern influence. The cattle are gathered to the farm-pen, to ruminate over a rasping shuck, or a marrowless corn-stalk. From a pool in the stable yard, a dense and curling vapor overshadows a motley group of ducks and geese, who are quarrelling and floundering in undisputed possession of their odorous empire; while the lengthened face of the prisoned plough-horse takes a more pallid hue from the sympathy of melancholy, and is protruded on the scene like that eternal spectre of death which is ever flitting athwart the path of life. Within the house there is a confused hurrying to and fro of menials in search of wood, carpets, and rugs, while the mistress fairly frets herself into philosophy amid the snow, mud, and her own contradictory orders. A glance from the window will disclose a crowd of negroes collected around the wood-yard, waiting to carry the logs cut by one, who with a heavy whirl of his ponderous axe, and a loud moan, scatters his wounded chips at every stroke. He is then on the crest of the highest wave of vanity, and will ever and anon rest his axe to tell of the broad clearings which have opened beneath his giant arm. I looked on this quiet and familiar scene with an aching eye and a throbbing heart; yet I was soothed into peace by that witching spell which spreads its empire from "Indus to the Pole." It was home—that spot over whose fairy circle my heart, like the gnomon, had dialled all its sunlit hours of joy and happiness; and in the gushing memory of childhood's romance, I almost forgot that the stain of blood was on my hands.

I did not disturb the family until they were seated at breakfast; and in reply to my mother's inquiries concerning Arthur's health, I hesitated not to relate to her the whole detail of the tragic meeting. Lucy entered the room ere I had finished my sad narrative, and catching the truth of my tale, suddenly stared at me with a full and lustreless eye, and looking up for a moment, fell with an hysteric shriek on the floor. My mother's stern pride subdued her swelling feelings, and rising from her seat, with a starting tear in her eye, she led Lucy from the room. Frederick remained cold and unmoved, throwing his fork into his plate, and playing with his tea-spoon with an air of frigid indifference. My uncle alone advanced to me, and seizing my hand, exclaimed in a generous though quivering voice, "I will not forsake you, my dear boy! You have been indiscreet and passionate, but your honor is untainted! I knew that you could not wilfully kill Arthur. Come with me; an express shall be sent to the college instantly. The odds are greatly in favor of his recovery. I have in the library a table of fifty duels, prepared by my pen, and strengthened by my experience. Out of that number but four were killed, and ten wounded. There is only one bad sign in the whole affair, and that is the fact that Arthur fell too soon. I have known many a man carry two balls in his body before he would droop. No wadding entered his body, for my pistols do not bear it; and you may hope for the best."

My uncle's plan of sending an express to the college was approved by the whole family, and in a short time the house re-echoed to repeated calls for the ostler. He soon made his appearance, and in reply to my mother's directions, he gave the usual stable diary of a Virginian farm.

"Why, ma'am, there is not a horse on the land fit to ride. Mass Charles sent the mare out of the county on yesterday to Col. C.'s for a pointer puppy, and as the boy did not come back in time, he has sent another on the black horse to look for him. The chariot horses Mass Charles sent to the court house, with a barrel of cider royal to Capt. R.; and Miss Lucy's pony has not got a shoe to his foot."

"Where is the overseer?" said my mother, who was too much accustomed to scenes of this character to lose any of the calmness of her temper.

"Oh, he went to the warrant-trying yesterday evening to dispute the blacksmith's account; and I heard him say that he would stay at the shop till he could have the beards of two of Mass Charles' Levier fishing hooks altered. Now, if mistress must send, I will get one of the blooded plough-horses, and he will make out as well as any."

This ready auxiliary of a Virginian hurry was necessarily adopted; and in a short time the old servant, encased in a pair of ponderous boots, enveloped in an overcoat which fitted him like a shroud, and mounted on a plough-horse—the gaunt anatomy of poverty—wended his way to fulfil a mission of charity and repentance.

The return of the messenger brought the agreeable tidings of Arthur's convalescence; and when, at the expiration of a week, Scipio delivered me a letter from Arthur, full of undiminished friendship, the spirits of our whole household rose to unusual elevation. They were satisfied that he was now secure from every burst of my dangerous temper; and when I told them that I was guiltless of his blood, I found my recompense in the blush of mingled pride and gratitude which mantled over the cheek of Lucy. My misfortune, in humbling my pride, had the happy effect of silencing that "fearful felicity" of elocution (as Sir Philip Sidney terms it) which made my uncle the zealous annalist of duels, pistols, chivalry, and arrangements.

How naturally does the heart, when oppressed by disease, or humbled by misfortune, turn, like the wounded deer, to the silent refuge of solitude—invoking, under its peaceful shade, that balm of life—woman's love—that rare medicinal, which pours its rosy health into the wounds of manhood's fretted existence. Ambition—the quick pulse of bloated avarice—the rotten pageantry of the world—and the fret and faction of life, may for a while lure us from its sacred altar; yet in our moments of despair, we turn to its holy shrine with renewed devotion, and ever find its radiance, like the brightness of the tropic-lights, flitting its steady blaze around the darkness of our destiny. I was so deeply cursed by temper, and depraved by its exercise, that the love which commonly cheats us into happiness, or obliterates ennui, brought no relief to my lacerated spirit. Romance no longer culled its flattering trophies from the memory of Isa Gordon. I looked on her as one who was too proud to bow to my despotic love, while I had gained by absence from her at college a spirit of freedom and independence. She was my first love; and, despite the dictates of common sense, I was almost compelled to believe that such love was of the purest and firmest character, merely because I had fallen into it in the ignorance and inexperience of boyhood. What a paradox! and how fondly does stupidity cherish it! The boy's heart is a tablet on which is shadowed the outline of an April day—a gorgeous sunshine plays around his imagination, and the fleeting clouds which disturb it, never dim the horizon before him. He loves from nature—he is ever a poligamist—and mistakes the fervor of passion for the truth of love; while his youth, which cures every disease, soon cicatrizes the wound of despised affection. 'Tis manhood's destiny to writhe under the slow and searching poison of unrequited constancy. He lays all the powers of his heart, mind, and education, at the foot of woman; and the blow which prostrates him, shakes to its base a granite fabric. He knows the value of the priceless feeling which he offers, and demands in return a heart which must make him the god of its idolatry. I was egotistical and selfish in my reasoning; yet that very reasoning, in teaching me to forget Isa Gordon, made my heart loiter with a holy enthusiasm around the memory of Ellen Pilton. She had written to me in a style of affectionate and confiding attachment; and though I did not answer her letters, she still continued to write, and wondered why I did not receive them. No dream of my treachery ever entered her guileless heart, and she knew not that her letters were the harvest of my revenge. Suddenly I ceased to hear from her, and I then found that the darkest passion of our nature loses its poisoned fang when struck by the magic wand of love. Could I forget her purity and gentleness of character—the impassioned tenderness with which she had entrusted the destiny of her life—the aspirations of her untainted youth—and all the faith and fervor of her virgin innocence—to whom? to one who had gained this unique gem, as the plaything of a fiend.

Stimulated by jealousy, and prompted by a desire to satisfy myself of Ellen's truth, I resolved to visit a college friend who lived in the immediate vicinity of her father's residence, and there patiently wait until I might have an opportunity of seeing her. My uncle was my confidant; and when I entered his room for the purpose of disclosing my intentions, I found him seated as usual amid a crowd of antique volumes, while his eyes were keenly gloating over the original-brained tittle-tattle of "Howel's Letters." His large centre table displayed a motley mixture of the stable, chase, and library. On a copy of the Divine Legation lay a curb-bit. The Castle of Indolence was crowded into an old-fashioned stirrup. A dog collar belonging to one of King Charles' breed, surmounted Clarendon. Two broken throat-lashes were placed on State Trials, and a pair of spurs had worked their rowels deep into the binding of Stith's History of Virginia. The Defence of Poesy, Rhymer's Foedera, Fuller's Holy State, Catullus, and Tom Jones, were tied together with a bridle rein; while a full record (tested by the clerk of the council, and dated July 9th, 1630,) of the trial of Doctor John Pott, late Governor of Virginia, for cattle stealing, spread its broad pages over the whole table. I caught a glimpse of a long and copious commentary which my uncle had written at the foot of it, in which he had proved the innocence of the Ex-Governor, and the perjury of Kingsmell, the principal witness, whom as the record narrates, "Doctor Pott endeavored to prove an hypocrite by a story of Gusman of Alfrach the rogue."

I soon declared the purpose of my visit, and that I was determined to see Ellen Pilton.

"I do not like her name," said my uncle; "it would have a plebeian sound in any part of the world; yet her mother bore a proud title, and as she loves you, do not act dishonorably. I take it for granted that she loves you merely because you affirm it, but you may rest assured that she will yet make a goose of you. Coquetry—arrant coquetry, is the business, the pursuit, the occupation of woman's life. They learn its treacheries when they dress their first doll; its edge is sharpened by every lover; and many a belle who dies in early glory, coquettes with the priest who shrives her. Venus commenced its practice the moment she was born; and though untaught in its mysteries, she laughingly bid the Tritons to look some other way. Horace reads us many a fine truth about it, and Tibullus and Propertius tell in trembling lines of the fascinations of that female garb which was brought from the Coian Isle. Our Virginian girls have a prescriptive right to all its prerogatives. Oh, there was rare coquetry when that gentle ship landed its blushing freight at Jamestown! Old "Dust and Ashes,"1 that fast friend of the colony, and he who stole this title from a sexton, that under its shade he might nobly endow a free school in Virginia, made their invoice in a gay doublet, and copied the bill of lading with a smile on his care-worn cheek, and a fresh posy in his bosom. Our proud ancestor, Sir Eyre Granby, was present when they landed, and saw them leaping and gambolling about the shore like young minnows in a mountain stream. One fair girl, with a dove-like face and a sparkling eye, gave Sir Eyre a silver tobacco pipe, which she had brought from home for the stranger who should most interest her maiden heart. Alas! he was a married man; and all he could do was to kiss her hand and give her a bunch of flowers. The anxious bachelors who found a wife on that day, imitated his example; and to this hour, Virginia's maidens ask no better declaration of love than this silly compliment. Take care, my dear boy, of their hands; do not look at their rings; and let the flowers grow where God planted them. If they should be sick, do not show too much tenderness. I have known coquetry assume every type of fierce fever and pining atrophy; and remember, that the last dyke in the fortress of coquetry, is the coral cheek of consumption. Go, and learn from experience, and may Cupid prosper you."

1 "Mr. Nathaniel Barber, the chief manager and book-keeper of the Company's lotteries." Stith 216. Even at that dark period public education though a puling was a lusty child—'tis now a paper mummy.

Early on the next morning I left Chalgrave; and finding the outer gate of the plantation closely barred with fence rails, I was about to dismount and open it, when my old nurse made her appearance, exclaiming, "Let it alone, Mass Lionel; I barred it—for I did not want you to go from home to-day till I could see you. Bad luck is hanging over our family. Is not this the seventh day of the month?—the day on which your stout old grandfather died, and on which your father sickened unto death. Did I not last night gather the wild hemlock from his grave; and with a lock of his hair, and a piece of the caul which covered your baby face, try seven times the charm which an Obi man taught my mother? Oh! it was a dreadful sight; I saw you mangled and wounded, and your white hand was red with blood. I heard an owl shriek seven times on the wall of our graveyard; it flew in at my window, put out my light, and left me in darkness. Do not go away now."

"Do you still take me for a child? I must go; farewell, dear mammy."

"Oh! call me dear mammy once more," she replied, "and let me kiss you for the last time."

I granted her request, and rode rapidly away, while I vainly endeavored to keep down the fear and superstition with which her narrative had filled my bosom. My journey was long and tedious, and ere night I had lost myself in the mazes and tortuous paths of a forest road. On every side I was met by gates, drawbars, and gaps—the necessary appendages in the economy of Virginian idleness,—and wandered about until I was finally fairly lost in a broad thicket of luxuriant myrtle. Trusting to the sagacity of my horse, he brought me into an open road, at the extremity of which a feeble light caught my eye. Advancing to it, I found a crowd of negroes gathered in a cabin, and dancing with that joyous flush of elastic carelessness which a negro only feels, to the music of a banjo, triangle, and squirrel-skin fiddle. All of them offered to show me the way, and each invariably decreased the distance in proportion to the anxiety which my inquiries expressed. I took the direction which I had thus received, and late at night I passed by an old-fashioned house, from a lower window of which shot a feeble and fluttering light. Here I met a negro who informed me that I was on the Pilton plantation—that the mansion-house was before me—that he was the best axe-man on the land—that his Mass Edmund had just come home on a fine horse—and that Miss Ellen was sick and poorly. A pang of remorse passed through my bosom; and reckless of every principle of honor, I determined to approach nearer to the house, and gaze, like the pilgrim, on that shrine which held the worshipped idol of my heart. Riding rapidly away from the negro, I suddenly turned my course, and dismounting from my horse, leaped over the garden wall. Cautiously threading my path through tangled shrubbery, leafless rosebushes, and crooked hedges, I quickly turned, as the light from the house streamed before me, and looking up to the window, I beheld the form of Ellen Pilton in an attitude which arrested my attention, and chained my footsteps to the earth. Her head was resting on her right hand, while in her left she held the fatal evergreen which had marked with tenderness our earliest acquaintance. A dark and fleecy cloud of long and luxuriant hair swept over her marbled brow. Her cheek was illuminated with a vermillion glow, like those bright colors which decorate the holiness of some antique missal, while the ardent gaze which she bestowed on this memorial of my treachery, mingled itself with the patient melancholy which disease had written on her face. I saw her weep like a child, as she replaced it in her bosom; and at that moment the giant voice of conscience rang through my heart, pealing the knell of my perfidy and duplicity. Chastened by contrition—humbled by the consciousness of my own falsehood—and elevated by this unerring indication of her singleness of heart, I felt the contagion of resistless sympathy, and on that silent spot I poured out the pure orisons of a love which had sprung from the blackest passion of my nature. I continued in a fixed posture for many moments, inebriated into utter forgetfulness of my flagrant violation of honor. A feeling of debasement came over me, and yielding to its influence, I turned away from the window. My position was no sooner changed, than I was met by Edmund Pilton,—his face almost touching my shoulder.

"Mr. Granby," said he, in a voice of stifled anger, "an eavesdropper!—a cowardly intruder on female privacy!—I wish him profit in his honorable profession, and may darkness ever hide his blush of shame."

I staggered back with fear and agitation; and for the only time in my life I felt as a coward. Nature had given me courage, and education had endowed me with that chivalry which feared only the shame of fear; yet that consciousness of disgrace which wrecks the proudest heart, left me the shuddering craven of its withering power.

"Mr. Pilton must excuse me," I replied; "I was endeavoring to find the way to—" here I half uttered a rising falsehood. "I will satisfy him at another time of my innocence—I must now retire."

"Certainly, sir," said he, "you may retire, and rest in the shade of your victorious laurels; but remember—" and here his hollow voice increased in volume, and quivered with passion, "that if ever you again approach my sister in any shape or form, I will put you to death, even in her hallowed presence. I refused your foolish challenge; but there is a point beyond which prudence loses all its virtues, and the next time I chastise you for an insult to a sister, your blood shall write the record. Neither darkness shall conceal, cowardice protect, nor lunacy excuse you!"

I might have been more humbled by my own sense of degradation, but the last word was a talisman which awoke into frenzy the demoniac hate which had long rioted in my bosom; and approaching nearer to Pilton, I leaped at him, and grasped his throat with the fierceness of the tiger. He was better built, more athletic, and stronger than myself, and in the struggle that ensued, I found myself fast wasting away; yet I could hear his short and strangled breath laboring under the iron grasp of my fingers. He now drew a small knife, and began to cut the hand which held his throat. I felt the warm blood trickling over its relaxed strength; and releasing my hold, I sunk upon the ground. He instantly fell upon me; and after a long and violent scuffle, I succeeded in rescuing myself. We were again on our feet, and I now had time to draw a small dirk from my bosom. He was ignorant that I was armed; and approaching him, as he leaned breathless and exhausted against a tree, I struck him with the weapon just below his shoulder. He gave one groan, and reeled to the earth. I was about to repeat the blow, when a piercing shriek burst upon my ear,—and Ellen Pilton fell upon the body of her prostrate brother.

"Oh, God!" she cried, "kill him not—spare him!—take my life! Is it you, Lionel?" she screamed, as she looked up and recognized my features—"and would you murder my brother—you would not, dear Lionel."

I was silent.

"Go away—I loathe, I abhor, I hate you!"

Ere the first light of day had kissed the tranquil waters of the Chesapeake, my jaded horse was browzing on the fertile meadows of the Rappahannock, and I found a refuge on board the good ship "Tobacco Plant," Capt. Z., bound to London.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

JONATHAN P. CUSHING was born March 12, 1793, at Rochester, New-Hampshire, and, like most of the eminent men of our country, in humble circumstances. He was early left an orphan to the care of a guardian, who seems to have been both negligent and unfaithful. By this man he was carried to his own residence, in a remote part of the State, where the population was scanty, and there were few schools. In his immediate vicinity there were none. There he was employed in doing the drudgery of his guardian's farm and mill until his thirteenth or fourteenth year. It was an improvement in his situation, when at that time he was bound apprentice to a saddler, especially as in New Hampshire by law, or custom equally imperative with law, it is the duty of a master to send his apprentices to school for six months of the term for which they are bound. This advantage Mr. Cushing enjoyed, and it seems to have been the only regular instruction he received before his eighteenth year. But even that germ, falling on a good soil, fructified. He began to feel the thirst for learning, which was to be the reigning impulse of his later years, and to loathe the prospect of a life spent in mere bodily labor. His mind, conscious of its own powers, and having once tasted of the sweets flowing from their exercise, could not submit to sink back again to the state of lethargy from which it had just been roused. The fruit of such thoughts and feelings was a resolution which he formed and very suddenly announced while at work one day, with another apprentice. Starting up from his seat he said "I am determined to have a liberal education, if it cost me forty years of my life to get it." He bought out the remainder of his term, and entered himself at an academy at Exeter, in his native State. There he prosecuted his studies with great diligence, supporting himself meanwhile by laboring at his trade, until he was prepared to enter Dartmouth College. He became a member of the Junior Class in that institution in 1815, and obtained his first degree in 1817. His standing in his class was highly respectable, though not so elevated as would naturally be supposed by his acquaintances in after life, who knew nothing of the deficiencies of his early education, and only adverted to his acknowledged talents, his literary zeal, and the strength and constancy of his character. On leaving the walls of College, the world was all before him. Go where he would, he must look to his labors, not merely for fame and fortune, but for subsistence; and in every direction around him (thanks to the good Being who has so abundantly blessed our country) he saw fields of usefulness and distinction inviting, and promising liberally to reward, his exertions. The intensity of his studies, however, for the last few years, had impaired his constitution, and he had reason to believe that a southern residence would be more propitious to the restoration of his health, and at least equally favorable to his success in other respects. With these views he left his native State, determined to establish himself as a lawyer at Charleston, S. C. On reaching Richmond, he met with an acquaintance from New England, who had been engaged as a tutor at Hampden Sidney College, (an institution of which until that time Mr. Cushing had never heard) but who from ill health was not able to enter on the discharge of his duties. At his solicitation, strengthened by that of the late Dr. Rice, ("clarum et venerabile nomen") with whom Mr. C. then became acquainted, the latter was induced to undertake for a few weeks the fulfilment of his friend's engagement. Before even that brief time had expired, the young man died, and Mr. Cushing became, by a train of circumstances apparently fortuitous, and almost without his own agency, a member of the Faculty of H. S. College. There was but little in the condition of the institution at that time to induce such a man, young, of energetic character, and conscious ability, to desire to cast in his lot there. No class had graduated regularly for several years, and the degrees occasionally conferred on individuals, who had gone through the whole course, were not respected at other Colleges. There was hardly the name of a Library or Philosophical Apparatus; and the buildings were to the last degree unsightly and inadequate. It had, however, one recommendation, which with Mr. Cushing, would outweigh many defects. It was a seminary of learning, where he could gratify the strong passion of his soul for acquiring and communicating instruction, more delightful to him, as he often declared, than food to a hungry man. With all this, however, he could not readily forego the advantages attending the line of life he had chalked out for himself. Twice he determined to dissolve the connexion he had formed with the College, and once he had gone to the tavern for the purpose of taking his seat in the stage which was to carry him away. On this occasion he was induced to return by Dr. Hoge, the then President, to whom he looked up with affectionate veneration, and his acquaintance with whom he was accustomed to regard as one of the most fortunate events of his life. So soon as he considered himself established at Hampden Sidney, he set to work with characteristic vigor and singleness of purpose, to raise the standing of the institution. He prevailed on the Trustees to introduce a new system of discipline and study, and being soon appointed Professor of Natural Philosophy and Chemistry, and experiencing the disadvantages of the very deficient apparatus, he made large additions to it at his own expense, trusting to the future ability of the College to repay him. Dr. Hoge dying in 1820, Mr. Cushing was elected President, and from that time till his own death within the last twelve months, the events of his life were little more than a series of efforts, the most judicious, untiring, and self-sacrificing, to foster the interests of the College over which he presided. One of his first objects, necessarily, was to improve and enlarge the College buildings, which at that time were probably by far the most indifferent belonging to any institution of the kind in the Union. But while it was obvious that the prosperity, perhaps the existence of the College depended on making this improvement, the means of making it were far from being equally apparent.

The institution possessing very little corporate property, and having never been a favorite with the Legislature, the possible munificence of individuals seemed to offer the only hope of success. That this would avail, was so little expected, that in the expressive language of one of its friends, his plans were looked on by the trustees as the dreams of youth. He was the man, however, to change such dreams into realities. His appeals to the liberality of the friends of the College were so well responded to, that in a short time he had caused to be erected the centre and one wing of a stately and commodious building, altogether suited to the purposes intended; and in the years 1829, '30, and '31, he procured additional subscriptions to the amount of $30,000, with which that building was completed, others erected, and a permanent fund established to aid in the support of the Professors. From time to time he continued to make additions to the philosophical apparatus, and carried the students of the College through a regular course of literary and scientific study, having early obtained for his graduates an admission "ad eundem gradum" at other Colleges without examination. While thus efficiently discharging his duties as President, he did not neglect those of Professor. On the contrary, all who knew him will bear witness to the study and labor with which he extended his researches into those branches of learning which it was his province to teach. His lectures were thus the overflowings of a mind filled with the results of previous investigation and meditation; not, as we sometimes see in the case of indolent Professors, themes prepared for the occasion, and exhausting the scanty stock of science which had been accumulated on the subject. But while justice is thus done to Mr. Cushing's real ability, and to the admirable use which he made of it, (his strength of purpose, like a hard master, exacting its full quota of exertion from every faculty,) it yet cannot be maintained that his mind was of the highest order. His case well illustrated the distinction which has been taken between genius and talent. The former original and creative; the latter acquiring, modifying, and adapting to general use the productions of the first. While it is the prerogative of genius to discover fields of science hitherto unknown, it is the more humble, but perhaps not less useful province of talent, to cultivate what is thus brought to light, and prepare it to be possessed by the public mind. The love of communicating knowledge, which has been already mentioned as one of Mr. Cushing's most striking characteristics, indicated, or at least happily coincided with, the line of usefulness for which, according to this view of his mental constitution, nature had fitted him. And it may well be questioned whether any of those who have sounded the profoundest depths of science, and first brought into light great truths previously unknown, would, if placed in the same circumstances with himself, have effected so much, and discharged the manifold and peculiar duties devolving on him, with equal skill and success. As a disciplinarian, he was mild and lenient, even to an extent considered by some as approaching to laxity. But such persons do not seem sufficiently to have adverted to the difficulties of his situation. He was not the Rector of Christ Church, or of Trinity—not even the President of Harvard or of Yale, but the head of a feeble institution, struggling almost for existence, and dependent on public patronage for support. With him, forbearance was among the first and most essential duties. Moreover, it was well understood by his students that his mildness was the result of principle, not of feebleness of character, and that there was a point beyond which they could not with impunity transgress. Such zeal, tempered by such prudence, could not be fruitless. The result of his labors and his cares, of what he did, and what he forebore to do, was, that in a few years after his induction into the Presidency, Hampden Sidney might fairly be pronounced the most flourishing literary institution in the Commonwealth. Its tide of success, however, was soon checked, and its onward progress stayed, by the opening of the halls of the University to students, an event which, however auspicious to the literary interests of the community at large, could not fail to be unfavorable to another seminary of learning in the same region of country, and dependent in a great degree on the same population for its supply of pupils. Visible as this was in the thinned ranks of his students, it does not seem to have caused Mr. Cushing to "bate one jot of heart or hope," but rather to have stimulated him to renewed exertions. For it was soon after this that he undertook and effected the improvement of the College buildings and the acquisition of a permanent fund. Nor did he cease to urge on the Legislature the just claims of the College to some share of the public favor. But the bills introduced for that purpose, though generally zealously supported and sustained, on grounds which ought to have insured their success, were always gotten rid of—most usually by the parliamentary manœuvre of tacking to them other subjects more or less incongruous, until they broke down under their own weight.

It is our purpose to consider the character of President Cushing, mainly as one of the scholars and public men of Virginia. We shall therefore dwell but little on his private affairs. But in a sketch of his life, even so brief as this, we cannot omit a fact which exerted the strongest influence on the happiness of his latter years. In the year 1827 he married, in an adjoining county, a pious, intelligent, and interesting young lady, of whom, as she survives to mourn his loss, delicacy forbids that we should speak in terms of stronger panegyric. A good Providence crowned their union with lovely children; and in the bosom of a family so interesting, President Cushing found a felicity which he well knew how to enjoy, and a relaxation from his incessant toils and harassing cares equally necessary to his body and to his mind. Though to the world chiefly known as a scholar and the President of a College, it was perhaps in the mild and mellow light of domestic retirement that his character shone with the most attractive lustre. As a friend he made few professions, but when self-denying service was needed, his zeal prompted him to exertions the most strenuous, persevering, and efficient. He knew how to feel for the bereavement of the widow's heart, and with tender sympathy to wipe the tear from the widow's eye. May He who seeth in secret reward him for these deeds of love, by pouring consolation into that cup of affliction which His providence has presented to the lip of her who was once too happy in being her husband's helpmate in ministering consolation to others.

Although a native of another State, Mr. Cushing was, in his connexions and his feelings, thoroughly a Virginian; and, as might be supposed from the nature of his pursuits, peculiarly regardful of the literary interests of the Commonwealth. He therefore hailed with joy, and actively engaged in establishing and fostering the Society for the promotion of those interests, formed in Richmond four or five years ago, of which he continued a zealous and efficient member the short residue of his days. For Hampden Sidney, however, he continued to feel a peculiar regard, which he evinced not only by the faithful performance of his duties as its President, but by repeatedly refusing very advantageous offers made him of Professorships in other Colleges, and by expressions of warm attachment to that institution, at that last solemn period of his life, when affectation of such regard, if ever possible with him, would have been effectually checked by the near prospect of the awful realities of the eternal world. His death, though an untimely, was not a sudden event. His constitution had perhaps never entirely recovered from the injury inflicted by intense application whilst a college student; and as his habits of study continued the same, the effects became gradually more apparent, until at length the unprecedented rigor of the last winter prostrated the structure which had been so long undermined. Early in the spring, being advised by his physicians to seek a milder climate, he set out for the south, accompanied by a part of his family. But on reaching Raleigh, his journey and his earthly pilgrimage were both cut short. There, surrounded by those whom he loved best on earth, and who he knew well returned his love, looking back on a life of useful and honorable exertion, rewarded by distinguished success; and looking forward in the full assurance of hope to an eternity of happiness, secured to him by a Savior in whom he cordially believed, and whom he had long found precious to his soul, he met death not with calmness and fortitude merely, but with triumph! He had just entered on his forty-third year, and it may be supposed had hardly obtained the maturity of his powers and the full limits of his influence. To our eyes, it would seem his sun went down at noonday. His death was a source of the truest and deepest grief, not only to a family more than ordinarily devoted to him, but to a large circle of friends his virtues had gained to him throughout Virginia, and to those especially who had at heart the prosperity of the College over which he had so ably presided. He died in the communion of the Episcopal Church, which with many inducements to bias him in another direction, he had chosen for his spiritual mother at the commencement of his religious life, and which with decided, and it is believed increasing affection, he continued to love even unto death. Yet no man possessed a spirit more truly Catholic, and no man delighted more to enjoy Christian communion with the followers of his master, though they might in some less essential particulars, understand the will of that master differently from himself. Like the Apostle Paul, he rejoiced in the spread of the gospel, by whomsoever preached; and he was far more desirous to see his Savior honored, and to learn that sinners had repented and believed, through whatever instrumentality it pleased God to use, than to see the tokens of divine favor confined even to that church which he best loved. In his last days, like the illustrious Grotius, he suspected that even science, with all her loveliness and her benificence, had engrossed more of his affections and more of his thoughts than should have been given to aught below the skies; and as he drew nearer to the eternal world, his soul was more and more rapt in the beatific contemplation of that incomprehensible glory which God hath prepared for them that love his Son.

His remains are interred in the burying-ground of the Episcopal Church in the city of Raleigh. The spot which contains them is marked by a monument erected by the Trustees of Hampden Sidney College, and designed, while it commemorates his merits, to testify their sorrow for his loss, and their gratitude for his services. But a more enduring monument, and that which he would have prized far above any other, will be found, as we trust, in the abiding and brightening glories of the Institution to which his best years were devoted, and which shared, with the partner of his bosom and the children of his affection, the last anxieties of his ebbing life.

LINES

On reaching the banks of the Mississippi at the junction of the Ohio, 1st July, 1818.

Mighty stream, I see thee rushing

Proudly, madly, wild along—

Like a summer torrent, gushing

Sudden, rapid, swift and strong.

Now my prow is on thy waters,

And I gaze with secret aim,

To discover wherein centered,

Lies the secret of thy fame.

But I gaze in vain—thy billows

Gurgle as they haste away;

Could their sounds my soul unriddle,

I might learn wherein it lay.

I might learn that riven mountains,

Headlong falls, unpencilled yet,

Plains untravelled, thou hast wandered,

Ere thy weary waters met.

Plains! where still the Bison feeding,

Paws in ire the solid ground—

Or the fiery Bear, in fury,

Sudden pours his lion-sound.

In thy rushing roar of waters

I might learn that rivers speak;

Great Missouri cries—I mingle,

Konza—ho! the sea I seek.

Mild Ohio, sweet and mighty,

In thy onward wave is lost,

And a thousand lesser fountains,

Pouring down a varied coast.

In a region, drear and polar,

Thou hast thy unnoticed rise,

And dost issue where the solar

Burning heats pervade the skies.

Far beyond the white man's daring

Sits the lordly Indian lone,

Gazing on that rich creation

Heaven, he deems, hath made his own.

Length, and depth, and speed, and volume,

All that swell o'er swell, create—

These, perchance, thy sounds would tell me,

These, these only, make thee great.

'Tis not clearness—'tis not brightness,

Such as dwell in mountain brooks—

'Tis thy big, big, boiling torrent—

'Tis thy wild and angry looks.

Flow then, river—rushing river—

Flow, till thou invade the sea;

Many millions, uncreated,

Shall desire thy waves to see.

But while millions uncreated,

Sigh o'er millions pass'd away,

Thou shalt roll, in all thy splendor,

Till thy Maker bids thee stay.

H. R. S.

Washington.

SKETCHES OF LAKE SUPERIOR.

No part of America presents a more ample field of scenic attractions than the lake referred to. In some respects these attractions are peculiar. It is not only the largest body of fresh water on the continent, but pre-eminently so, the largest in the world. Titicaca, the greatest lake of South America, is computed to be two hundred and forty miles in circumference—a circle less than Ontario, and falling infinitely short of Erie, Huron or Michigan.

Superior is about ten miles short of five hundred, in its most direct line of coast, and may be computed at fifteen hundred miles in circumference.1 About one third of this is caused by its promontories and inlets, which give it a striking irregularity of outline. The direct line of inland navigation, which would be opened were the rapids at St. Mary's overcome, would be about twelve hundred and sixty miles in the outward voyage. It possesses several fine harbors and anchorage grounds. Its general features may be inferred from the maps, but no existing map can be relied on for the accuracy of its delineations. Its basin consists of massy formations of primitive rock, with dykes of trap, and horizontal walls of sandstone, giving rise to much variety in its features. Islands, mountains and cliffs, pass the eye of the voyager, with an animating succession, and appear as if they were suspended in the pellucid waters, for which this lake has been noted from the earliest times. This purity may be noticed in connexion with the absence of limestone among its formations, no locality of which has hitherto been discovered. It has, apparently, been the theatre of extensive geological convulsions, which have lifted up its horizontal rocks for a hundred and twenty miles in extent. Other portions bear striking evidences of having been submitted to oceanic action, the effect of which has been to break down its sandstone coasts, and deposit the debris in extensive plains, or sand mountains. Peaks, of a black basaltic aspect, cast their angular shadows over some of the more westerly portions of the lake; and the prospect from some of the higher points of those on which we have stood, is such as to excite the most exalted and transporting conceptions.

1 Mackenzie says seventeen hundred.

The Porcupine mountains may be distinguished, from all that is known of them, as a volcanic group. They are situated in latitude 46° 52'. It would be practicable, in the range of American mountain scenery, to indicate points which have a higher elevation above the sea. Some of the peaks of New England or Virginia lift the observer into the mid heavens. But they are entirely wanting in the effect produced by a transparent mirror of water at their base—for it must be remembered, that no increase of altitude or magnitude can compensate for the absence of water. There is a single precipice, in these mountains, which the Indians represent to be one thousand feet in perpendicular height, having a deep, crater-shaped lake at its base.

The peninsula of Kewena extends into lake Superior about forty-five miles from its southern shore—the last ten or fifteen of which exhibit the shape of a lofty comb of the trap formations. Two points of this, which are sometimes called the Mamelles, have been descried, in clear weather, sixty-five miles. From the top of this ridge, the spectator looks to the east, and the west, and the north, and beholds one interminable sheet of crystal water. It seems, from the height, that the action of a single tempest, on so vast a mass of water, would be sufficient to prostrate the whole in ruins. Yet there is a breadth of several miles of solid rock, which has resisted the storms of ages. The effects of the action of the water, are the most striking on its western coast, which has been fretted into bays and inlets, leaving huge, castellated portions of unbroken rock standing in the water. These isolated masses, in misty weather, assume a spectral aspect. The Indians, who find aliment to their superstitions in scenes of awe, formerly deemed this part of the peninsula sacred, and never passed around it in their canoes.

The splendid formation of graywacke rocks on Presque Isle river, is worth the whole journey from St. Mary's, to behold. In its spring floods this river is a torrent rushing from a mountain. When drained to the minimum of its summer level, an extensive area of denuded rock is exposed to view, arranged in a stair-like form, and partaking of an air of gloom, from the dark hue of the deeply excavated banks.

Iron river has its course through a similar formation, being east, as the Presque Isle is west, of the Porcupine range. This river has no striking perpendicular falls, but flows down a hackly, rocky bed, in which the water, in its summer phase, stands in pools, or trickles from one triangular tank to another.

The Breast, or Potoash, and the Cradle Top mountains, are two prominent elevations in the primitive range west of the Grand Island. No one, we venture to predict, from our own experience, will ever ascend them without labor, or reach their summits without high gratification.

The outer coast of Grand Island presents the north westerly front of that magnificent sandstone formation, called Ishpábica by the Indians, and Picture Rocks by the whites, which assumes so imposing an outline in the range of coast ruins immediately east of that island. The Great Sand Downs,2 form a continuation of this coast toward the east, and renew in this lighter form, a most picturesque series of elevations, which the former range exhibits in rock. Minuter sections of the coast, and of the banks of the rivers that intersect it, are of a character to arrest attention, and will furnish, in after years, a tissue of glowing themes for the pen and pencil. Among these, we may notice the falls of the Taquimenon, the Monia, and the St. Louis.

2 Les Grandes Sables.

Up to the year 1820, very little was known, even by report, of this interesting and romantic region. The scanty notices of it in the colonial writers were of the most vague and unsatisfactory character. The tale of the massacre of the garrison of Michilimackinac, and of a far off region in which Pontiac exerted his power, had been occasionally heard. But as these events were to be found only in the works of the early French writers, few took the trouble to examine them. Still fewer knew aught of its topography and natural resources, or of the interesting communities of men, women and children, to whom it was "a home and a country" long before Columbus reached St. Salvador. In the year referred to, the gentleman who at present fills the chair of the War Department conducted an exploratory expedition through the region. Its capacities for military occupation, and the character and disposition of its native population and mineral topography, constituted the principal objects of attention. But no one who was a member of that expedition, could remain an indifferent spectator of the striking scenery, and the varied forms of thrilling interest which it threw before the eye. It may be regretted that Mr. Cass himself has given so little of his attention to descriptions of these rife scenes. His graphic notice of the "Pictured Rocks," and his historical illustrations of ancient Indian institutions, will be remembered by the reader.

We have merely adverted to this era, to notice the apathy which has succeeded. The "far West" and the sunny "South," have engaged the pens of genius. But much of the area to which we have called attention, remains, as to its description, a terra incognita. We have given most of the time we have ourselves spent in its solitudes, to the consideration of its phenomena, as mere physical facts, and to the history and language of its native inhabitants. But aside from these objects, we think it a rich field for the future tourist. We anticipate the time, as not far distant, when it will not only attract frequent visits from the literary and scientific, but from all classes who possess the means of enjoying out door health and intellectual pleasure.

We submit the following letters, embracing sketches of some prominent portions of the scenery of this lake, as a sequel to these remarks. They are from the pen of a young man who accompanied the writer of this notice on a tour through that lake in 1831. His mind was much engrossed with the beauty and grandeur of the scenes he daily witnessed, and he wrote these unpretending letters, at snatches of time, by the way. Soon after his return from this tour, he visited one of our Atlantic cities, where he suddenly sickened and died. This circumstance is mentioned, as the motive for retaining the name of the individual, which is associated with recollections of modest worth and ingenuous sensibility.

I.

Granite Point, Lake Superior, July 3, 1831.

Esteemed Friend,—While looking over the life of Dr. Payson, at your house, I was pleased with a remark of his, in which he says "that a formal letter to a friend, is like 'Madam, I hope I have the pleasure to see you in good health,' addressed by a son to his mother, after a year's absence." These may not be the exact words, but they convey the sentiment. Had I the disposition to write to you such a letter, the circumstances of my situation would most effectually preclude its gratification.

One week has now elapsed since we were climbing the rugged sides of the Iroquois mountain, and together gazing upon the peaceful lake whose waters reposed in quietness at its base. During that week you may well imagine that scenes have passed before me, as diverse and varied in interest and excitement as the vicissitudes of human life. We have glided over the limpid waters of the Superior, when its broad surface lay stretched out before us with all the placidity of a polished mirror, and anon our slender barks have been tossed like a feather upon the rushing billows. We have rambled along the sandy beach, or the gravelled shore, or bounded from rock to rock in search of new objects of attraction. We have ascended the sliding sands of the Grande Sable, viewed with admiration and awe the variegated walls of the Pictured Rocks, passed under the Doric arches, and scaled its summit, and last but not least, climbed a weary way up the mountain of the Breast. But I shall not be thanked for filling up my sheet with such general observations.

Very little of interest is to be found upon the coast from Point Iroquois to the Grande Marais. Nothing but a continuous sandy beach meets the eye, which at length becomes tedious in the extreme. At the Grande Marais, however, the scene changes. Here the lofty mountains of Sable commence, which in themselves are sufficient to occupy the mind until new wonders are presented. Mr. Johnston and myself, accompanied by two of the Indian lads, ascended them near the beginning of the range. Upon arriving at the summit, the prospect was at once impressive and sublime. Behind us was the Superior, bounded but by the horizon,—before us a gigantic amphitheatre, whose walls on either side rose into the magnitude of mountains. We descended into the area, and it was one in which the Olympian combatants would have delighted to wage their contests for a false and short-lived fame. It was early when we embarked, and being invigorated by the night's repose, we felt inclined, despite fatigue, to make a survey of all that might prove interesting. Passing on, we found that the winds had disposed of the sand alternately in hills and valleys. Nothing but an arid waste met the eye, except when here and there a hardy plant had reared its head above the yellow surface, or a little islet oasis of green was observed on a hillock's side, struggling with surrounding desolation. Being informed that a small lake lay beyond the Grande Sable, we immediately resolved upon paying it a visit. The distance we had to traverse was about a mile; and as we wound our way along, I involuntarily drew the comparison between the journey of life and our morning's excursion. How true is it that the great portion of our existence in this world, is filled up with events that but leave the soul in bitterness, while at times some bright flower, some sunny spot will appear, to which memory can recur with pleasure, and draw new hopes for the future. How miserable the condition of those whose ideas of happiness are bounded by present enjoyment; to them, futurity appears a something gloomy and undefinable, the very thoughts of which are unwelcome. But the Christian can look into a world beyond the grave, and the vista, like the green forest around this miniature Zahara, is pleasant to the sight. And even here, although his course may be over a desert, yet every bud of promise, every opening flower, serve but as a source of new excitement, and from them he gathers strength to press his onward march amid the many thorns that beset his path. But ere I had concluded moralizing,—upon gaining the top of a sand hill, a scene opened to the view, of the most romantic beauty. Unconsciously I stopped, lest I should too soon rush upon a prospect of such quiet loveliness. We had passed over a desert whose only attraction consisted in the novelty of its character and the majesty of its outline, but the repetition of its barrenness began to pall upon the sight, and oppress the mind with a sensation of weariness, when instantly the entire scene was changed. Instead of sterile heights, every thing bloomed in the vigor and freshness of vegetation. The forest resounded with "the sweet notes of the summer birds," and as the eye sought for the merry warblers, it caught a glimpse of the blue water as its ripples sparkled in the morning sun. My hesitation was but for a moment,—and bounding down the precipitous sand hills, the isolated lake, that seemed to exult in its wild solitude, with its richly diversified and picturesque enclosures, was spread before me. O, it was a scene that the poet and the painter would love to dwell upon. Cold must be the heart, ungrateful the affections of that being, who, blessed with intelligence, can behold the fairest of Nature's works, and not adore the God of Nature. My fancy might have been highly wrought,—but it all appeared more like a pleasant dream that fills the mind, when slumber steals over the senses as we are thinking upon absent friends, and the haunts of happy hours.

The lake itself is about nine miles in circumference, and in general form, as near as a comparison can be made, resembles a heart. The shores are deeply indented and irregular, now projecting into the water in small semi-circular promontories, and again retiring, as if half afraid of the embraces of the limpid element. On the south and west, as far as the eye can reach, the land rises into mountainous elevations; on the north, stand the lofty sand banks, affording a fine contrast with the fertility around, while on the east, it is bounded by lower grounds, that in one instance descend to a beautiful grassy lawn. The water appears to be very deep, and as we sent a shout over its surface we were answered by a startled water fowl, that seldom, very seldom, hears the sound of a human voice in its wild retreat. Every thing seemed to conspire to render this one of the most enchanting spots in nature, and it was with regret that we turned to regain our canoe.

Such is lake Leelinau; and while the breeze that moved over its waters sent its waves to my feet, I thought of the friend after whom I named it, and from my heart wished that her life might be as calm and joyous as the bright prospect before me. By that name it shall be known; and if this faint description of the beauties it unfolds, will serve to beguile a passing moment, a double object will have been achieved.

As we hurried along on our return, George pointed out to me the fairy tracks that occasionally are seen on these hills. They were, in fact, exact representations of the print of the human foot, and about the size of your Chinese lady's. But alas! how unpoetical! we were forced to come to the conclusion that our fairy was nothing more than a porcupine. Although the 30th of June, we stopped at a snow bank, and after indulging for a moment in a winter's sport, filled one of our Indian's hats with specimens for Mr. S. We travelled over nearly four miles of these sandy mountains. Their summit, near the lake, is covered with pebbles, among which I found several carnelians.

It was nearly six o'clock when we descended to our canoes; and the thought crossed my mind, that probably our friends at St. Mary's were beginning to shake the poppies from their eyes, and seriously think of taking a peep at the sunny sky. At eight we landed to breakfast, and need I tell you that consumption presided at the board—not the arch fiend with the bright though sunken eye, the hectic cough, and the delicate but death-boding tint, but a consumption that caused the solid viands before us to disappear with a marvellous quickness.

But to ensure the perusal of any future production, I must tax your patience no farther now. Suffice it to say that the farther I advance the better am I pleased with the tour I have undertaken. Let the issue be what it may, the commencement has introduced to me a friend, whom I shall never forget. May the blessing of the Christian's God attend you.

MELANCTHON L. WOOLSEY.

To —— ——.

II.

Lake Superior, July 5, 1831.

It was my intention to have had a letter for you in readiness to send by Mr. Aikin, but we met him sooner than we expected, and I was obliged to postpone the fulfilment of my promise until the Indian boys returned.

In my letter to Mrs. S., I conducted her as far as Lake Leelinau. Supposing that an account of our further progress would be as acceptable as any thing I can write, I will give you an invitation to a seat in our canoe, as we depart for the Pictured Rocks. These you have often heard described, and nothing can be added by my poor pen to what has already been said about them. They were all, and more than an excited imagination had conceived them to be. As we approach them the mind is struck with awe at their lofty battlements, and in comparison the most stupendous of the works of art sink into insignificance. Near their commencement a beautiful cascade comes tumbling down the rocks, and finally makes a leap of about thirty feet into the waters below. Passing on from this, we soon come to a most singular arrangement of rocks and arches, and the first thought that strikes the mind is, to ascend and give them an examination. It is the work but of a moment, for the eye is unsatisfied until it has drunk in all the wonders before it. Our first resting place was under the main arch, from which we had a bird's-eye view of the world of woods, and waters, and rocks, by which we were surrounded. While here, Mr. Clary with his barge came along, and jumping upon the rocks, he soon made one of our party, when we commenced a minute examination of the celebrated Doric Rock. The principal arch, under which we were, is about twenty feet in height; and while standing under its crumbling walls, our sensations were not lessened by the idea that in an instant it might be said of us, we had been. At our left, and in the centre of one of the large pillars another arch is formed,—upon entering this we still find one more at our right, and which commands a view of the lake. Between the two stands a pillar of stone, near four feet in height, entirely detached at the sides, and composed of thin plates of sand rock. As we go out from these, for the purpose of ascending the roof, a large urn of nature's own design and workmanship, appears before us. It might be a fit depository for the ashes of some of those mighty men, who before the children "with a white, white face," overran their country, strode through these forests, or in their light canoes bounded over these vast waters—but alas, their graves and those of their fathers are mingling with the common dust! Near this urn are the remains of an Indian's fire, which he had lighted at the close of his fast, when propitiating his Manito—a place well calculated to foster the wildness of superstition, and which to a mind more enlightened than that of the poor wanderer of the wilderness, would not be deficient in suggestions of mystery. Who can wonder that the untaught natives of a region like this, should make to themselves a Deity in the rushing stream or the beetling cliff? They act from the impulse of nature, and well will it be for those who enjoy every advantage that civilization and Christianity can bestow, if when weighed in the balance, even with the pagan Indian, they are not found wanting. We were soon at the top of the Doric Rock, and from its dizzy height the prospect was such as to preclude all attempt at delineation, at least by language. Your brother expressed his emotion as well as it was in the power of any mortal to do. Clapping his hands together, and putting a peculiar emphasis upon the last syllable, he exclaimed "Oh! Oh!" Nothing more could be said. But while enjoying the grandeur of the scene, I wished that M. was at my side, for my pleasure would have been increased tenfold by sharing it with her. The summit of the arch is itself a curiosity. It does not appear to be more than three feet in thickness, and yet it supports and nourishes several lofty pine trees, whose weight alone I should think would crush it to atoms. The root of one of them winds around the outer edge of the rock, as if to support the source of its existence. But we had not long to indulge our admiration, for our table was spread under the shade of one of these immense rocks, and all the sublimity around us could not satisfy the imperious demands of appetite; so after regaling ourselves on some of the dainties furnished by our excellent friends at the Sault, we departed to behold new wonders, and utter repeated exclamations of Oh! Oh! Turning a point of the rocks, we came in view of those natural excavations that have excited so much astonishment. It was our intention to pass through one of them, but the entrance was blocked up by the falling of an arch, the ruins of which were scattered around. We were obliged to content ourselves with an outside view; but this surpassed every thing of the kind I had before seen. We were in a bay formed by a semi-circle in the rocks. Above us the cliff, at the height of upwards of a hundred feet, projected far beyond our canoes, and formed a canopy of the most terrific description. We could not behold it without a shudder of awe. Upon leaving it we discharged our gun, and the reverberations were almost deafening. The sound rolled through these vast ramparts, and seemed to shake them to their foundations. It was like the groaning of an imprisoned spirit in its struggle to be free. At every stage of our progress we had new cause for amazement; and when we left them it was with the impression that we "ne'er should look upon their like again." Our encampment was at Grand Island. The next day we reached the Riviere des Moines,—here we pitched our tents, and immediately commenced a search for some of the precious minerals. The locality proved so interesting that it was determined we should devote a day or two to its examination. For the first time we were compelled to resort to our musquito bars, and it afforded me infinite amusement upon waking in the morning, to see about fifty of these insects puzzling their brains to discover the meaning of certain initials that seemed to attract their attention. This day we removed our encampment four miles. In so doing we passed a rocky mountain, that filled us instantly with a desire to ascend to its summit. This was resolved on, and at five in the afternoon we procured an Indian guide, and were soon clinging to the roots and branches that overhung its precipitous sides, as we scrambled up the ascent. We were amply repaid for our fatigue, by the prospect from its peak. Immediately before us was a beautiful bay, studded with numerous islands, some of which were crowned with verdure, while others were immense masses of rock. The bay was formed by the projections of Granite Point and Presque Isle, both of which terminated in circular mountainous elevations that were connected to the main land, but by very narrow isthmuses. At the distance of fifty miles were seen Grand Island and the Pictured Rocks. To the north-west are seen seven large bays, and Point Kewena, from which we are 65 miles distant. In the back ground, mountain rises on mountain, as far as the eye can reach. Here and there, to add variety to the scene, a lofty peak of massy, naked granite, rears its head high above its less aspiring neighbors; and to soften the asperity of the view, there are two beautiful open spots of level green, that might be taken for fairy playgrounds—so secluded, and so environed, that even the spirits of the air in them could find a resting place. And think you not when my eyes were gazing at the splendor of this scene, glowing as it was in the last rays of a glorious sun-set, that my mind wandered to the Being who is the author of these creations?

When we have occasionally met the traders, as they were returning from their year's residence among the Indians, I have asked myself what mysterious excitement there could be in the spirit of gain, that will cause men to separate themselves from society, and voluntarily renounce those privileges incident to an intercourse with the world? But as I pass along my wonder ceases. There is such an union of beauty and grandeur in all the works of nature throughout this region, that it is impossible to be acquainted with them, and not wish to pass a life in their admiration. Following the impulse of my present feelings, I could joyfully make my home among these hills and valleys, and I should want no other. 'Tis true, the busy hum of men would not reach such a wild retreat, neither would their faithlessness and cold deceit.

And now, let me tell you how I have written this letter. We are waiting, at the Kewena Bay, for the arrival of some Indians to transport part of our baggage to the Ontonagon. Mr. S., and Mr. Houghton, with Lt. Clary, are by this time over the traverse. It was uncertain how soon we might be able to embark, but I resolved to devote what time I had to you. Accordingly at 5 o'clock this morning, I turned a chest upside down for a desk, planted myself against the tent-pole, and with the stump of a pen commenced operations. But alas! the sand flies and musquitoes made such a desperate onset that I was obliged to haul down my colors, and ingloriously fly for my life. I then waited until after breakfast, and commenced again with no better success. I then resorted to the open air; and placing my paper on a small bank, and standing on the stones below, with the sun at 90, pouring its rays upon my head, while with one hand and sometimes two, I battled insects of divers descriptions, at last have made black marks, over the greater part of this sheet. Should you in decyphering these hieroglyphics, come to any place where the subject was suddenly dropped and another commenced, without any apology, attribute it to a huge horse-fly, which lighting on my nasal protuberance, caused me to drop my pen, and with it my ideas. But here come a dozen of them, so good bye till you hear from me again.

M. L. WOOLSEY.

To —— ——.

III.

La Pointe, Lake Superior, July 17, 1831.

Instead of a sand bank for a writing desk, I am now seated by the side of a good table in your brother's house, and surrounded by comforts and conveniences that would be no discredit to a place less out of the world than La Pointe. We have luxuries that even the inhabitants of St. Mary's might envy. Our table groans beneath its load of white-fish and trout, veal and pigeons, rice-puddings and strawberries, all of which are served up à la mode, in Joseph's best style, assisted by the culinary skill of Plufe, the cook. We at present adopt the maxim, "Live while you may," for we well know that soon we will be out of the reach of every thing of this sort, and be glad to get our dish of corn-soup. This is a very pleasant island, and presents quite a village-like appearance. There are several large dwelling houses, besides the trading establishment, and cultivated fields, with cattle strolling about, that altogether make up a scene quite different from any thing I expected to see before arriving at Green Bay.

Since my first and last letter to you, we have passed through a variety of interesting incidents. As I closed my letter our Indians arrived, and in a short time we were on our way across the Kewena traverse. But now a fresh breeze had supplanted the calm atmosphere of the morning, and before we were half-way over the Bay, we began to anticipate a second edition of the troubles and danger experienced by Mr. S. in 1820. But we fortunately escaped, with no inconvenience but a slight wetting, and at 12 at night came up to the encampment of our friends,—when not wishing to disturb them, we spread our blankets upon the gravel, with the heavens for our canopy, and sought a few hours repose, previous to commencing an examination of Kewena Point. In this we promised ourselves an abundance of interest, and we suffered no disappointment. Such a banging the rocks have not experienced for many a day, and we robbed them of no inconsiderable quantity of their precious contents. The "King of the metals" will be under the necessity of holding another convention,3 and if some of the delegates do not appear with battered visages, and broken bones, then there is no virtue in our well-tried hammers. Now you know, as we go skipping down the vale of life, that it is not every circumstance that assumes a serious cast, but that we have a mixture, or a kind of dish which in Scotland, and by Dr. Johnson, would be called hodge-podge. So with us—after wearying ourselves in discovering copper mines, and hunting from their dark and stony enclosures the precious gems which here abounded, we would join with no little zest in the pleasures of the chase. One or two opportunities of doing this occurred while going round this Point. This was in the pursuit of quacks; and impelled by the purest patriotism, we were determined upon the extirpation of all that might fall in our way. What, ask you, is it possible, that the proscribed prescribers of "roots and herbs," and steam restoratives, have found their way to the lone regions of the north? Why no, not exactly this kind of quacks, but a species more honest, who tell us beforehand what they are, and which, of themselves, when properly prepared by a suitable apothecary, form an excellent remedy for a well-known disease, and which those in particular are apt to contract who labor for hours together among rocks and over mountains. But to tell a plain story:—while in our canoes we surprised several large broods of ducks, which happened to be in that state when their unfledged wings forbade them to fly, but when they were sufficiently large to furnish excellent game for the table. Consequently it was a trial of skill between our canoe-men and the poor quacklings, to see who could paddle the fastest; but like the boys and the frogs, while it was sport to the former, it was death to the latter. Although at first they literally walked over the water, yet their strength was soon exhausted; and what with the shouts of the men, which of themselves were sufficient to scare a duck out of its senses, and their own fatigue, they fell an easy prey to their enemies. But to secure the victims after they were run down, afforded us the most amusement. The men seemed to have given up their whole souls to the chase, and as the ducks would dive to escape being taken, they would endeavor to spear them with their poles and paddles, and these proving ineffectual, plunge in themselves regardless of the consequences. Their zeal was rewarded by the capture of twelve or fifteen of the unfortunate birds. The only fear I experienced during this enlivening scene, was that the Doctor would exhaust his stock of risibility, and in future we should be deprived of his hearty ha, ha, that makes one join in sympathy with him, before the story comes. He surrendered himself entirely to the power of Momus; but we have had abundant demonstration since, that he is still a subject of the laughing deity. But the afterpiece was the most interesting to us individually; what that was you must guess. But luckily the clouds now "began to gather blackness;" and before we had proceeded many miles, we were favored with a couple of smart showers, and finally obliged by the rain to go on shore—luckily, because this spot proved to be the richest in minerals and metals, that we had yet visited. Your brother discovered two rich veins of copper ore, and we found agates and other gems in quantities. While we were thumping about us, the Doctor got into the canoe for the purpose of seeking an encamping place. This was found at the bottom of a very pretty bay, but which nevertheless we dignified with the name of Musquito Cove. Here we were wind-bound, and I spent a half hour very pleasantly on the rocks, witnessing the foaming and dashing of the waves, that seemed enraged at the resistance which they met, while the rocks themselves groaned at the rencounter as if fearful of being shaken from their solid foundations. Here was a place for melancholy, and a mind like yours would have held a revelry with the wildness of the scene. My curiosity to witness the onset of the waters, prompted me to venture too near them, as I found by a salute, not very friendly, that left me in rather a moist condition; but although experience is the best school, yet forgetting myself, I was again reminded that being but a spectator, it would be well to retire from the influence of the battle shock.

3 Alludes to a jeu d' esprit poem.

*              *               *               *               *

This ceremony over, we turned our faces homewards, but stopped for a moment on the way to take a peep at the Superior. This was so pleasing that I felt no disposition to quit it, and continued my way over the rocks, until weariness alone induced me to return. My path was through a pleasant wood, and as I was loitering along, I was startled by the report of a gun, repeated three or four times in quick succession; and upon making up to the place from whence the sound proceeded, found that two of the men had been sent out to search for the supposed lost one. The wind had abated, and we left our camp as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The rest of my story I hope to have the pleasure of communicating to you by word of mouth.

You will not probably hear from us again until our arrival at the Sault.

In the meantime remember me to William, and the young gentlemen of your household.

M. L. W.

GREECE.

"Amphyction erected a Temple at Athens in honor of the Hours, in which those citizens who knew the value of time and opportunity habitually offered their sacrifices."

"To the Temple of the Hours! Let us early pay the vow;

Aurora's bright and blushing kiss is on Hymettus' brow—

And the Hours, that lead the dapple morn thro' trembling rays of light,

Glance tow'rds the past eternity, with pinions stretch'd for flight.

"To the Temple of the Hours! Deeper grows the orient blush,

The light shafts of the polished Fane reflect the rosy flush;

While dews are on the cypress bough and blooming myrtle spray,

A sacrifice, as fresh and fair, we'll on their altar lay.

"With offering we'll propitiate—invoke with lyre and song—

And rich shall be the sacrifice—the music loud and long;

Then, Hours, as lightly over us you wing your noiseless flight,

Pour on our pathway, graciously, a flood of love and light."

Thus Athens' sons. How vainly wise!—The scathing foot hath trod,

Where many a costly Temple rose, to many an 'unknown God;'

And Hours, with retribution fraught, on pinions bathed in woes,

Long lingered where their beauteous Fane of tintless marble rose.

And have those retributive Hours passed o'er, with leaden flight?

On Athens breaks a brighter day? Dawns there a purer light?

Rejoice! The "Star of Bethlehem" leads on a perfect day,

And fades the Crescent from the skies, lost in its brighter ray.

The altar 'To the unknown God,' the Temple to the Hours,

'The Prophets' crescent-mounted Mosques, fail from her cypress bowers;

The Tissue from the Cross shall fall, by error wreathed so fair,

Fall—and the shrinking drapery's folds reveal a Saviour there.

Then, Greece, shall smile propitiously, the bright, the favoring Hours—

Then praise shall rise, as sweet as breath from Tempe's vale of Flowers;

Rise, from that heart of love—of woe—of poesy profound—

The heart of Greece!—her sons are free—the noble mind unbound.

ELIZA.

Maine.

READINGS WITH MY PENCIL.

NO. I.

"Legere sine calamo est dormire."—Quintilian.

1. "I am resolved, by the grace of God, always to make my heart and tongue go together: so as never to speak with the one what I do not think with the other."—Bishop Beveridge.

There is a fine philosophy in the above excellent determination of the pious and learned bishop: it is but a paraphrase of the homely maxim, "Honesty is the best policy." But the most striking idea conveyed by it is its negative character: the resolution being, not to speak all that the heart thinketh, but never to speak what it thinketh not.

2. "I deny the lawfulness of telling a lie to a sick man for fear of alarming him. You have no business with consequences: you are to tell the truth."—Dr. Johnson.

Boswell says that the Doctor said this to him. I do not doubt it. It is nothing new. St. Paul said it before Dr. Johnson. "What then? Shall we do evil that good may come? God forbid!" Now, a lie of this kind would be venial, where other lies, told upon occasions of less magnitude and importance, would be unpardonable. And the Doctor's idea seems to be very well explained in the next passage.

3. "All truth is not of equal importance; but if little violations be allowed, all violations will, in time, be thought little."—Dr. Johnson.

So much for Truth; which, according to Herodotus, was one of the three lessons inculcated by the ancient Persians upon their children.

4. "The Four Elements are the Four Volumes in which all Nature's works are written."—Jeremy Taylor.

What is that volume, red-bound and glittering with golden tooling, more brilliant than the highest reach of Art has ever approached; dazzling with its illuminated pages, which none can read but the eagle-eye of him who has learned to gaze upon the living light of heavenly Truth, as written by the finger of the Almighty Omniscient? It is the volume of Fire—Nature's Philosophy. That beautiful volume, delicately bound in soft cerulean, sparkling with starry splendors, and redolent of "that odor within the sense, so delicate, soft, and intense," which gives its pages the fragrance no less than the shining beauty of Paradise—that volume is Air—and it is Nature's Music and Poetry. See Nature's History in those two immense volumes, Earth and Water. In them read the History of Empires, their rise, decline, and fall: the History of Man; his birth, his life, and death: the History of Passion; its conception, development, and disappointment: the History of Evil; its origin, dominion, and decay: the History of Good; its slow and steady, yet neglected and uncultured growth—its secret yet secure and strong dominion—its lasting and undying strength: and the History of all Nature and her works—recording all her beauties, all her glories, all her triumphs, all her lessons, all her immortal lore!

5. "Not only by the warmth,

And soothing sunshine of delightful things,

Do minds grow up and flourish."—Akenside.

No more than flowers grow up and flourish best, when reared in a hot-house. Those flowers may have more beauty, but where is the strength which the free blowing blossom of the wilderness alone possesses? The corolla is delicate, its petals each a separate loveliness: but where is the noble stalk sustaining many and more voluminous, though less gaudy blossoms, which rears its enduring head aloft, living when the other is dead—fragrant when the other is withered upon the dewless earth around its drooping stem? Adversity has been the parent of master minds. Homer and Milton, and Shakspeare, and Burns—these were no hot-house plants in Nature's garden: they were born in obscurity; their upward growth was watered with the dew-like tears of adversity; they were reared in the great wilderness of the world, amid its storms, its tempests, and its fitful gleams of sunshine: and so "do minds grow up and flourish."

6. "Renewed friendships are to be conducted with greater nicety than such as have never been broken."—Rochefoucault.

Yes: just as one should handle a porcelain vase, once fractured and repaired, more carefully than before it was injured.

7. "I do not subscribe to the notion that poets are born," said Herbert.—Private Life.

Horace thought otherwise. I never agreed with the Venusian poet. Walter Scott was not a born poet: he was made by the scenes around him from his birth. Byron was not a native poet: his early "poetry" (?) proves the fact abundantly. His only true poetry was the result of circumstances. His first good poem was made by an article in the Edinburgh Review. His next was made by an unhappy marriage, and all the rest that deserved the name have an origin of the kind. Would Burns the cit have ever turned out what Burns the Ayrshire ploughman proved, think ye? And was Pope born a poet? No more than Napoleon was born Emperor of the French!

J. F. O.

EDITORIAL.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

PAUL ULRIC.

Paul Ulric: Or the Adventures of an Enthusiast. New York: Published by Harper & Brothers.

These two volumes are by Morris Mattson, Esq. of Philadelphia, and we presume that Mr. Mattson is a very young man. Be this as it may, when we called Norman Leslie the silliest book in the world we had certainly never seen Paul Ulric. One sentence in the latter, however, is worthy of our serious attention. "We want a few faithful laborers in the vineyard of literature, to root out the noxious weeds which infest it." See page 116, vol. ii.

In itself, the book before us is too purely imbecile to merit an extended critique—but as a portion of our daily literary food—as an American work published by the Harpers—as one of a class of absurdities with an inundation of which our country is grievously threatened—we shall have no hesitation, and shall spare no pains, in exposing fully before the public eye its four hundred and forty-three pages of utter folly, bombast, and inanity.

"My name," commences Mr. Mattson, "is Paul Ulric. Thus much, gentle reader, you already know of one whose history is about to be recorded for the benefit of the world. I was always an enthusiast, but of this I deem it inexpedient to say much at present. I will merely remark that I possessed by nature a wild and adventurous spirit which has led me on blindly and hurriedly, from object to object, without any definite or specific aim. My life has been one of continual excitement, and in my wild career I have tasted of joy as well as of sorrow. [Oh remarkable Mr. Ulric!] At one moment I have been elevated to the very pinnacle of human happiness, at the next I have sunk to the lowest depths of despair. Still I fancied there was always an equilibrium. This may seem a strange philosophy to some, but is it the less true? The human mind is so constituted as always to seek a level—if it is depressed it will be proportionately elevated, if elevated it will be proportionately depressed. But" says Mr. U., interrupting himself, "I am growing metaphysical!" We had thought he was only growing absurd.

He proceeds to tell us of his father who was born in Lower Saxony—who went, when only a year old, to England—who, being thrown upon the parish, was initiated into the mysteries of boot cleaning—who, at the age of ten, became a vender of newspapers in the city of London—at twelve sold potatoes in Covent Garden—at fifteen absconded from a soap-boiler in the Strand to whom he had been apprenticed—at eighteen sold old clothes—at twenty became the proprietor of a mock auction in Cheapside—at twenty-five was owner of a house in Regent Street, and had several thousand pounds in the Funds—and before thirty was created a Baronet, with the title of Sir John Augustus Frederick Geoffry Ulric, Bart., for merely picking up and carrying home his Majesty King George the Fourth, whom Mr. U. assures us upon his word and honor, his father found lying beastly drunk, one fine day, in some gutter, in some particular thoroughfare of London.

Our hero himself was born, we are told, on the borders of the Thames, not far from Greenwich. When a well grown lad he accompanies his father to the continent. In Florence he falls in love with a Countess in her thirty-fifth year, who curls his hair and gives him sugar-plums. The issue of the adventure with the Countess is thus told.

"You have chosen them with much taste," said the Countess; "a beautiful flower is this!" she continued, selecting one from among the number, "its vermillion is in your cheeks, its blue in your eyes, and for this pretty compliment I deserve a —— you resist eh! My pretty, pretty lad, I will! There! Another, and you may go free. Still perverse? Oh, you stubborn boy! How can you refuse? One—two—three! I shall devour you with kisses!"

*              *               *               *               *

*              *               *               *               *

We have printed the passage precisely as we find it in the book—notes of admiration—dashes—Italics—and all. Two rows of stars wind up the matter, and stand for the catastrophe—for we hear no more of the Countess. Now if any person over curious should demand why Morris Mattson, Esq. has mistaken notes of admiration for sense—dashes, kisses, stars and Italics for sentiment—the answer is very simple indeed. The author of Vivian Grey made the same mistake before him.

Indeed we have made up our minds to forward Ben D'Israeli a copy of Paul Ulric. He will read it, and if he do not expire upon the spot, it will do him more real service than the crutch. Never was there a more laughable burlesque of any man's manner. Had Mr. Mattson only intended it as a burlesque we would have called him a clever fellow. But unfortunately this is not the case. No jackdaw was ever more soberly serious in fancying herself a peacock, than our author in thinking himself D'Israeli the second.

"Every day," says Paul after the kissing scene, "filled me with a new spirit of romance. I had sailed upon the winding streams of Germany; I had walked beneath the bright skies of Italy; I had clambered the majestic mountains of Switzerland." His father, however, determines upon visiting the United States, and taking his family with him. His reasons for so doing should be recorded. "His republicanism" says Paul, "had long rendered him an object of aversion to the aristocracy. He had had the hardihood to compare the salary of the President with the civil list of the king—consequently he was threatened with an indictment for treason! My mother suggested the propriety of immediately quitting the country."

Mr. Mattson does not give us an account of the voyage. "I have no disposition," says his hero, "to describe a trip across the Atlantic—particularly as I am not in a sentimental mood—otherwise I might turn over the poets, and make up a long chapter of extracts from Moore, Byron, and Rogers of the Old World, or Percival, Bryant, and Halleck of the New." A range of stars accordingly, is introduced at this crisis of affairs, and we must understand them to express all the little matters which our author is too fastidious to detail. Having sufficiently admired the stars, we turn over the next leaf and "Land ho!" shouts one of the seamen on the fore-topsail yard.

Arrived in Philadelphia, Mr. Ulric (our hero's father) "is divided," so says Mr. Mattson, "between the charms of a city and country life." His family at this time, we are told, consisted of five persons; and Mr. U. Jr. takes this opportunity of formally introducing to us, his two sisters Eleanor and Rosaline. This introduction, however, is evidently to little purpose, for we hear no more, throughout the two volumes, of either the one young lady or the other. After much deliberation the family fix their residence in "Essex, a delightful country village in the interior of Pennsylvania;" and we beg our readers to bear in mind that the surprising adventures of Paul Ulric are, for the most part, perpetrated in the immediate vicinity of this village.

The young gentleman (notwithstanding his late love affair with the Countess) is now, very properly, sent to school—or rather a private tutor is engaged for him—one Lionel Wafer. A rapid proficiency in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, music, dancing, and fencing, is the result; "and with these accomplishments," says the young calf, "I believed myself fitted for the noise and bustle of the world." Accordingly, his father having given him a flogging one afternoon, he determines upon running away. In two days he "arrives in one of the Atlantic cities." Rambling about the streets he enters into conversation with a sharper, who succeeds in selling him, for forty dollars, a watch made of tinsel and put together with paste. This and subsequent adventures in the city form the best portion of the book—if best should be applied, in any way, to what is altogether abominable. Mr. Ulric goes to the theatre, and the play is Romeo and Juliet. The orchestra "breaks forth in full chorus" and our hero soliloquizes. We copy his soliloquy with the end of placing before our readers what we consider the finest passage in Mr. Mattson's novel. We wish to do that gentleman every possible act of justice; and when we write down the few words to which we allude, and when we say that they are not absolutely intolerable, we have done all, in the way of commendation, which lies in our power. We have not one other word of praise to throw away upon Paul Ulric.

"Oh Music!—the theme of bards from time immemorial—who can sing of thee as thou deservest? What wondrous miracles hast thou not accomplished? The war-drum beats—the clarion gives forth its piercing notes—and legions of armed men rush headlong to the fierce and devastating battle. Again, the drum is muffled, and its deep notes break heavily upon the air, while the dead warrior is borne along upon his bier, and thousands mingle their tears to his memory. The tender lute sounds upon the silvery waters, and the lover throws aside his oar, and imprints a kiss upon the lips of his beloved. The bugle rings in the mountain's recesses, and a thousand spears are uplifted for a fearful and desperate conflict. And now the organ peals, and, with its swelling notes, the soul leaps into the very presence of the Deity."

Our hero decides upon adopting the stage as a profession, and with this view takes lessons in elocution. Having perfected himself in this art, he applies to a manager, by note, for permission to display his abilities, but is informed that the nights are engaged for two months ahead, and it would be impossible for him to appear during the season. By the influence, however, of some hanger-on of the theatre, his wishes are at length gratified, and he is announced in the bills as "the celebrated Master Le Brun, the son of a distinguished English nobleman, whose success was so unprecedented in London as to have performed fifty nights in succession at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane"—a sentence in which we are at a loss to discover whether the English nobleman, or the English nobleman's son, or the success of the English nobleman's son is the distinguished performer in question.

Our adventurer succeeds in his debût, and is in a fair way of becoming a popular performer, when his prospects are suddenly nipped in the bud. His valet one morning announces a Sir Thomas Le Brun, and Sir Thomas Le Brun proves to be that worthy gentleman Sir John Augustus Frederick Geoffry Ulric, Baronet. A scene ensues. Paul screams, and Sir John clenches his fist. The father makes a speech, and the son makes a speech and a bow. At length they fly into each other's arms, and the drama closes by the old personage taking the young personage home in his carriage. In all this balderdash about the stage, there is not one original incident or idea. The same anecdotes are told, but in infinitely better language, in every book of dramatic reminiscences since the flood.

Our author now indulges in what we suppose to be satire. The arrows of his wit are directed, with much pertinacity at least, against one Borel Bunting, by which name it strikes us that Mr. M. wishes to indicate some poor devil of an editor in bonâ fide existence—perhaps some infatuated young person who could not be prevailed upon, by love or money, to look over the MS. of Paul Ulric. If our supposition be true, we could wish Mr. Borel Bunting no better revenge than what the novelist has himself afforded by this public exposure of his imbecility. We must do our readers the favor of copying for their especial perusal, a portion of this vehement attack.

There has been much speculation as to the birthplace of Borel; (in this respect he somewhat resembled Homer) but if I have been correctly informed it was in one of the New England States. Further than this I cannot particularize. When he came to Essex he managed to procure a situation in a counting-house, which afforded him the means of support as well as leisure for study. He did not overlook these advantages, and gradually rose in public estimation until he became the editor of the Literary Herald. This gentleman was deeply read in the classics, and had also perused every novel and volume of poetry from the earliest period of English literature down to the present. Such had been his indefatigable research, that there was not a remarkable passage in the whole range of the Waverley fictions, or indeed any other fictions, to which he could not instantly turn. As to poetry, he was an oracle. He could repeat the whole of Shelley, Moore, and Wordsworth, verbatim. He was a very Sidrophel in his acquirements. He could tell

"How many scores a flea would jump;"

he could prove, also, "that the man in the moon's a sea Mediterranean," and

"In lyric numbers write an ode on

His mistress eating a black pudding."

He composed acrostics extempore by the dozen; we say extempore, though it was once remarked that he was months in bringing them to maturity. He was inimitable, moreover, in his pictures of natural scenery. When a river, or a mountain, or a waterfall was to be sketched, Borel Bunting, of all others, was the man to guide the pencil. He had the rare faculty of bringing every thing distinctly before the mind of the reader—a compliment to which a majority of his brother scribes are not entitled.

Borel Bunting possessed also a considerable degree of critical acumen. Southey was a mere doggerelist; Cooper and Irving were not men of genius: so said Borel. Pope, he declared, was the first of poets, because Lord Byron said so before him. Tom Jones, he contended, was the most perfect specimen of a novel extant. He was also willing to admit that Goldsmith had shown some talent in his Vicar of Wakefield.

In a word, Borel's wonderful acquirements secured him the favorable attention of many distinguished men; and at length (as a reward of his industry and merit) he was regularly installed in the chair editorial of the "Literary Herald," an important weekly periodical, fifteen inches in diameter. His salary, it is supposed, was something less than that received by the President of the United States.

The Literary Herald, Borel (or rather, Mr. Bunting—we beg his pardon) considered the paragon of perfection. No one could ever hope to be distinguished in literature who was not a contributor to its columns. It was the only sure medium through which young Ambition could make its way to immortality. In short, (to use one of Bunting's favorite words,) it was the "nonpareil" of learning, literature, wit, philosophy, and science.

Mr. Bunting corresponded regularly with many distinguished individuals in Europe. I called upon him one morning, just after the arrival of a foreign mail, when he read me portions of seven letters which he had just received. One was from Lafayette, another from Charles X., a third from the author of a fashionable novel, a fourth from Miss L——, a beautiful poetess in London, a fifth from a German count, a sixth from an Italian prince, and a seventh from Stpqrstuwsptrsm, (I vouch not for the orthography, not being so well acquainted with the art of spelling as the learned Borel,) a distinguished Russian general in the service of the great "Northern Bear."

The most unfortunate charge that was ever preferred against Borel, in his editorial capacity, was that of plagiarism. He had inserted an article in his paper over his acknowledged signature, entitled "Desultory Musings," which some one boldly asserted was an extract from Zimmerman on Solitude; and, upon its being denied by the editor, reference was given to the identical page whence it was taken. These things boded no good to the reputation of the scribe; nevertheless, he continued his career without interruption, and, had he lived in the days of Pope, the latter might well have asked,

"Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:

Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,

The creature's at his dirty work again—

*               *               *               *               *

Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines."

Mr. Ulric now indulges us with another love affair, beginning as follows: "Oh thou strange and incomprehensible passion! to what canst thou be compared? At times thou art gentle as the zephyr; at others thou art mighty as the tempest. Thou canst calm the throbbing bosom, or thou canst fill it with wilder commotion. A single smile of thy benign countenance calleth new rapture to the anguished heart, and scattereth every doubt, every fear, every perplexity. But enough of this."    True.

A young lady falls into a river or a ditch, (our author says she was fishing for a water-lily) and Mr. Ulric is at the trouble of pulling her out. "What a charming incident!" says Mr. Mattson. Her name is Violet, and our susceptible youth falls in love with her. "Shall I ever," quoth Paul, "shall I ever forget my sensations at that period?—never!!" Among other methods of evincing his passion he writes a copy of verses "To Violet," and sends them to the Literary Herald. All, however, is to little purpose. The lady is no fool, and very properly does not wish a fool for a husband.

Our hero now places his affections upon the wife of a silk-dyer. He has a rival, however, in the person of the redoubted editor, Borel Bunting, and a duel ensues, in which, although the matter is a hoax, and the pistols have no load in them, Mr. Mattson assures us that the editor "in firing, lodged the contents of his weapon in the ground a few inches from his feet." The chapter immediately following this adventure is headed with poetical quotations occupying two-thirds of a page. One is from Byron—another from All's Well that Ends Well—and the third from Brown's Lecture on Perpetual Motion. The chapter itself would form not quite half a column such as we are now writing, and in it we are informed that Bunting, having discovered the perpetual motion, determines upon a tour in Europe.

The editor being thus disposed of, Mr. Mattson now enters seriously upon the business of his novel. We beg the attention of our readers while we detail a tissue of such absurdity, as we did not believe it possible, at this day, for any respectable bookseller to publish, or the very youngest of young gentlemen to indite.

Let us bear in mind that the scene of the following events is in the vicinity of Philadelphia, and the epoch, the present day. Mr. Ulric takes a stroll one May morning with his gun. "Nature seems to be at rest," &c.—"the warbling of birds," &c.—"perched among trees," &c. was all very fine, &c. "While gazing," says Paul, "upon these objects," (that is to say, the warbling of the birds) "I beheld a young and beautiful female trip lightly over the grass, and seat herself beneath a willow which stood in the middle of a park." Whereupon our adventurer throws himself into an attitude, and soliloquizes as follows.

"It seems that there is an indescribable something in the features of many women—a look, a smile, or a glance of the eye—that sends the blood thrilling to the heart, and involuntarily kindles the flame of love upon its altar. It is no wonder that sages and philosophers have worshipped with such mad devotion at the shrine of beauty! It is no wonder that the mighty Pericles knelt at the feet of his beloved Aspasia! It is no wonder that the once powerful Antony sacrificed his country to the fatal embraces of the bewitching Cleopatra! It is no wonder that the thirst for glory cooled in the heart of the philosophic Abelard, when he beheld the beauty of the exquisite Heloise! It is no wonder, indeed, that he quitted the dry maxims of Aristotle to practise the more pleasing precepts of Ovid! But this is rhapsody!"        It is.

The lady is dressed in white, (probably cambric muslin,) and Mr. Mattson assures us that her features he shall not attempt to describe. He proceeds, however, to say that her "eyes are hazel, but very dark," "her complexion pure as alabaster," her lips like the lips of Canova's Venus, and her forehead like—something very fine. Mr. Ulric attempts to speak, but his embarrassment prevents him. The young lady "turns to depart," and our adventurer goes home as he came.

The next chapter commences with "How mysterious is human existence!"—which means, when translated, "How original is Mr. Mattson!" This initial paragraph concludes with a solemn assurance that we are perishable creatures, and that it is very possible we may all die—every mother's son of us. But as Mr. M. hath it—"to our story." Paul has discovered the mansion of the young lady—but can see no more of the young lady herself. He therefore stands sentinel before the door, with the purpose "of making observations." While thus engaged, he perceives a tall fellow, "with huge black whiskers and a most forbidding aspect," enter the house, in a familiar manner. Our hero is, of course, in despair. The tall gentleman could be no other than the accepted lover of the young lady. Having arrived at this conclusion, Paul espies a column of smoke in the woods, and after some trouble discovers it to proceed from "a log dwelling which stood alone, with its roof of moss, amid the silence and solitude of nature." A dog barks, and an old woman makes her appearance.

This old lady is a most portentous being. She is, however, a little given to drinking; and offers our hero a dram, of which Mr. Mattson positively assures us that gentleman did not accept.

"Can you tell me," says Paul, "who lives in the stone house?"

"Do you mean the Florence mansion," she asked.

"Very like—who is its owner?"

"A man of the same name—Richard Florence."

"Who is Richard Florence?"

"An Englishman; he came to this country a year or two ago."

"Has he a wife?"

"Not that I know of."

"Children?"

"An only daughter."

"What is her name?"

"Emily."

"Emily!—Is she beautiful?"

"Very beautiful!"

"And amiable?"

"Her like is not to be found."

"What," [exclaims our hero, perhaps starting back and running his fingers through his hair]—"what are all the fleeting and fickle pleasures of the world! what the magnificent palaces of kings, with their imperial banquetings and gorgeous processions! what, indeed, are all the treasures of the earth or the sea, in comparison with the pure, the bright, the beautiful object of our young and innocent affections!!!"

The name of the old hag is Meg Lawler, and she favors Mr. Ulric with her private history. The morality of her disclosures is questionable—but "morals, at the present day, quoth Mr. Mattson, are rarely sought in works of fiction, and perhaps less rarely found." The gentleman means more rarely. But let us proceed. Meg Lawler relates a tale of seduction. It ends in the most approved form. "I knew," says she, "that the day of sorrow and tribulation was at hand, but alas, there was no saving power!" Here follows a double range of stars—after which, the narrative is resumed as follows.

Dame Lawler paused, and turning upon me her glaring and blood-shot eyes exclaimed—

"Do you think there is a punishment hereafter for the evil deeds done in the body?"

"Such," I replied, "the divines have long taught us."

"Then is my destroyer writhing in the agonies of hell!!"

Mr. Ulric is, of course, electrified, and the chapter closes.

Our hero, some time after this, succeeds in making the acquaintance of Miss Emily Florence. The scene of the first interview is the cottage of Meg Lawler. Mr. U. proposes a walk—the lady at first refuses, but finally consents.

"There were two paths," says our hero, "either of which we might have chosen: one led into the forest, the other towards her father's house. I struck into the latter—but she abruptly paused."

"Shall we continue our walk?" I asked, observing that she still hesitated.

"Yes," she at length answered; "but I would prefer the other path"—that is to say the path through the woods—O fi, Miss Emily Florence! During the walk, our hero arrives at the conclusion that his beloved is "some unfortunate captive whose fears, or whose sense of dependence, might render it imprudent for her to be seen in the society of a stranger." In addition to all this, Dame Lawler has told Mr. U. that "she did not believe Emily was the daughter of Mr. Florence"—hereby filling the interesting youth with suspicions, which Mr. Mattson assures us "were materials for the most painful reflection."

On their way home our lovers meet with an adventure. Mr. Ulric happens to espy a—man. Miss Emily Florence thus explains this momentous occurrence. "There is a band of robbers who have their retreat in the neighboring hills—and this was no doubt one of them. They are headed by a brave and reckless fellow of the name of Elmo—Captain Elmo I think they call him. They have been the terror of the inhabitants for a long time. My father went out sometime ago with an armed force in pursuit of them, but could not discover their hiding place. I have heard it said that they steal away the children of wealthy parents that they may exact a ransom." Once more we beg our readers to remember that Mr. Mattson's novel is a Tale of the Present Times, and that its scene is in the near vicinity of the city of Brotherly Love.

Having convinced her lover that the man so portentously seen can be nobody in the world but "that brave and reckless fellow" Captain Elmo, Miss Florence proceeds to assure Mr. U. that she (Miss Florence) is neither afraid of man nor the devil—and forthwith brandishes in the eyes of our adventurer an ivory-hilted dagger, or a carving-knife, or some such murderous affair. "Scarcely knowing what I did," says our gallant friend, "I imprinted a kiss (the first—burning, passionate, and full of rapture) upon her innocent lips, and—darted into the woods!!!" It was impossible to stand the carving-knife.

As Mr. U. takes his way home after this memorable adventure, he is waylaid by an old woman, who turns out to be a robber in disguise. A scuffle ensues, and our hero knocks down his antagonist—what less could such a hero do? Instead however of putting an end at once to his robbership, our friend merely stands over him and requests him to recite his adventures. This the old woman does. Her name is Dingee O'Dougherty, or perhaps Dingy O'Dirty—and she proves to be one and the same personage with the little man in gray who sold Mr. U. the tinsel watch spoken of in the beginning of the history. During the catechism, however, a second robber comes up, and the odds are now against our hero. But on account of his affectionate forbearance to Dingy O'Dirty no farther molestation is offered—and the three part with an amicable understanding.

Mr. Ulric is now taken ill of a fever—and during his illness a servant of Mr. Florence having left that gentleman's service, calls upon his heroship to communicate some most astounding intelligence. Miss Florence, it appears, has been missing for some days, and her father receives a letter (purporting to be from the captain of the banditti) in which it is stated that they have carried her away, and would only return her in consideration of a ransom. Florence is requested to meet them at a certain spot and hour, when they propose to make known their conditions. Upon hearing this extraordinary news our adventurer jumps out of bed, throws himself into attitude No. 2, and swears a round oath that he will deliver Miss Emily himself. Thus ends the first volume.

Volume the second commences with spirit. Mr. U. hires "three fearless and able-bodied men to accompany and render him assistance in the event of danger. Each of them was supplied with a belt containing a brace of pistols, and a large Spanish knife." With these terrible desperadoes, our friend arrives at the spot designated by the bandit. Leaving his companions near at hand, he advances, and recognizes the redoubted Captain Elmo, who demands a thousand pounds as the ransom of Miss Emily Florence. Our hero considers this too much, and the Captain consents to take five hundred. This too Mr. U. refuses to give, and with his three friends makes an attack upon the bandit. But a posse of robbers coming to the aid of their leader, our hero is about to meet with his deserts when he is rescued by no less a personage than our old acquaintance Dingy O'Dirty, who proves to be one of the banditti. Through the intercession of this friend, Mr. U. and his trio are permitted to go home in safety—but our hero, in a private conversation with Dingy, prevails upon that gentleman to aid him in the rescue of Miss Emily. A plot is arranged between the two worthies, the most important point of which is that Mr. U. is to become one of the robber fraternity.

In a week's time, accordingly, we behold Paul Ulric, Esq. in a cavern of banditti, somewhere in the neighborhood of Philadelphia!! His doings in this cavern, as related by Mr. Mattson, we must be allowed to consider the most laughable piece of plagiarism on record—with the exception perhaps of something in this same book which we shall speak of hereafter. Our author, it appears, has read Gil Blas, Pelham, and Anne of Gierstein, and has concocted, from diverse passages in the three, a banditti scene for his own especial use, and for the readers of Paul Ulric. The imitations (let us be courteous!) from Pelham are not so palpable as those from the other two novels. It will be remembered that Bulwer's hero introduces himself into a nest of London rogues with the end of proving his friend's innocence of murder. Paul joins a band of robbers near Philadelphia, for the purpose of rescuing a mistress—the chief similarity will be found in the circumstances of the blindfold introduction, and in the slang dialect made use of by either novelist. The slang in Pelham is stupid enough—but still very natural in the mouths of the cutthroats of Cockaigne. Mr. Mattson, however, has thought proper to bring it over, will I nill I, into Pennsylvania, and to make the pickpockets of Yankeeland discourse in the most learned manner of nothing less than "flat-catching," "velvet," "dubbing up possibles," "shelling out," "twisting French lace," "wakeful winkers," "white wool," "pig's whispers," and "horses' nightcaps!"

Having introduced his adventurer à la Pelham, Mr. Mattson entertains him à la Gil Blas. The hero of Santillane finds his cavern a pleasant residence, and so does the hero of our novel. Captain Rolando is a fine fellow, and so is Captain Elmo. In Gil Blas, the robbers amuse themselves by reciting their adventures—so they do in Paul Ulric. In both the Captain tells his own history first. In the one there is a rheumatic old cook—in the other there is a rheumatic old cook. In the one there is a porter who is the main obstacle to escape—in the other ditto. In the one there is a lady in durance—in the other ditto. In the one the hero determines to release the lady—in the other ditto. In the one Gil Blas feigns illness to effect his end, in the other Mr. Ulric feigns illness for the same object. In the one, advantage is taken of the robbers' absence to escape—so in the other. The cook is sick, at the time, in both.

In regard to Anne of Gierstein the plagiarism is still more laughable. We must all remember the proceedings of the Secret Tribunal in Scott's novel. Mr. Mattson has evidently been ignorant that the Great Unknown's account of these proceedings was principally based on fact. He has supposed them imaginary in toto, and, seeing no good reason to the contrary, determined to have a Secret Tribunal of his own manufacture, and could think of no better location for it than a cavern somewhere about the suburbs of Philadelphia. We must be pardoned for giving Mr. Mattson's account of this matter in his own words.

Dingee disappeared, [this is our old friend Dingy O'Dirty] Dingee, [quoth Mr. Mattson,] disappeared—leaving me for a time alone. When he returned, he said every thing was in readiness for the ceremony, [the ceremony of Mr. Ulric's initiation as a robber.] The place appointed for this purpose was called the 'Room of Sculls'—and thither, blindfolded, I was led.

'A candidate for our order!' said a voice, which I recognized as O'Dougherty's.

'Let him see the light!' exclaimed another in an opposite direction. The mandate was obeyed, and I was restored to sight.

I looked wildly and fearfully around—but no living object was perceptible. Before me stood an altar, hung about with red curtains, and ornamented with fringe of the same color. Above it, on a white Banner, was a painting of the human heart, with a dagger struck to the hilt, and the blood streaming from the wound. Directly under this horrible device, was written, in large letters,

THE PUNISHMENT OF THE UNFAITHFUL.

Around, wherever I turned my eyes, there was little else to be seen but skeletons of human bodies—with their arms uplifted, and stretching forward—suspended in every direction from the walls. One of them I involuntarily touched, and down it came with a fearful crash—its dry bones rattling upon the granite floor, until the whole cavern reverberated with the sound. I turned from this spectacle, and opposite beheld a guillotine—the fatal axe smeared with blood; and near it was a head—looking as if it had just been severed from the body—with the countenance ghastly—the lips parted—and the eyes staring wide open. There, also, was the body, covered, however, with a cloth, so that little was seen except the neck, mangled and bloody, and a small portion of the hand, hanging out from its shroud, grasping in its fingers a tablet with the following inscription:

THE END OF THE BETRAYER.

I sickened and fell. When I awoke to consciousness I found myself in the arms of O'Dougherty. He was bathing my temples with a fragrant liquor. When I had sufficiently recovered, he put his mouth close to my ear and whispered—'Where is your courage man? Do you know there is a score of eyes upon you?'

'Alas! I am unused to such scenes—I confess they have unmanned me. But now I am firm; you have only to command, and I will obey.'

'Bravo!' exclaimed O'Dougherty, 'you must now be introduced to the high priest of our order. He has taken his seat at the altar—prepared for your reception. I will retire that you may do him reverence—trusting soon to hail you as a brother.'

The curtains about the altar had been grouped up, and there, indeed, sat the high dignitary in all his splendor. He was closely masked, and reclined in a high-backed chair, with his head turned carelessly to one side, with an expression of the most singular good humor. At that moment, also, there issued from numerous recesses, which I had not hitherto observed, a number of grotesque-looking shapes, not unlike the weird sisters in Macbeth, who quietly took their stations around the apartment, and fixed upon me their fearful and startling gaze. Their garments were hanging in shreds—an emblem, perhaps, of their own desperate pursuits. Their faces were daubed with paint of various colors, which gave them a wild and fiendish aspect. Each one grasped a long knife, which he brandished furiously above his head, the blades sometimes striking heavily together. They then sprang simultaneously forward, forming themselves into a circle, while one stationed himself as the centre, around whom they slowly moved with dismal and half-suppressed groans. They continued this ceremony until some one exclaimed—

'Bring forth the dead!'

'Bring forth the dead!'—they all repeated, until the cavern rang with a thousand echoes.

The banditti now stood in a line, stretching from one end of the room to the other, and remained some time in silence. Directly a dead body—mutilated and bloody—was borne by some invisible agency into our presence. It rested upon a bier—without pall or other covering—a spectacle too horrible for description. I thought, at first, that it was some optical delusion—but, alas! it proved a fearful reality—a dread and reckless assassination, prompted by that hellish and vindictive spirit, which appeared so exclusively to govern the ruffians with whom I was voluntarily associated. The victim before me was a transgressor of their laws; and this punishment had been dealt out to him as the reward of his perfidy. Life, to all appearance, was extinct; but the sluggish and inert clay still remained, as if in mockery of all law—all humanity—all mercy.

'Behold the traitor!'—exclaimed one of the number.

'Behold the traitor!'—they all repeated in concert.

'Bear away the dead!'—commanded the priest at the altar.

'Bear away the dead! bear away the dead!'—was reiterated in succession by every tongue, until the lifeless body disappeared—and with it the fiendish revellers who had sported so terrifically in its presence.

We have only to say, that if our readers are not absolutely petrified after all this conglomeration of horrors, it is no fault either of Paul Ulric's, Morris Mattson's, or Dingy O'Dirty's.

Miss Emily Florence is at length rescued, and with her lover, is rowed down some river in a skiff by Dingy, who thus discourses on the way. We quote the passage as a specimen of exquisite morality.

"Had I the sensibility of many men, a recollection of my crimes would sink me into the dust—but as it is, I can almost fancy them to be so many virtues. I see you smile; but is it not a truth, that every thing of good and evil exists altogether in idea? The highwayman is driven by necessity to attack the traveller, and demand his purse. This is a crime—so says the law—so says society—and must be punished as our wise men have decreed. Nations go to war with each other—they plunder—burn—destroy—and murder—yet there is nothing wrong in this, because nations sanction it. But where is the difference between the highwayman, in the exercise of a profession by which he is to obtain a livelihood, and a nation, with perhaps less adequate cause, which despoils another of its treasures, and deluges it in blood? Is not this a proof that our ideas of immorality and wickedness are derived in a great measure from habit and education?" "The metaphysical outlaw," [says our hero,] "the metaphysical outlaw here concluded his discourse." [What an excessively funny idea Mr. Mattson must have of metaphysics!]

Having left the boat, taken leave of Dingy O'Dirty, and put on a pair of breeches, Miss Florence now accompanies our adventurer to a village hard by. Entering a tavern the lovers seat themselves at the breakfast table with two or three other persons. The conversation turns upon one Mr. Crawford, a great favorite in the village. In the midst of his own praises the gentleman himself enters—"and lo!" says Mr. Ulric, "in the person of Mr. Crawford, I recognized the notorious Captain Elmo!" The hue and cry is immediately raised, but the Captain makes his escape through a window. Our hero pursues him to no purpose, and in returning from the pursuit is near being run over by a carriage and six. The carriage doors happen to be wide open, and in the vehicle Mr. Ulric discovers—oh horrible!—Miss Emily Florence in the embrace of the fellow with the big whiskers!

Having lost his sweetheart a second time, our adventurer is in despair. But despair, or indeed any thing else, is of little consequence to a hero. "It is true," says Paul, "I was sometimes melancholy; but melancholy with me is as the radiant sunlight, imparting a hue of gladness to every thing around!!" Being, therefore, in excellent spirits with his melancholy, Mr. Ulric determines upon writing a novel. The novel is written, printed, published, and puffed. Why not?—we have even seen "Paul Ulric" puffed. But let us hasten to the dénouement of our tale. The hero receives a letter from his guardian angel, Dingy O'Dirty, who, it appears, is in England. He informs Mr. U. that Miss Florence is in London, for he (Dingy O'Dirty) has seen her. Hereupon our friend takes shipping for that city. Of course he is shipwrecked—and, of course, every soul on board perishes but himself. He, indeed, is a most fortunate young man. Some person pulls him on shore, and this person proves to be the very person he was going all the way to London to look for—it was Richard Florence himself. What is more to the purpose, Mr. F. has repented of promising Miss Emily to the fellow with the big whiskers. Every thing now happens precisely as it should. Miss E. is proved to be an heiress, and no daughter of Florence's after all. Our hero leads her to the altar. Matters come rapidly to a crisis. All the good characters are made excessively happy people, and all the bad characters die sudden deaths, and go, post haste, to the devil.

Mr. Mattson is a very generous young man, and is not above patronizing a fellow-writer occasionally. Some person having sent him a MS. poem for perusal and an opinion, our author consigns the new candidate for fame to immortality at once, by heading a chapter in Paul Ulric with four entire lines from the MS., and appending the following note at the bottom of the page.

From a MS. poem entitled "Drusilla," with which we have been politely favored for perusal. It is a delightful work, and shows the writer to be a man of genius and reflection. We hope it will not be long before the lovers of poetry are favored with this production; it will win deserved celebrity for its author.

And as a farther instance of disinterestedness, see this conversation between Mr. Mattson's hero, and a young lady in London who wrote for the annuals.

"What do you think of D'Israeli's novels?"—asked she.

"Excellent! Excellent!" I replied, "especially Vivian Grey: take for example the scene in the long gallery between Vivian, and Mrs. Felix Lorraine."

"Admirable!"—returned the young lady, "but, by the way, how do you like Bulwer?"

"Well enough," I answered.

"Pray, Mr. Ulric, how many female writers of distinction have you in America? Honest old Blackwood tells us of but two or three."

"And who are they?"

"Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, and Mrs. Sigourney."

"He should have added another—Miss Leslie."

We fancy it is long since Miss Leslie, Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Sigourney, Lytton Bulwer, and Ben D'Israeli have been so affectionately patted on the back.

Of Mr. Mattson's style the less we say the better. It is quite good enough for Mr. Mattson's matter. Besides—all fine writers have pet words and phrases. Mr. Fay had his "blisters"—Mr. Simms had his "coils," "hugs," and "old-times"—and Mr. M. must be allowed his "suches" and "so muches." Such is genius!—and so much for the Adventures of an Enthusiast! But we must positively say a word in regard to Mr. Mattson's erudition. On page 97, vol. ii, our author is discoursing of the novel which his hero is about to indite. He is speaking more particularly of titles. Let us see what he says.

"An ill-chosen title is sufficient to condemn the best of books. Never does an author exhibit his taste and skill more than in this particular. Just think for a moment of the Frenchman's version of Doctor Johnson's 'Rambler' into 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and what was still more laughable, his innocently addressing the author by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond! By the way, the modern fanatics were somewhat remarkable in the choice of their titles. Take for example the following—'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary' and 'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'"

Having admired this specimen of deep research, let us turn to page 125, vol. ii. Mr. Ulric is here vindicating himself from some charges brought against his book. Have patience, gentle reader, while we copy what he says.

"In the first place we are accused of vulgarity. In this respect we certainly bear a strong resemblance to Plautus, who was censured by the satirical Horace for the same thing. Next come Ignorance, Vanity, and Stupidity. Of the first two, the classic reader will not forget that Aristotle (who wrote not less than four hundred volumes) was calumniated by Cicero and Plutarch, both of whom endeavored to make it appear that he was ignorant as well as vain. But what of our stupidity? Socrates himself was treated by Athenæus as illiterate; the divine Plato, called by some the philosopher of the Christians, by others the god of philosophers, was accused by Theopompus of lying, by Aristophanes of impiety, and by Aulus Gellius of robbery. The fifth charge is a want of invention. Pliny has alleged the same thing of Virgil—and surely it is some consolation to know that we have such excellent company. And last, though not least, is plagiarism. Here again Naucrates tells us that Homer pillaged some of his best thoughts from the library at Memphis. It is recorded, moreover, that Horace plundered from the minor Greek poets, and Virgil from his great prototype, Homer, as well as Nicander, and Apollonius Rhodius. Why then should we trouble ourselves about these sweeping denunciations?"

What a learned man is Morris Mattson, Esq.! He is intimately versed not only in Horace, Aristotle, Cicero, Plutarch, Virgil, Homer, Plato, Pliny, and Aristophanes—but (credat Judæus!) in Nicander, Aulus Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus, and Apollonius Rhodius! I. D'Israeli, however, the father of Ben D'Israeli aforesaid, is (we have no hesitation in saying it,) one of the most scoundrelly plagiarists in Christendom. He has not scrupled to steal entire passages verbatim from Paul Ulric! On page 1, vol. ii, second edition, of 'The Curiosities of Literature,' in a chapter on Titles, we have all about Dr. Johnson, Le Chevalier Errant, and Mr. Vagabond, precisely in the language of Mr. Mattson. O thou abandoned robber, D'Israeli! Here is the sentence. It will be seen, that it corresponds with the first sentence italicized in the paragraph (above) beginning 'An ill-chosen title, &c.' "The Rambler was so little understood, at the time of its appearance, that a French Journalist has translated it 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and a foreigner drank Johnson's health one day, by innocently addressing him by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond!" And on page 11, of the same volume, we perceive the following, which answers to the second sentence italicized in the paragraph above mentioned. "A collection of passages from the Fathers is called 'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary'—one of these works bears the elaborate title 'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'" There can be no doubt whatever of D'Israeli's having pilfered this thing from Paul Ulric, for Mr. Mattson having, inadvertently we suppose, written Baskets for Biscuits, the error is adopted by the plagiarist. But we have a still more impudent piece of robbery to mention. The whole of the erudition, and two-thirds of the words in the paragraph above, beginning 'In the first place we are accused of vulgarity,' &c. is to be found on page 42, vol. i, second edition, of The 'Curiosities!' Let us transcribe some of D'Israeli's words in illustration of our remark. We refer the reader for more particular information to the book itself.

"Horace censures the coarse humor of Plautus—Aristotle (whose industry composed more than four hundred volumes) has not been less spared by the critics. Diogenes Laertius, Cicero and Plutarch have forgotten nothing that can tend to show his ignorance, his ambition, and his vanity—Socrates, considered as the wisest, and most moral of men, Cicero treated as an usurer, and the pedant Athenæus as illiterate—Plato, who has been called, by Clement of Alexandria, the Moses of Athens; the philosopher of the Christians by Arnobius, and the god of philosophers by Cicero; Athenæus accuses of envy; Theopompus of lying; Suidas of avarice; Aulus Gellius of robbery; Porphyry of incontinence, and Aristophanes of impiety—Virgil is destitute of invention, if we are to give credit to Pliny—Naucrates points out the source (of the Iliad and Odyssey,) in the library at Memphis, which, according to him, the blind bard completely pillaged—Horace has been blamed for the free use he made of the minor Greek poets. Even the author of his (Virgil's) apology, has confessed that he has stolen, from Homer, his greatest beauties, from Apollonius Rhodius many of his pathetic passages, and from Nicander hints for his Georgics."

Well, Mr. Mattson, what have you to say for yourself? Is not I. D'Israeli the most impudent thief since the days of Prometheus?

In summing up an opinion of Paul Ulric, it is by no means our intention to mince the matter at all. The book is despicable in every respect. Such are the works which bring daily discredit upon our national literature. We have no right to complain of being laughed at abroad when so villainous a compound, as the thing we now hold in our hand, of incongruous folly, plagiarism, immorality, inanity, and bombast, can command at any moment both a puff and a publisher. To Mr. Mattson himself we have only one word to say before throwing his book into the fire. Dress it up, good sir, for the nursery, and call it the "Life and Surprising Adventures of Dingy O'Dirty." Humph!—Only think of Plato, Pliny, Aristotle, Aristophanes, Nicander, Aulus Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus and Apollonius Rhodius!!

MARTIN'S GAZETTEER.

A New and Comprehensive Gazetteer of Virginia, and the District of Columbia: containing a copious collection of Geographical, Statistical, Political, Commercial, Religious, Moral and Miscellaneous Information, collected and compiled from the most respectable, and chiefly from original sources; by Joseph Martin. To which is added a History of Virginia from its first settlement to the year 1754: with an abstract of the principal events from that period to the independence of Virginia, written expressly for the work, by a citizen of Virginia. Charlottesville: Published by Joseph Martin. 1835.

We ought to have noticed this book sooner. Mr. Martin deserves well of the country for having laid the foundation, amidst numerous obstacles, of a work of great utility and importance. In his preface, he disavows all pretension to literary attainment, and claims only the merit of enterprise and perseverance in the execution of his design. He is entitled to all the rewards of a bold pioneer, struggling with pecuniary difficulties, and, we might add, with public indifference, in amassing a large amount of valuable information—interesting to almost every man in the Commonwealth. It is one of the evils attendant upon a high state of political excitement in any country, that what is really and substantially good, is forgotten or neglected. The resources of our great Commonwealth are immense, and if we could once get the public mind into a condition favorable to their full development, the most important consequences might be expected to follow. Societies and associations for collecting information in the various departments of moral and physical science, have abounded in most countries having the least pretension to civilization; and even in some of the States of our confederacy, it is known that an enlightened spirit of inquiry exists on the same subject. Our own state indeed, boastful as it is of its early history, the renown of some of its sons, and its abundant natural advantages, has nevertheless, we are pained to admit, manifested too little of that public spirit which has animated other communities. Of late, indeed, some signs have been exhibited of a more liberal and resolute course of action, and we are not without hope that these efforts will be crowned by highly useful and practical results.

It is because Mr. Martin has been obliged to rely principally upon individual contributions, in order to obtain which he must necessarily have used great diligence, and submitted to much pecuniary sacrifice, that we think him entitled to a double portion of praise. Few individuals would, under such circumstances, have incurred the risk of failure; and our wonder is, not that the work is not perfect, but that, contending with so many disadvantages, it should have so nearly accomplished what has been long a desideratum in Virginia literature. Our limits will not permit any thing like a minute analysis of its contents. The arrangement of the volume strikes us as superior to the ordinary alphabetical plan; and although there is much repetition even in its present form, much more we think has been avoided. That part of the General Description of the State, which especially treats of the climate, is admirably well written; and, considering the scantiness of the author's materials, owing to the general neglect of meteorological observations in Virginia, his reasoning is clear, forcible, and philosophical. In the Sketch which is given of the county of Louisa, we think we can recognize a pen which has not unfrequently adorned the pages of the "Messenger"—and the History of the State from its earliest settlement, appended to the work, is written with vigor and ability, and, as far as we can judge, with accuracy. If Mr. Martin is sustained by public liberality, which we earnestly hope will be the case, he will not only be enabled, in the next edition, to correct such imperfections as may be found to exist in the present, but to engraft a large amount of additional information, derived from authentic sources. The report of Professor Rogers, for example, on the Geology of Virginia, made to the present Legislature, will shed much light on the mineral resources of the State; and the report of the President and Directors of the Literary Fund, embracing as it does, detailed information with respect to all our literary institutions, will greatly illustrate the means in operation for diffusing the blessings and benefits of education. The statistical tables, too, can be revised and corrected in another edition; and we doubt not that many individuals into whose hands the work may fall, will voluntarily contribute such suggestions and improvements as their means of information will authorize. Such a work to the man of business, and to the traveller, and indeed to the general reader, is invaluable, and we heartily recommend it to public patronage.

ROSE-HILL.

Rose-Hill: A Tale of the Old Dominion. By a Virginian. Philadelphia: Key & Biddle.

This is an unpretending little duodecimo of about two hundred pages. It embraces some events connected with two (fictitious) families in the Western section of Virginia during the Revolution. The chief merit of the work consists in a vein of piety and strict morality pervading its pages. The story itself is interesting, but not very well put together, while the style might be amended in many respects. We wish the book, however, every success.

CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL.

1. An Eulogy on the Life and Character of John Marshall. Delivered at the request of the Councils of Philadelphia, on the 24th of September, 1835. By Horace Binney. pp. 55.

2. A Discourse on the Life, &c. of John Marshall, L.L.D. Pronounced on the 15th of October, 1835, at the request of the Suffolk Bar (Boston.) By Joseph Story, L.L.D., and published at their request, pp. 70.

3. An Oration on the Life and Character of John Marshall, late Chief Justice of the United States, pronounced before the Citizens of Alexandria, D. C. August 12, 1835. By Edgar Snowden. Published by request of the Committee of Arrangements.1

1 The late hour at which we have received this pamphlet, has prevented us from speaking as fully as we intended of its distinguished merits. It would have given us great pleasure to have embodied, in the text of this article, portions of Mr. Snowden's Oration—an Oration justly entitled to companionship with the Discourse of Judge Story, and the Eulogy of Mr. Binney. We must now, however, at this late day, confine ourselves to a general expression of commendation, and a short extract from the conclusion of the Oration.

"But the 'good' of Marshall is not interred with his bones. It lives after him, and will live after him in all time to come. The incense of virtue which he burned upon his country's altar, will continue to rise to heaven, and diffuse itself throughout the land for all following generations. When our children shall read the story of his life, they will find it one which, in its purity and beauty, cannot be surpassed by the history of any other man of our age. And who can calculate the extent of the influence of such a character upon the hearts and minds of this people, and even upon the future destinies of this country, in regulating the dispositions of those who aspire and those who are called to the high places of the nation? Who can say that it will not pervade the moral atmosphere, so as to correct many of those evil tendencies which we now see constantly developing themselves. We want such men as Marshall to rise up in our midst, and shed around the chastened light of their influence. The glare of military fame, and the glittering trappings of power, dazzle but too often to delude those who gaze at them with admiration. But upon the mellow radiance of his virtues we can all look with unclouded eyes—we can all dwell with unmingled satisfaction."

A formal criticism upon these discourses, is the least of our intentions in placing them at the head of this article. Not that they are either unworthy of criticism, or incapable of abiding its test: but that, slight and unpretending as they are in their form and guise, the consideration which their uncommon literary merits would otherwise ensure them, is in great part lost, in the overshadowing magnitude of their subject. To be engrossed by beauties or defects (if there are defects) in the style of a shilling pamphlet, when its theme is "the Life, Character and Services" of one who blended the benevolence and purity of Hale, the piercing and comprehensive genius of Mansfield, and the logical power of Erskine; and who, in the majestic simplicity of varied yet harmonious greatness, as we verily believe, is next to Washington; would be to imitate Seneca's grammarian, who in reading Virgil, thinks only of longs and shorts—disregarding all the charms of incident, and all the glories of imagery. What we have to say of the discourses, therefore, shall be little more, than that they are worthy of their authors; who by these productions, if THESE stood alone, have shown minds proof against the cramping tendencies of a profession, so much better fitted (according to Mr. Burke) to quicken and invigorate, than to open and liberalize the intellect. All of them have given narratives, crowded with interesting particulars; and, what might not have been expected from his less intimate association with the deceased, Mr. Binney seems to have acquired a larger store of these, than Judge Story. The latter, however, (what might have been as little expected from his grave judicial station, so long occupied) has adorned his pages more highly, with the flowers and graces of style.

But our main design in bringing them before our readers, is to present, at the smallest possible expense of labor to ourselves, an outline of his life, and a just view of his character, whose talents and virtues they have both so successfully commemorated. With this intent, we purpose making large extracts from the discourses; and even where we do not literally quote, we are willing to be regarded as merely paraphrasing them,—for by far the most of the incidents we are about to give, are drawn from no other source. We agree, with Lord Bacon, that in general, it is "only the meaner sort of books" that should be thus hashed and read at second-hand; and that "distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things." But stinted time and space oblige us here to be content with a rifacimento, in which we trust our readers may still find much of the savor of the viands whence we make our extracts.

JOHN MARSHALL was born Sept. 24th, 1755, in Fauquier County, Virginia—a little more than two months after Braddock's defeat; and was the eldest of fifteen children, of Thomas Marshall, who was a colonel in the continental line of the Revolutionary Army, remarkable for courage, and for strength of mind. His courage was signalized at the Battles of Trenton and Brandywine; his regiment, at the latter, bearing the brunt of the attacking column led by Cornwallis in person. Though greatly outnumbered, it "maintained its position without losing an inch of ground, until both its flanks were turned, its ammunition nearly expended, and more than half the officers and one third of the soldiers were killed or wounded. Col. Marshall, whose horse had received two balls, then retired in good order to resume his position on the right of his division, but it had already retreated."2 The heroism of such a father, could not be lost upon the son.

2 1. Marshall's Washington, 158.

The sparsely peopled region in which he lived, co-operating with a narrow fortune, afforded Col. Marshall but little opportunity for sending his children to school; and he was compelled to be almost exclusively himself their teacher. In his eldest son he early implanted a taste for English literature; "especially for poetry and history." At the age of twelve, John had transcribed the whole of Pope's Essay on Man, and some of his Moral Essays; and had committed to memory many of the most interesting passages of that distinguished poet.

"The love of poetry, thus awakened in his warm and vigorous mind, soon exerted a commanding influence over it. He became enamored of the classical writers of the old English school, of Milton, and Shakspeare, and Dryden, and Pope; and was instructed by their solid sense and beautiful imagery. In the enthusiasm of youth, he often indulged himself in poetical compositions, and freely gave up his leisure hours to those delicious dreamings with the muses, which (say what we may) constitute with many the purest source of pleasure in the gayer scenes of life, and the sweetest consolation in the hours of adversity.

"One of the best recommendations, indeed, of the early cultivation of a taste for poetry, and the kindred branches of literature, is, that it does not expire with youth. It affords to maturer years a refreshing relaxation from the severe cares of business, and to old age a quiet and welcome employment, always within reach, and always bringing with it, if not the charms of novelty, at least the soothing reminiscences of other days. The votary of the muses may not always tread upon enchanted ground; but the gentle influences of fiction and song will steal over his thoughts, and breathe, as it were, into his soul the fragrance of a second spring of life.

"Throughout the whole of his life, and down to its very close, Mr. Marshall continued to cultivate a taste for general literature, and especially for those departments of it, which had been the favorite studies of his youth. He was familiar with all its light, as well as its more recondite, productions. He read with intense interest, as his leisure would allow, all the higher literature of modern times; and, especially, the works of the great masters of the art were his constant delight."—[Judge Story.]

The entire compatibility of such a love for elegant literature with "the severe logic and closeness of thought, which belonged to" Judge Marshall's character, is well vindicated by Judge Story's observations, as well as by many illustrious examples. Among them may be named William Wirt. The flowery complexion of his writings, his evident delight in works of fancy, and the extraordinary graces of his oratory, made the multitude believe him to be "of imagination all compact." But he was in truth far more profoundly versed in the dry, intricate lore of his profession, and by far more capable of thridding its nicest subtleties, than thousands, whose whole minds have been occupied with its "mystic, dark, discordant" tomes. We have been told by one who knew him intimately, that there were few harder students than Mr. Wirt: and that our informant had known him repeatedly sit for six or seven hours at a time, intensely engaged in examining a single question of law; and this too, at a period of his life when the world thought him little more than a frothy declaimer, a spouter of poetry, and an inditer of light newspaper essays. But to return—Judge Story presents us most pleasing views of Col. Marshall's character, derived from conversations with his more distinguished son:

"I have often heard the Chief Justice speak of him in terms of the deepest affection and reverence."... "Indeed, he never named his father, without dwelling on his character with a fond and winning enthusiasm. It was a theme, on which he broke out with spontaneous eloquence; and in the spirit of the most persuasive confidence, he would delight to expatiate on his virtues and talents. 'My father,' he would say with kindled feelings and emphasis, 'my father was a far abler man than any of his sons. To him I owe the solid foundation of all my own success in life.' Such praise from such lips is inexpressibly precious. I know not whether it be most honorable to the parent, or to the child. It warms, while it elevates our admiration of both."

There is great truth in the remark, that children reared among numerous brothers and sisters are the more apt, on that account, to make good men and women. The kindly affections are more exercised; emulation, tempered by such love as prevents its festering into malignity, stimulates to greater activity of body and of mind; each one has less expectation of hereditary fortune—that great palsier of useful energies; and each comes in for less of that parental fondness, which, when concentrated upon one, or two, or three children, so often spoils their characters, and embitters their lives. To the influence of this truth upon young Marshall's destinies, add the judicious training and admirable example of an intelligent father, and the hardy, active life he led, in a wild and mountainous region abounding in game—and many of the best traits in his character, as well as much of his subsequent eminence, are at once accounted for.

At fourteen, he was sent to Westmoreland, one hundred miles off, where for a year he was instructed in Latin by a clergyman named Campbell, and where James Monroe was one of his fellow students. Returning then to his father's house, he, for another year, received instruction in Latin from a Scotch clergyman named Thompson; "and this was the whole of the classical tuition he ever obtained."3 By the assistance of his father, however, and the persevering efforts of his own mind, he continued to enlarge his knowledge, while he strengthened his body by "hardy, athletic exercises in the open air. He engaged in field sports; he wandered in the deep woods; he indulged his solitary meditations amidst the wildest scenery of nature; he delighted to brush away the earliest dew of the morning."... "It was to these early habits in a mountainous region, that he probably owed that robust and vigorous constitution, which carried him almost to the close of his life with the freshness and firmness of manhood."4

3 Mr. Binney.

4 Judge Story.

About his eighteenth year, when he had commenced the study of the Law, the lowering aspect of affairs between the Colonies and Great Britain attracted his notice, and he devoted himself chiefly to the acquiring of military skill, in a volunteer corps of the neighborhood. At length news came, of the battle of Lexington. A militia company, in which he held a commission, was ordered to assemble at a place ten miles from his father's house. Mr. Binney says, "A kinsman and contemporary, who was an eye witness of this scene, has thus described it to me:—"

"It was in May, 1775. He was then a youth of nineteen. The muster field was some twenty miles distant from the Court House, and a section of country peopled by tillers of the earth. Rumors of the occurrences near Boston, had circulated with the effect of alarm and agitation, but without the means of ascertaining the truth, for not a newspaper was printed nearer than Williamsburg, nor was one taken within the bounds of the militia company, though large. The Captain had called the company together, and was expected to attend, but did not. John Marshall had been appointed Lieutenant to it. His father had formerly commanded it. Soon after Lieutenant Marshall's appearance on the ground, those who knew him clustered about him to greet him, others from curiosity and to hear the news.

"He proceeded to inform the company that the Captain would not be there, and that he had been appointed Lieutenant instead of a better:—that he had come to meet them as fellow soldiers, who were likely to be called on to defend their country, and their own rights and liberties invaded by the British:—that there had been a battle at Lexington in Massachusetts, between the British and Americans, in which the Americans were victorious, but that more fighting was expected:—that soldiers were called for, and that it was time to brighten their fire arms, and learn to use them in the field;—and that if they would fall into a single line, he would show them the new manual exercise, for which purpose he had brought his gun,—bringing it up to his shoulder. The sergeants put the men in line, and their fugleman presented himself in front to the right. His figure, says his venerable kinsman, I have now before me. He was about six feet high, straight and rather slender, of dark complexion—showing little if any rosy red, yet good health, the outline of the face nearly a circle, and within that, eyes dark to blackness, strong and penetrating, beaming with intelligence and good nature; an upright forehead, rather low, was terminated in a horizontal line by a mass of raven-black hair of unusual thickness and strength—the features of the face were in harmony with this outline, and the temples fully developed. The result of this combination was interesting and very agreeable. The body and limbs indicated agility, rather than strength, in which, however, he was by no means deficient. He wore a purple or pale-blue hunting-shirt, and trowsers of the same material fringed with white. A round black hat, mounted with the bucks-tail for a cockade, crowned the figure and the man.

"He went through the manual exercise by word and motion deliberately pronounced and performed, in the presence of the company, before he required the men to imitate him; and then proceeded to exercise them, with the most perfect temper. Never did man possess a temper more happy, or if otherwise, more subdued or better disciplined.

"After a few lessons, the company were dismissed, and informed that if they wished to hear more about the war, and would form a circle around him, he would tell them what he understood about it. The circle was formed, and he addressed the company for something like an hour. I remember, for I was near him, that he spoke at the close of his speech of the Minute Battalion, about to be raised, and said he was going into it, and expected to be joined by many of his hearers. He then challenged an acquaintance to a game of quoits, and they closed the day with foot races, and other athletic exercises, at which there was no betting. He had walked ten miles to the muster field, and returned the same distance on foot to his father's house at Oak Hill, where he arrived a little after sunset."

"This is a portrait," to which, as we can testify with Mr. Binney, "in simplicity, gaiety of heart, and manliness of spirit," John Marshall "never lost his resemblance. All who knew him well, will recognize its truth to nature."

In the summer of 1775, he was appointed a Lieutenant in the "Minute Battalion;" and having been sent, in the next autumn, to defend the country around Norfolk against a predatory force under Lord Dunmore, he, on the 9th of December, had a full and honorable share in the successful action at the Great Bridge, which resulted in Lord D.'s defeat, and flight to his ships. In July 1776, being made lieutenant in the 11th Virginia Regiment in the Continental Service, he marched to the Middle States, where, in May 1777, he was promoted to a captaincy. Remaining constantly in service from this time until the close of 1779, he participated largely and actively in the most trying difficulties of the darkest period of the Revolution. He was in the skirmish at Iron Hill, and the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth. "He was one of that body of men, never surpassed in the history of the world, who, unpaid, unclothed, unfed,—tracked the snows of Valley Forge with the blood of their footsteps in the rigorous winter of 1778, and yet turned not their faces from their country in resentment, or from their enemies in fear."5 Acting often as Deputy Judge Advocate, he formed a wide acquaintance and influence among his brother officers. "I myself," says Judge Story, "have often heard him spoken of by these veterans in terms of the highest praise. In an especial manner, the officers of the Virginia Line, (now, 'few and faint, but fearless still') appeared almost to idolize him." During this period of his service he became acquainted with Gen. Washington and Col. Hamilton.

5 Mr. Binney.

In the winter of 1779, Captain Marshall was sent to Virginia as a supernumerary, to take the command of such men as the State Legislature might entrust to him. He used this opportunity, to attend a course of Law-Lectures, delivered by Mr. (afterwards Chancellor) Wythe, in William & Mary College; and Mr. (afterwards Bishop) Madison's Lectures on Natural Philosophy. In the following summer, he was licensed to practise Law; and in October, rejoined the army. It was probably on this occasion, that he went on foot from Virginia to Philadelphia, in order to be inoculated for the small pox; travelling at the rate of thirty-five miles daily. On his arrival, (as we learn from one to whom he related the incident,) he was refused admittance into one of the hotels, on account of his long beard and shabby clothing. He continued in the army till the end of Arnold's invasion of Virginia; when, there being still a redundancy of officers in the Virginia line, he resigned his commission, and devoted himself to his Law studies. The courts were then silenced in Virginia, by the tumult of War. As soon as they were opened, after the capture of Cornwallis, Mr. Marshall commenced practice.

"But a short time elapsed after his appearance at the bar of Virginia, before he attracted the notice of the public. His placidity, moderation, and calmness, irresistibly won the esteem of men, and invited them to intercourse with him;—his benevolent heart, and his serene and at times joyous temper, made him the cherished companion of his friends;—his candor and integrity attracted the confidence of the bar;—and that extraordinary comprehension and grasp of mind, by which difficulties were seized and overcome without effort or parade, commanded the attention and respect of the Courts of Justice. This is the traditionary account of the first professional years of John Marshall. He accordingly rose rapidly to distinction, and to a distinction which nobody envied, because he seemed neither to wish it, nor to be conscious of it himself."6

6 Mr. Binney.

In April 1782, he was chosen a member of the House of Delegates, in the Virginia Legislature; and in the next autumn, of the Executive Council. In January 1783, he married Miss Ambler, daughter of Jacquelin Ambler, then Treasurer of Virginia. To this lady he had become attached while in the army; and their union of nearly fifty years, amid the most devoted affection, was broken by her death, about three years before his own. Having fixed his residence in Richmond, he resigned his seat in the Council, the more closely to pursue his profession; but his friends and former constituents in Fauquier, nevertheless, elected him again to represent them in the Legislature. In 1787, he was chosen to represent the city of Richmond.

Times of civil trouble had now come, teeming with dangers hardly less than those which had beset the country ten years before. The Confederation, by which the States were united, was found too feeble a bond of union, and a still feebler means of concurrent action. It could resolve, legislate, and make requisitions upon the States; but had no power to effectuate its resolutions, laws, or requisitions. It could contract debts, but not lay taxes of any kind to pay them. It could declare war, but not raise armies to wage it. It could make treaties, but not so as to regulate commerce—perhaps the most frequent and important aim of treaties. Each State had the determining of its own scale of duties on imports; the power of coining money, and of emitting paper-money at pleasure: conflicting revenue-laws, therefore, and a disordered currency, made "confusion worse confounded." The public debt, incurred by the revolution, was unpaid. More than three hundred millions of continental paper money were unredeemed; and having depreciated to the value of one dollar for every hundred, had ceased to circulate. Public credit was nearly at an end: private credit, by the frequent violation of contracts, was at an equally low ebb: the administration of civil justice was suspended, sometimes by the wilful delinquency of the courts, sometimes by state-laws, restraining their proceedings. Commerce, Agriculture, Manufactures—industry of every kind,—were crippled. "Laws suspending the collection of debts; insolvent laws; instalment laws; tender laws; and other expedients of a like nature, which, every reflecting man knew would only aggravate the evils, were familiarly adopted, or openly and boldly vindicated. Popular leaders, as well as men of desperate fortunes, availed themselves (as is usual on such occasions) of this agitating state of things to inflame the public mind, and to bring into public odium those wiser statesmen, who labored to support the public faith, and to preserve the inviolability of private contracts." To strengthen the arm of the general government, and invest it with larger powers over the commerce, the money, and the foreign and mutual relations of the States—was believed by most people to be the only remedy for these intolerable evils. Mr. Marshall concurred with Gen. Washington, Mr. Madison, and the majority of their countrymen, in approving of this remedy; and as a member of the State Legislature, advocated the call of a Convention, to revise the Articles of Confederation. Whether they should be so altered, as to increase materially the powers of the Federal Government—was a question which in most of the State Legislatures elicited strenuous debates; and no where more, than in the Legislature of Virginia. The men of this day have little idea, how strong were the gusts of discussion at that momentous period. "It is scarcely possible," says Judge Story, "to conceive the zeal, and even animosity, with which the opposing opinions were maintained." The dissolution or continuance of the Union, was freely discussed: one party boldly advocating the former, as necessary to prevent the destruction of State-sovereignty; the other party pleading for UNION, as not only the sole cure for the immeasurable ills which were then afflicting the land, but as indispensable to the preservation of Liberty itself, in the several States. And Union, it was alleged, could not be preserved but by a more vigorous central government.

Mr. Marshall, not then thirty years old, shared largely in the discussions which shook both the Legislative hall, and the popular assemblies, of Virginia, on this great question. Mr. Madison, with whom he served several years in the House of Delegates, fought "side by side, and shoulder to shoulder" with him, through the contest: and "the friendship, thus formed between them, was never extinguished. The recollection of their co-operation at that period served, when other measures had widely separated them from each other, still to keep up a lively sense of each other's merits. Nothing, indeed, could be more touching to an ingenuous mind, than to hear from their lips, in their latter years, expressions of mutual respect and confidence; or to witness their earnest testimony to the talents, the virtues, and the services of each other."7

7 Judge Story.

It was in these debates, that Mr. Marshall's mind acquired the skill in political discussion, which afterwards distinguished him, and which would of itself have made him conspicuous as a parliamentarian, had not that talent been overshadowed by his renown in a more soberly illustrious, though less dazzling career. Here, too, it was, that he conceived that deep dread of disunion, and that profound conviction of the necessity for closer bonds between the States, which gave the coloring to the whole texture of his opinions, upon federal politics in after life.

The Convention was at length called; and its product, the present Federal Constitution, was submitted for ratification to the States. In most of them, Conventions were likewise called, to adopt or reject it. Mr. Marshall, though the people of his county were decidedly opposed to the new Constitution, and though he avowed on the hustings his determination to support it, was elected to the Virginia Convention by a considerable majority. In that body, he took an effective, if not a leading part. Three able speeches of his, in behalf of the Constitution, appear in Mr. Robertson's report of the Debates: Speeches, seconding with "masculine logic, the persuasive talents of George Nicholas, the animated flow of Governor Randolph, the grave and sententious sagacity of Pendleton, the consummate skill and various knowledge of Madison."8 After an earnest and powerful struggle of 25 days, the Constitution was agreed to, by a majority of but ten votes—89 to 79. This result is supposed to have been promoted, by the news, received while the Convention sat, that nine states had come to a similar decision. The accession of Virginia to that number, already large enough to give the instrument validity among the adopting states, ensured its complete success; and was hailed by its friends with the liveliest joy.

8 Judge Story.

Judge Story depicts in vivid colors, the happy effects of the Government thus established, upon our prosperity: and exults over the falsified apprehensions of those who, clinging "with an insane attachment" to the former confederation, and "accustomed to have all their affections concentrated upon the State governments," saw in the new system "but another name for an overwhelming despotism." Undoubtedly, the state of things which preceded the change, was as bad as, with such a people, it could well be. Undoubtedly, the new government did very much, to retrieve our national credit and honor; to make us respected abroad, tranquil and prosperous at home. But still, not all is due to the Government. A people, animated with the spirit of freedom, enlightened enough to see their interests, and enterprising enough to pursue them strenuously,—inhabiting, too, a country not peopled to the extent of a thousandth part of its immense capabilities—would thrive and grow powerful in spite of what almost any government could do to impede their onward march. In the body politic there is, what physicians ascribe to the body natural, a vis medicatrix Naturæ, by which the wounds of War, the desolations of Pestilence, and all the ills flowing from the blunders of charlatan statesmen, are healed and made amends for. Few are so bigoted as not to admit, that the self-healing energies of our country have thus at some times prevailed over the hurtful tendencies of the measures adopted by her rulers. There is nevertheless a force and beauty in Judge Story's picture of her happiness, that make it worthy of insertion:

"We have lived," says he, "to see all their fears and prophecies of evil scattered to the winds. We have witnessed the solid growth and prosperity of the whole country, under the auspices of the National Government, to an extent never even imagined by its warmest friends. We have seen our agriculture pour forth its various products, created by a generous, I had almost said, a profuse industry. The miserable exports, scarcely amounting in the times, of which I have been speaking, in the aggregate, to the sum of one or two hundred thousand dollars, now almost reach to forty^9 millions a year in a single staple. We have seen our commerce, which scarcely crept along our noiseless docks, and stood motionless and withering, while the breezes of the ocean moaned through the crevices of our ruined wharves and deserted warehouses, spread its white canvass in every clime; and, laden with its rich returns, spring buoyant on the waves of the home ports; and cloud the very shores with forests of masts, over which the stars and stripes are gallantly streaming. We have seen our manufactures, awakening from a deathlike lethargy, crowd every street of our towns and cities with their busy workmen, and their busier machinery; and startling the silence of our wide streams, and deep dells, and sequestered valleys. We have seen our wild waterfalls, subdued by the power of man, become the mere instruments of his will, and, under the guidance of mechanical genius, now driving with unerring certainty the flying shuttle, now weaving the mysterious threads of the most delicate fabrics, and now pressing the reluctant metals into form, as if they were but playthings in the hands of giants. We have seen our rivers bear upon their bright waters the swelling sails of our coasters, and the sleepless wheels of our steamboats in endless progress. Nay, the very tides of the ocean, in their regular ebb and flow in our ports, seem now but heralds to announce the arrival and departure of our uncounted navigation. We have seen all these things; and we can scarcely believe, that there were days and nights, nay, months and years, in which our wisest patriots and statesmen sat down, in anxious meditation to devise the measures which should save the country from impending ruin."

9 The exports of cotton alone, in the year ending Sept. 30th, 1834, were $49,448,000—Reviewer.

The Constitution being adopted, Mr. Marshall was prevailed on by his countrymen, to serve again in the Legislature till 1792; although the claims of a growing family and a slender fortune had made him wish, and resolve, to quit public life, and devote himself exclusively to his profession. He was wanted there by the friends of the new system, to defend its administration against the incessant attacks made upon it by a powerful and hostile party. This party consisted of those who had resisted the change, because they thought the proposed government too strong. Now that it was adopted, they naturally sought, by construing the grants of power to it with literal strictness, to prevent, as far possible, the dangers to Liberty with which they deemed it pregnant. Their opponents, on the other hand, having long regarded weakness in the centre as the great subject of just apprehension, constantly aimed, by an enlarged and liberal (or, as it has since been called a latitudinous) interpretation of those grants of power, to render them in the highest degree counteractive of the centrifugal tendency, which they so much dreaded. This controversy probably raged most hotly in Virginia. It is hard to forbear a smile at the characteristic fact, that "almost every important measure of President Washington's administration was discussed in her Legislature with great freedom, and no small degree of warmth and acrimony."10 We applaud and honor the stand which Virginia has always taken, as a centinel on the watch-tower of popular liberty and state-sovereignty, to guard against federal usurpation. It is a duty, allotted to the State Legislatures by the enlightened advocates of the Constitution who wrote "The Federalist:" a duty which it were well if her sister states had performed with something like Virginia's fidelity and zeal. But she has indiscreetly suffered this one subject too much to monopolize her attention: and we are amongst those who think this a main reason, why, with a surface and resources the most propitious of all the states to internal improvement, she lags so far behind the rest in works of that kind; and why, with a people pre-eminently instinct with the spirit of liberty, and enjoying unwonted leisure for acquiring knowledge, she has five times as many ignorant sons and daughters, as New York or Massachusetts. She ought to have looked well to her foreign relations, without losing sight of her domestic interests. We hail, with joy, the change which is now taking place in this respect. We trust that she and her statesmen, hereafter, when all attention is claimed for any one point in the vast field of their duties, will adopt the spirit of the reply which Mr. Pope (not Homer) puts into Hector's mouth, when he was advised to fix himself as a guard at one particular gate of Troy:

———"That post shall be my care;

Nor that alone, but all the works of war."

10 Judge Story.

From 1792 to 1795, Mr. Marshall devoted himself exclusively and successfully to his profession. Washington's Reports, shew him to have enjoyed an extensive practice in the Court of Appeals of Virginia. During this time, also, he did not withdraw himself from politics so entirely, but that he took a prominent part at public meetings, in support of Gen. Washington's Proclamation of Neutrality. He advocated this measure, orally and in writing: and Resolutions approving it, drawn up by him, were adopted by a meeting of the people of Richmond. In 1795, when Jay's Treaty was the absorbing theme of bitter controversy, Mr. Marshall was again elected to the House of Delegates, "not only without his approbation, but against his known wishes." Virginia, as usual, was the Flanders of the war. Her popular meetings, and her Legislature, rung with angry discussions. Even the name of Washington could not screen the treaty from reprobation. It was denounced at a meeting in Richmond, at which Chancellor Wythe presided, as insulting, injurious, dangerous, and unconstitutional: but the same citizens, at a subsequent meeting, were prevailed upon by a masterly speech of Mr. Marshall, to adopt resolutions of a contrary tenor, "by a handsome majority."11 Lest his popularity might suffer, he was urged by his friends not to engage in any Legislative debates upon the obnoxious Treaty. He answered, that he would make no movement to excite such a debate; but if others did so, he would assert his opinions at every hazard. The opposition party soon introduced condemnatory resolutions. Among other arguments against the treaty, it was alleged, that the executive could not, constitutionally, make a commercial treaty; since it would infringe the power given to Congress, to regulate commerce: and this was relied upon as a favorite and an unanswerable position. "The speech of Mr. Marshall on this occasion," says Judge Story, "has always been represented as one of the noblest efforts of his genius. His vast powers of reasoning were displayed with the most gratifying success. He demonstrated, not only from the words of the Constitution and the universal practice of nations,12 that a commercial treaty was within the scope of the constitutional powers of the executive; but that this opinion had been maintained and sanctioned by Mr. Jefferson, by the Virginia delegation in Congress, and by the leading members of the Convention on both sides. The argument was decisive. The constitutional ground was abandoned; and the resolutions of the assembly were confined to a simple disapprobation of the treaty in point of expediency.... The fame of this admirable argument spread through the union. Even with his political enemies, it enhanced the estimate of his character; and it brought him at once to the notice of some of the most eminent statesmen, who then graced the councils of the nation."

11 Judge Story.

12 We confess a little surprise, at seeing, here, any deduction of authority to the American Executive "from the practice of other nations." If we mistake not, a certain famous Protest of a certain President, was censured mainly for deducing power to its author from that source.—Reviewer.

Being called to Philadelphia in 1796, as counsel in an important case before the Supreme Court of the United States, he became personally acquainted with many distinguished members of Congress. He expressed himself delighted with Messrs. Cabot, Ames, Sedgwick, and Dexter of Massachusetts, Wadsworth of Connecticut, and King of New York. To these, his great speech on the treaty could not fail to recommend him: and (as he says in a letter) "a Virginian, who supported, with any sort of reputation, the measures of the government, was such a rara avis, that I was received by them all with a degree of kindness, which I had not anticipated. I was particularly intimate with Mr. Ames; and could scarcely gain credit with him, when I assured him, that the appropriations [for the treaty] would be seriously opposed in Congress." They were opposed; and passed only after a stormy debate of several weeks: and passed even then, with a declaration of a right, in Congress, to withhold them if it pleased. President Washington about this time offered him the post of Attorney General of the United States; which he declined, as interfering with his lucrative practice. But he continued in the Virginia Legislature. There, federal politics occupied the usual share of attention. A resolution being moved, expressing confidence in the virtue, patriotism, and wisdom of Washington, a member proposed to strike out the word wisdom. "In the debate," says the Chief Justice himself, "the whole course of the Administration was reviewed, and the whole talent of each party brought into action. Will it be believed, that the word was retained by a very small majority? A very small majority of the Virginia Legislature, acknowledged the wisdom of General Washington!"

The appointment of Minister to France, as successor to Mr. Monroe, was offered him by the President, and declined. The French Government, however, refusing to receive General Pinckney, who was appointed in his stead, Messrs. Marshall, Pinckney, and Gerry, were sent by President Adams as envoys extraordinary to that country. The Directory refused to negotiate. But though the direct object of the embassy was thus foiled, much was effected in showing France to be in the wrong, by the official papers which the envoys addressed to her minister of foreign relations—the since famous Talleyrand: "Models of skilful reasoning, clear illustration, accurate detail, and urbane and dignified moderation."13 "They have always been attributed to Mr. Marshall. They bear internal marks of it. We have since become familiar with his simple and masculine style,—his direct, connected, and demonstrative reasoning—the infrequency of his resort to illustrations, and the pertinency and truth of the few which he uses—the absence of all violent assertion—the impersonal form of his positions, and especially with the candor, as much the character of the man as of his writings, with which he allows to the opposing argument its fair strength, without attempting to elude it, or escape from it, by a subtlety. Every line that he has written, bears the stamp of sincerity; and if his arguments fail to produce conviction, they never raise a doubt, nor the shadow of a doubt, that they proceed from it.

13 Judge Story.

"The impression made, by the despatches of the American ministers was immediate and extensive. Mr. Marshall arrived in New York on the 17th of June, 1798. His entrance into this city on the 19th, had the eclat of a triumph. The military corps escorted him from Frankford to the city, where the citizens crowded his lodgings to testify their veneration and gratitude. Public addresses were made to him, breathing sentiments of the liveliest affection and respect. A public dinner was given to him by members of both houses of Congress 'as an evidence of affection for his person, and of their grateful approbation of the patriotic firmness with which he sustained the dignity of his country during his important mission;' and the country at large responded with one voice to the sentiment pronounced at this celebration, 'Millions for defence, but not a cent for tribute.'"14

14 Mr. Binney.

Once more, he resumed his practice of the Law, with renewed determination to leave it no more. He was, however, so urgently entreated by General Washington (who sent for him to Mount Vernon for the purpose) to become a candidate for Congress, that he did so; and was elected, in 1799, after a severe contest. Whilst a candidate, President Adams offered him a seat upon the Bench of the Supreme Court; but he declined it. He had not been three weeks in Congress, when, by a fortune as striking as it was mournful, it became his lot to announce to the House, the death of Washington. Never could such an event have been told in language more impressive or more appropriate.

"Mr. Speaker—The melancholy event, which was yesterday announced with doubt, has been rendered but too certain. Our Washington is no more. The hero, the patriot, and the sage of America; the man on whom in times of danger every eye was turned, and all hopes were placed, lives now, only in his own great actions, and in the hearts of an affectionate and afflicted people."

Having briefly alluded to the achievements and services of the deceased, he concluded by offering suitable resolutions, for honoring "the memory of the man, first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." The resolutions had been drawn by General Henry Lee, whom a temporary absence hindered from presenting them. With characteristic modesty, Mr. Marshall, in the account of this transaction given by him as biographer of Washington, omits all mention of his own name; saying only, that "a member rose in his place," &c. That House of Representatives abounded in talents of the first order for debate: and none were more conspicuous than those of John Marshall. Indeed, where the law or constitution was to be discussed, "he was confessedly the first man in the House. When he discussed them, he exhausted them: nothing more remained to be said; and the impression of his argument effaced that of every one else."... "Upon such topics, however dark to others, his mind could by its own clear light

———'sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day.'"15

15 Mr. Binney.

His speech upon the case of Jonathan Robbins, was a striking example. This man, a subject of Great Britain, had committed a murder on board a British frigate, and then fled to the United States. Being demanded by the British Government, President Adams caused him to be surrendered, under a clause in Jay's treaty. The act was furiously assailed by the opposition: and a resolution of censure was introduced into the House of Representatives by Mr. Livingston. The speech of Mr. Marshall on this occasion was perhaps one of the most masterly ever delivered in Congress. "It has all the merits, and nearly all the weight of a judicial sentence."16 "It may be said of that speech, as was said of Lord Mansfield's celebrated Answer to the Prussian Memorial, it was Reponse sans replique—an answer so irresistible, that it admitted of no reply. It silenced opposition; and settled then, and forever, the points of national law, upon which the controversy hinged."17

16 Ib.

17 Judge Story.

He was not in Congress when the famous Sedition Law passed: but he had the merit of voting to repeal the most obnoxious section of it; in opposition to all those, with whom he generally concurred. In May, 1800, he was appointed Secretary of War: but before his entry upon the duties of that office, a rupture occurring between the President and Col. Pickering, he was made Secretary of State in lieu of the latter. It is honorable both to him and his predecessor, that the delicate position in which they stood towards each other, did not interrupt their harmony: but they retained, while both lived, a warm and cordial friendship. Even during the few months that he held this office, Mr. Marshall evinced great ability, in discussing several important questions between our country and England. "It is impossible to imagine a finer spirit, more fearless, more dignified, more conciliatory, more true to his country, than animates his instructions to Mr. King,"18 the American Minister in London. "His despatch of September 20th, 1800, is a noble specimen of the first order of State papers, and shows the most finished adaptation of parts for the station of an American Secretary of State."19

18 Mr. Binney.

19 Ib.

On the 31st of January, 1801, he was appointed Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States: "not only without his own solicitation, (for he had in fact recommended another for the office,) but by the prompt and spontaneous choice of President Adams, upon his own unassisted judgment. The nomination was unanimously confirmed by the Senate."20

20 Judge Story.

It is a remarkable, yet not an extraordinary fact, that his induction into that high office which he so illustriously filled, is precisely the juncture in his life at which, for the purposes of striking narrative, his biography ends. That part of his career, the most signalized by enduring monuments of his intellectual power, and the most adorned by the winning graces of his daily actions, is precisely that in which it is hardest to find glaring incidents, that stand forth boldly on the page, and rivet the reader's mind. "Peace" indeed, as Milton said to Cromwell,—

"Peace hath her victories

No less renowned than War;"

and few men have achieved more signal ones, than he who may be said to have built up a national Jurisprudence for the Union, by the strength of his own genius: but such triumphs ring not in the common ear, and glitter not in the common eye. Even History often forgets to chronicle them in her bloodstained page: that page, which is too mere a picture of crimes and misery—where the peaceful and innocent crowd never appear, but give place to the profligate votaries of perverted ambition—and which, like tragedy, is languid and distasteful, unless enlivened by atrocious deeds, and horrid sufferings.21 We shall not attempt, then, to protract our account of the last thirty-five years of Judge Marshall's life. It was spent in the diligent, and upright, as well as able discharge of his official duties; sometimes presiding in the Supreme Court at Washington, sometimes assisting to hold the Circuit Federal Courts, in Virginia, and North Carolina. His residence was in Richmond, whence it was his frequent custom to walk out, a distance of three or four miles, to his farm, in the county of Henrico. He also had a farm in his native county, Fauquier; which he annually visited, and where he always enjoyed a delightful intercourse with numerous relations and friends. Twice, in these thirty-five years, he may be said to have mingled in political life, but not in party politics.

21 "En effet l'histoire n'est que le tableau des crimes et des malheurs: la foule des hommes innocents et paisibles disparait toujours sur ces vastes théâtres: les personnages ne sont que des ambitieux pervers. Il semble que l'histoire ne plaise que comme la tragedie, qui languit si elle n'est animée par les passions, les forfaits, et les grandes infortunes."—L'Ingenu, Ch. 10.

In 1828, he was delegated, with others from the city of Richmond, to a convention held in Charlottesville, for the purpose of devising a proper system of internal improvements, for the State; to be recommended to the Legislature: and he took a becoming part in the deliberations of that enlightened body.

In 1829, he was chosen to represent the city in the Convention which met in October of that year, to revise and amend the State Constitution. Here was exhibited a spectacle, one of the most affecting in our day, of three men—Madison, Monroe, and Marshall,—who having assisted in establishing the liberties and creating the government of their country, and having filled her highest stations, were now consulting with a later generation, upon the means of rendering that government purer, more durable, and more productive of happiness. Mr. Monroe was nominated by Mr. Madison as President of the Convention; and, having been unanimously chosen, was conducted by Mr. Madison and Mr. Marshall to the chair. During the three months of the session, Judge Marshall repeatedly engaged in debate: displaying still that power of reasoning, with that bland courtesy of manner, which had always distinguished him. His voice was now become extremely feeble; so that those who sat far off could not hear him: no sooner therefore did he rise, than the members would press towards him, and strain with outstretched necks and eager ears, to catch his words. The basis of representation, and the structure of the judiciary, were the subjects upon which he chiefly spoke. The difficulties of adjusting the former, so as to satisfy both the east and the west—the irritated feelings which began to appear on both sides—and the imminent dread which the patriot felt, of a division of the state—will not soon be forgotten. It was when a compromise of the difference was proposed, that the Chief Justice displayed his greatest power. Towards the close of a speech, which was at the time regarded as an unrivalled specimen of lucid and conclusive reasoning, he said, he "hailed that auspicious appearance, with all the joy with which an inhabitant of the polar regions hails the re-appearance of the sun, after his long absence of six tedious months." It was of a position maintained by him in this speech, and which, an opposing orator said, had been overthrown by Mr. —— of Augusta, that John Randolph declared, "The argument of the Chief Justice is unshaken, and unanswerable. It is as strong as the fortress of Gibraltar. Sir, the fortress of Gibraltar would be as much injured by battering it with a pocket pistol, as that argument has been affected by the abortive and puny assault of the gentleman from Augusta." The great Roanoke orator's esteem and admiration for the Chief Justice (although, on federal politics, they widely differed) amounted almost to idolatry. An amicable contest between them one day, on the floor of the Convention, furnished him an occasion for paying to the latter a tribute as beautiful, as it was simple and just. The Chief Justice, thinking that some remark of his had been understood by Mr. Randolph as personally unkind, arose with earnestness to assure him that it was not so intended. Mr. R. as earnestly strove to quiet Judge M.'s uneasiness, by assuring him that he had not understood the remark as offensive. In their eagerness, the one to apologize, and the other to show that no apology was necessary, they interrupted each other two or three times: at length Mr. R. effectually silenced his friend, by saying, "I know the goodness of his heart too well to have supposed it possible that he could have intended to give me pain. Sir, I believe, that like 'My Uncle Toby,' he would not even hurt a fly."

A visiter in Richmond during the Convention, being at the market one morning before sunrise, saw the Chief Justice of the United States, in the blue-mixed woollen stockings and the plain black suit (far from superfine) which he usually wore, striding along between the rows of meat and vegetables, catering for his household; and depositing his purchases in a basket, carried by a servant. But it was his frequent custom to go on this errand, unattended; and nothing was more usual, than to see him returning from market at sunrise, with poultry in one hand, and a basket of vegetables in the other. So beautifully, by a simplicity which pervaded his words, his actions, his whole life, did he illustrate the character of a republican citizen and magistrate!

No man more highly relished social, and even convivial enjoyments. He was a member of the club, which for 48 summers has met once a fortnight near Richmond, to pitch quoits and mingle in relaxing conversation: and there was not one more delightedly punctual in his attendance at these meetings, or who contributed more to their pleasantness: scarcely one, who excelled him in the manly game, from which the "Quoit-Club" drew its designation. He would hurl his iron ring of two pound's weight, with rarely erring aim, fifty-five or sixty feet; and, at some chef-d'œuvre of skill in himself or his partner, would spring up and clap his hands, with all the light-hearted enthusiasm of boyhood. Such is the old age, which follows a temperate, an innocent, and a useful life! We extract from the American Turf Register of 1829, the following entertaining account of this Club.

During a recent visit to Richmond, in Virginia, I was invited to a "Barbecue Club," held under the shade of some fine oaks, near "Buchanan's Spring," about a mile distant from the town. I there met with about thirty of the respectable inhabitants of Richmond, with a few guests. The day was a fine one, and the free and social intercourse of the members rendered it peculiarly pleasant.

This Club is probably the most ancient one of the sort in the United States, having existed upwards of forty years. It originated in a meeting, every other Saturday, from the first of May until the month of October, of some of the Scotch merchants who were early settlers in that town. They agreed each to take out some cold meats for their repast, and to provide a due quantity of drinkables, and enjoy relaxation in that way after the labors of the week. They occasionally invited some others of the inhabitants, who finding the time passed pleasantly, proposed in the year 1788 to form a regular club, consisting of thirty members, under a written constitution, limiting their expenses each day by a sort of sumptuary law which prohibited the use of wine and porter.

The Virginians, you know, have always been great limitarians as to constitutional matters. Whenever a member died or resigned, (but there have been very few resignations,) his place was filled by balloting for a new one, who could not be elected without the concurrence of two-thirds of the club. It is said that for many years no vacancy occurred, and a sort of superstitious sentiment was prevalent, that to become a member of the club, was to insure longevity. The Arch Destroyer, however, at length appeared in all his strength, and made such havoc, that only one of the original members (the venerable Chief Justice of the United States,) is now surviving.

The club consists of judges, lawyers, doctors, and merchants, and the Governor of the Commonwealth has a general invitation when he enters into office. What gave additional interest to this body, some years ago, was the constant attendance (as honorary members) of two venerable clergymen—one of the Episcopal, and the other of the Presbyterian church, who joined in the innocent pastime of the day. They were pious and exemplary men, who discerned no sin in harmless gaiety. Quoits and backgammon are the only games indulged in, and one of the clergymen was for many years "cock of the walk" in throwing the discus. They are gone to their account, and have left a chasm that has not been filled.

Some years ago, an amendment was made to the constitution, which admits the use of porter. Great opposition was made to this innovation, and the destruction of the club was predicted as the consequence. The oppositionists, however, soon became as great consumers of malt and hops as their associates, and now they even consent to the introduction of wine at the last meeting of every year, provided there be "a shot in the locker." The members each advance ten dollars to the treasurer at the beginning of the season, and every member is entitled to invite any strangers as guests, on paying into the general fund one dollar for each; while the caterers of the day, consisting of two members in rotation, preside, and have the privilege of bringing each a guest (either citizen or non-resident,) at free cost. On the day I was present, dinner was ready at half past three o'clock, and consisted of excellent meats and fish, well prepared and well served, with the vegetables of the season. Your veritable gourmand never fails to regale himself on his favorite barbecue—which is a fine fat pig, called "shoot," cooked on the coals, and highly seasoned with cayenne—a dessert of melons and fruits follows, and punch, porter and toddy are the table liquors; but with the fruits comes on the favorite beverage of the Virginians, mint julep, in place of wine. I never witnessed more festivity and good humor than prevail at this club. By the constitution, the subject of politics is forbidden, and each man strives to make the time pleasant to his companions. The members think they can offer no higher compliment to a distinguished stranger, than to introduce him to the club, and all feel it a duty to contribute to his entertainment. It was refreshing to see such a man as Chief Justice Marshall, laying aside the reserve of his dignified station, and contending with the young men at a game of quoits, with all the emulation of a youth.

Many anecdotes are told of occurrences at these meetings. Such is the partiality for the Chief Justice, that it is said the greatest anxiety is felt for his success in the game by the bystanders; and on one occasion an old Scotch gentleman was called on to decide between his quoit and that of another member, who after seemingly careful measurement, announced, "Mister Mareshall has it a leattle," when it was visible to all that the contrary was the fact. A French gentleman (Baron Quenet,) was at one time a guest, when the Governor, the Chief Justice, and several of the Judges of the High Court of Appeals, were engaged with others, with coats off, in a well-contested game. He asked, "if it was possible that the dignitaries of the land could thus intermix with private citizens," and when assured of the fact, he observed, with true Gallican enthusiasm, that "he had never before seen the real beauty of republicanism."

In Judge Marshall's yearly visits to Fauquier, where the proper implements of his favorite sport were not to be had, he still practised it among his rustic friends, with flat stones for quoits. A casual guest at a barbecue in that county—one of those rural entertainments so frequent among the country people of Virginia—soon after his arrival at the spot, saw an old man emerge from a thicket which bordered the neighboring brook, carrying as large a pile of these flat stones as he could hold between his right arm and his chin: he stepped briskly up to the company, and threw down his load among them, exclaiming, "There! Here are quoits enough for us all!" The stranger's surprise may be imagined, when he found that this plain and cheerful old man was the Chief Justice of the United States! Nor was the bonhommie, with which he could descend to the level of common life, restricted to his intercourse with men and women: he was often a pleasing companion even to children. One, whose first recollection of him referred to his triumphal entry (for such it was) into Richmond, on his return from France, and who, as a printer's boy, afterwards for several years was carrier of a newspaper to him, describes him as "remarkably fond of boys' company—always chatty—and always pleasant." The reminiscent, having been transferred to Washington in 1800, while Mr. M. was Secretary of State, says, "again did the pleasing office of serving him with the 'Washington Federalist' devolve on me. He resided in a brick building hardly larger than most of the kitchens now in use. I found him still the same plain, unostentatious John Marshall: always accessible, and always with a smile on his countenance when I handed him the 'Federalist.' His kindness of manner won my affections; and I became devotedly attached to him."

Even from this early period the reminiscent may date the commencement of an intercourse and correspondence with the Chief Justice, which endured uninterruptedly for many years, until the period of his lamented death. The unaffected and childlike simplicity of manner, action, and thought which pervaded, as the sunlight pervades the atmosphere, every moment of this truly great man's existence, and which, indeed, formed, in no little degree, the basis of his greatness, sufficed to render the intercourse of which we speak, an intercourse of the most kindly, unembarrassed, and intimate nature; and one which afforded opportunities for a more particular knowledge of the strictly private and familiar habitudes of the man, than has fallen to the lot of many who, perhaps, were better entitled to his confidence. The reminiscent would here acknowledge, not only with gratitude, but with pride, the innumerable, yet unobtrusive acts of generous assistance and advice, for which he is indebted to the friendship of Chief Justice Marshall.

When, to all these engaging traits of character, we add that his charitable benefactions were as large as his mind, and as unostentatious as his life; and that in his dealings he was so scrupulously just, as always to prefer his own loss to the possibility of his wronging another; it can be no wonder, that despite the unpopularity of his federo-political opinions, he was the most beloved and esteemed of all men in Virginia.

The influence of Judge Marshall upon the decisions of the Supreme Court, in cases requiring a determination of the limits set by the Constitution to federal power, will be deemed salutary or pernicious, according as the mind which contemplates it is biassed towards the one or the other school of opinions on that subject—towards the strict, or towards the liberal (what its opponents term the licentious) construction. Having been profoundly—perhaps exaggeratedly—impressed with a dread of the evils attending a feeble government for the Union, he had advocated the new Constitution originally, and maintained the liberal interpretation of it afterwards, as indispensable to the integrity and wholesome action of our system. Opinions which he had thus held for thirteen years, and which had become fixed more and more deeply in his mind by his numberless able vindications of them, he could not be expected to throw aside when he ascended the Bench. They pervaded his decisions there; and such was the influence of his gigantic intellect, that, although, as Chief Justice, his vote had no more legal authority than that of any other Judge, and although most of his associates were deemed, at their appointments, maintainers of the strict construction,—the Supreme Court took its tone from him; and in almost every instance where the controversy turned upon the boundaries between federal and state authority, as fixed by the Constitution, its determination tended to enlarge the former, and to circumscribe the latter. Never, probably, did any judge, who had six associates equal to himself in judicial authority, so effectually stamp their adjudications with the impress of his own mind. This may be read, in the generous pleasure with which the best and ablest^22 of those associates dwells upon the inestimable service done to the country, in establishing a code of Constitutional Law so perfect, that "His proudest epitaph may be written in a single line—Here lies the Expounder of the Constitution of the United States." It may be read in the glowing page, where Mr. Binney, resolving the glory of the Court in having "explained, defended and enforced the Constitution," into the merits of its presiding judge, declares himself "lost in admiration of the man, and in gratitude to Heaven for his beneficent life." It may be read in the many volumes of Reports, where, whensoever a question of constitutional law was to be determined, the opinion of Judge Marshall is found, almost without exception, to be the opinion of the Supreme Court.

22 Judge Story.

We shall make but one more extract from Mr. Binney's admirable Eulogy.

He was endued by nature with a patience that was never surpassed;—patience to hear that which he knew already, that which he disapproved, that which questioned himself. When he ceased to hear, it was not because his patience was exhausted, but because it ceased to be a virtue.

His carriage in the discharge of his judicial business, was faultless. Whether the argument was animated or dull, instructive or superficial, the regard of his expressive eye was an assurance that nothing that ought to affect the cause, was lost by inattention or indifference; and the courtesy of his general manner was only so far restrained on the Bench, as was necessary for the dignity of office, and for the suppression of familiarity.

His industry and powers of labor, when contemplated in connection with his social temper, show a facility that does not generally belong to parts of such strength. There remain behind him nearly thirty volumes of copiously reasoned decisions, greater in difficulty and labor, than probably have been made in any other court during the life of a single judge! yet he participated in them all; and in those of greatest difficulty, his pen has most frequently drawn up the judgment; and in the midst of his judicial duties, he composed and published in the year 1804, a copious biography of Washington, surpassing in authenticity and minute accuracy, any public history with which we are acquainted. He found time also to revise it, and to publish a second edition, separating the History of the American Colonies from the Biography, and to prepare with his own pen an edition of the latter for the use of schools. Every part of it is marked with the scrupulous veracity of a judicial exposition; and it shows moreover, how deeply the writer was imbued with that spirit which will live after all the compositions of men shall be forgotten,—the spirit of charity, which could indite a history of the Revolution and of parties, in which he was a conspicuous actor, without discoloring his pages with the slightest infusion of gall. It could not be written with more candor an hundred years hence. It has not been challenged for the want of it, but in a single instance, and that has been refuted by himself with irresistible force of argument, as well as with unexhausted benignity of temper.

To qualities such as these, he joined an immoveable firmness befitting the office of presiding judge, in the highest tribunal of the country. It was not the result of excited feeling, and consequently never rose or fell with the emotions of the day. It was the constitution of his nature, and sprung from the composure of a mind undisturbed by doubt, and of a heart unsusceptible of fear. He thought not of the fleeting judgments and commentaries of men; and although he was not indifferent to their approbation, it was not the compass by which he was directed, nor the haven in which he looked for safety.

His learning was great, and his faculty of applying it of the very first order.

But it is not by these qualities that he is so much distinguished from the judges of his time. In learning and industry, in patience, firmness, and fidelity, he has had his equals. But there is no judge, living or dead, whose claims are disparaged by assigning the first place in the department of constitutional law to Chief Justice Marshall.

For several years past, Judge Marshall had suffered under a most excruciating malady. A surgical operation by Dr. Physick of Philadelphia, at length procured him relief; but a hurt received in travelling, last spring, seems to have caused a return of the former complaint, with circumstances of aggravated pain and danger. Having revisited Philadelphia, in the hope of again finding a cure, his disease there overpowered him; and he died, on the 6th of July, 1835, in the 80th year of his age, surrounded by three of his children. His eldest son, Thomas, journeying to attend his death bed, had been killed by the fall of a chimney in Baltimore, but eight days before.

The love of simplicity and the dislike of ostentation, which had marked Chief Justice Marshall's life, displayed itself also in his last days. Apprehensive that his remains might be encumbered with the vain pomp of a costly monument and a laudatory epitaph, he, only two days before his death, directed the common grave of himself and his consort, to be indicated by a plain stone, with this simple and modest inscription:

"John Marshall, son of Thomas and Mary Marshall, was born on the 24th of September, 1755, intermarried with Mary Willis Ambler the 3d of January, 1783, departed this life the —— day of —— 18—."

All the just renown with which his great name might have been emblazoned, simplified into the three circumstances, of birth, marriage, and death, which would equally suit the grave-stone of the humblest villager!

We cannot better conclude this article than by copying two delineations of its subject, sketched by hands which, years before him, were mouldering in the grave: sketched, it seems to us, with so much elegance and truth, that any extended account of Judge Marshall could hardly be deemed complete without them. The first was drawn thirty years ago: the other, less than twenty.

"The ..... ....... of the United States," says Mr. Wirt, in The British Spy, "is, in his person, tall, meager, emaciated: his muscles relaxed, and his joints so loosely connected, as not only to disqualify him, apparently, for any vigorous exertion of body, but to destroy every thing like harmony in his air and movements. Indeed, in his whole appearance, and demeanor; dress, attitudes, gesture; sitting, standing, or walking; he is as far removed from the idolized graces of Lord Chesterfield, as any other gentleman on earth. His head and face are small in proportion to his height: his complexion swarthy; the muscles of his face, being relaxed, make him appear to be fifty years of age, nor can he be much younger: his countenance has a faithful expression of great good humor and hilarity; while his black eyes—that unerring index—possess an irradiating spirit, which proclaims the imperial powers of the mind that sits enthroned within.

"This extraordinary man, without the aid of fancy, without the advantages of person, voice, attitude, gesture, or any of the ornaments of an orator, deserves to be considered as one of the most eloquent men in the world; if eloquence may be said to consist in the power of seizing the attention with irresistible force, and never permitting it to elude the grasp, until the hearer has received the conviction which the speaker intends.

"His voice is dry and hard; his attitude, in his most effective orations, was often extremely awkward; while all his gesture proceeded from his right arm, and consisted merely in a perpendicular swing of it, from about the elevation of his head, to the bar, behind which he was accustomed to stand.

"As to fancy, if she hold a seat in his mind at all, his gigantic genius tramples with disdain, on all her flower-decked plats and blooming parterres. How then, you will ask, how is it possible, that such a man can hold the attention of an audience enchained, through a speech of even ordinary length? I will tell you.

"He possesses one original, and almost supernatural faculty: the faculty of developing a subject by a single glance of his mind, and detecting at once, the very point on which every controversy depends. No matter, what the question: though ten times more knotty than 'the gnarled oak,' the lightning of heaven is not more rapid or more resistless, than his astonishing penetration. Nor does the exercise of it seem to cost him an effort. On the contrary, it is as easy as vision. I am persuaded, that his eyes do not fly over a landscape and take in its various objects with more promptitude and facility, than his mind embraces and analyzes the most complex subject.

"Possessing while at the bar, this intellectual elevation, which enabled him to look down and comprehend the whole ground at once, he determined immediately and without difficulty, on which side the question might be most advantageously approached and assailed. In a bad cause, his art consisted in laying his premises so remotely from the point directly in debate, or else in terms so general and so specious, that the hearer, seeing no consequence which could be drawn from them, was just as willing to admit them as not; but, his premises once admitted, the demonstration, however distant, followed as certainly, as cogently, as inevitably, as any demonstration in Euclid.

"All his eloquence consists in the apparently deep self-conviction, and emphatic earnestness of his manner; the correspondent simplicity and energy of his style; the close and logical connexion of his thoughts; and the easy gradations by which he opens his lights on the attentive minds of his hearers. The audience are never permitted to pause for a moment. There is no stopping to weave garlands of flowers, to hang in festoons, around a favorite argument. On the contrary, every sentence is progressive; every idea sheds new light on the subject; the listener is kept perpetually in that sweetly pleasurable vibration, with which the mind of man always receives new truths; the dawn advances with easy but unremitting pace; the subject opens gradually on the view; until, rising, in high relief, in all its native colors and proportions, the argument is consummated, by the conviction of the delighted hearer."

The following observations on the intellectual character of Judge Marshall, are from the pen of FRANCIS W. GILMER—one who, had he not been prematurely cut off by the hand of death, would have ranked with the foremost men of his age and country.

"His mind is not very richly stored with knowledge; but it is so creative, so well organized by nature, or disciplined by early education, and constant habits of systematic thinking, that he embraces every subject with the clearness and facility of one prepared by previous study to comprehend and explain it. So perfect is his analysis, that he extracts the whole matter, the kernel of inquiry, unbroken, clean, and entire. In this process, such are the instinctive neatness and precision of his mind, that no superfluous thought, or even word, ever presents itself, and still he says every thing that seems appropriate to the subject. This perfect exemption from needless incumbrance of matter or ornament, is in some degree the effect of an aversion to the labor of thinking. So great a mind, perhaps, like large bodies in the physical world, is with difficulty set in motion. That this is the case with Mr. Marshall's, is manifest, from his mode of entering on an argument, both in conversation and in public debate. It is difficult to rouse his faculties: he begins with reluctance, hesitation, and vacancy of eye: presently, his articulation becomes less broken, his eye more fixed, until, finally, his voice is full, clear, and rapid, his manner bold, and his whole face lighted up, with the mingled fires of genius and passion: and he pours forth the unbroken stream of eloquence, in a current deep, majestic, smooth and strong. He reminds one of some great bird, which flounders and flounces on the earth for a while, before it acquires impetus to sustain its soaring flight."

EMILIA HARRINGTON.

The Confessions of Emilia Harrington. By Lambert A. Wilmer. Baltimore.

This is a duodecimo of about two hundred pages. We have read it with that deep interest always excited by works written in a similar manner—be the subject matter what it may—works in which the author utterly loses sight of himself in his theme, and, for the time, identifies his own thoughts and feelings with the thoughts and feelings of fictitious existences. Than the power of accomplishing this perfect identification, there is no surer mark of genius. It is the spell of Defoe. It is the wand of Boccacio. It is the proper enchantment of the Arabian Tales—the gramarye of Scott, and the magic of the Bard of Avon. Had, therefore, the Emilia Harrington of Mr. Wilmer not one other quality to recommend it, we should have been satisfied of the author's genius from the simple verisimilitude of his narrative. Yet, unhappily, books thus written are not the books by which men acquire a contemporaneous reputation. What we said on this subject in the last number of the Messenger, may be repeated here without impropriety. We spoke of the Robinson Crusoe. "What better possible species of fame could the author have desired for that book than the species which it has so long enjoyed? It has become a household thing in nearly every family in Christendom. Yet never was admiration of any work—universal admiration—more indiscriminately or more inappropriately bestowed. Not one person in ten—nay, not one person in five hundred has, during the perusal of Robinson Crusoe, the most remote conception that any particle of genius, or even of common talent, has been employed in its creation. Men do not look upon it in the light of a literary performance. Defoe has none of their thoughts; Robinson all. The powers which have wrought the wonder, have been thrown into obscurity by the very stupendousness of the wonder they have wrought. We read, and become perfect abstractions in the intensity of our interest—we close the book, and are quite satisfied we could have written as well ourselves."

Emilia Harrington will render essential services to virtue in the unveiling of the deformities of vice. This is a deed of no questionable utility. We fully agree with our author that ignorance of wrong is not security for the right; and Mr. Wilmer has obviated every possible objection to the "Confessions," by a so cautious wording of his disclosures as not to startle, in warning, the virtuous. That the memoirs are not wholly fictitious is more than probable. There is much internal evidence of authenticity in the book itself, and the preface seems to hint that a portion at least of the narrative is true—yet for the sake of human nature it is to be hoped that some passages are overcolored. The style of Mr. Wilmer is not only good in itself, but exceedingly well adapted to his subjects. The letter to Augustus Harrington is vigorously written, and many long extracts might be taken from the book evincing powers of no ordinary kind.

Within a circle of private friends, whom Mr. Wilmer's talents and many virtues have attached devotedly to himself, and among whom we are very proud in being ranked, his writings have been long properly appreciated, and we sincerely hope the days are not far in futurity when he will occupy that full station in the public eye to which his merits so decidedly entitle him. Our readers must all remember the touching lines To Mira, in the first number of our second volume—lines which called forth the highest encomiums from many whose opinions are of value. Their exquisite tenderness of sentiment—their vein of deep and unaffected melancholy—and their antique strength, and high polish of versification, struck us, upon a first perusal, with force, and subsequent readings have not weakened the impression. Mr. W. has written many other similar things. Among his longer pieces we may particularize Merlin, a drama—some portions of which are full of the truest poetic fire. His prose tales and other short publications are numerous; and as Editor of the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post, he has boldly and skilfully asserted the rights of independent criticism, speaking, in all instances—the truth. His Satiric Odes in the Post, over the signature of Horace in Philadelphia, have attracted great attention, and have been deservedly admired.

We copy with true pleasure from the editorial columns of a Baltimore contemporary, (for whose opinions we have the highest respect, even when they differ from our own,) the following notice of Emilia Harrington. It will supersede the necessity of any farther comment from ourselves.

"This book is one of a class the publication of which is considered by many as objectionable. The lifting up of the veil which covers crime; crime of the most disgusting and debasing character—is thought by moralists of the present day to be an act of questionable utility. This opinion has gained strength from the intemperate zeal of too many who have thought fit to publish flauntingly to the world the result of their startling discoveries while penetrating the haunts of corruption and vice, instead of silently moving on in the cause of Christian benevolence, and, when called upon for disclosures, giving information in such a way as not to startle the virtuous into shrinking, nor cause the vicious to raise the hue and cry against them. From the objection of ultraism the 'Confessions' are to a great extent free—although in some few instances the author has allowed himself a latitude which it would have been as well not to have taken.

"Apart from the character of the book, it possesses for us no trifling interest. Our thoughts run back continually from its pages to the gifted young author, prematurely gray; nor can we conquer a gathering sadness of feeling as we contemplate him bending wearily beneath the accumulating weight of adverse circumstances—broken in spirit, and yet uncomplaining. That the writer of this book possesses talents of an order far superior to many of twice his reputation, we have long been convinced, and yet he is scarcely known. Ten years ago his promise of future success in the walks of literary fame was flattering, almost beyond example; but, who can struggle against the ills of life—its cares, its privations and disappointments—with the added evils which petty jealousy and vindictive malice bring in to crush the spirit,—and not, in the very feebleness of humanity, grow weak and weary. And thus it seems in a measure to have been with the author of this book; he has not now the healthy vigor which once marked his production—the playful humor, nor the sparkling wit; and why—as continual dropping will wear away the hardest rock, so will continued neglect, and disappointment, and care, wear away the mind's healthy tone and strength of action. And yet, after all, may we not be mistaken in this. Is not the unobtrusive volume before us a strong evidence of unfailing powers of mind, which, though aiming at no brilliant display, acts with order, conciseness, and a nicely balanced energy? It is even so. One great attribute of genius is its power of identifying itself with its hero, and never losing sight of all the relations which it now holds to the world in its new character; and this identity has been well kept up by Mr. Wilmer—so much so, that in but few instances do we forget that the writer is other than the heroine of the tale."

AMERICAN IN ENGLAND.

The American in England. By the Author of "A Year in Spain." 2 vols. New York. Harper and Brothers.

Lieutenant Slidell's very excellent book, "A Year in Spain," was in some danger of being overlooked by his countrymen when a benignant star directed Murray's attention to its merits. Fate and Regent Street prevailed. Cockney octavos carried the day. A man is nothing if not hot-pressed; and the clever young writer who was cut dead in his Yankee-land habiliments, met with bows innumerable in the gala dress of a London imprimatur. The "Year in Spain" well deserved the popularity thus inauspiciously attained. It was the work of a man of genius; and passing through several editions, prepared the public attention for any subsequent production of its author. As regards "The American in England," we have not only read it with deep interest from beginning to end, but have been at the trouble of seeking out and perusing a great variety of critical dicta concerning it. Nearly all of these are in its favor, and we are happy in being able to concur heartily with the popular voice—if indeed these dicta be its echoes.

We have somewhere said—or we should have somewhere said—that the old adage about "Truth in a well" (we mean the adage in its modern and improper—not in its antique and proper acceptation) should be swallowed cum grano salis at times. To be profound is not always to be sensible. The depth of an argument is not, necessarily, its wisdom—this depth lying where Truth is sought more often than where she is found. As the touches of a painting which, to minute inspection, are 'confusion worse confounded' will not fail to start boldly out to the cursory glance of a connoisseur—or as a star may be seen more distinctly in a sidelong survey than in any direct gaze however penetrating and intense—so there are, not unfrequently, times and methods, in which, and by means of which, a richer philosophy may be gathered on the surface of things than can be drawn up, even with great labor, c profundis. It appears to us that Mr. Slidell has written a wiser book than his neighbors merely by not disdaining to write a more superficial one.

The work is dedicated to John Duer, Esq. The Preface is a very sensible and a sufficiently well-written performance, in which the Lieutenant while "begging, at the outset, to be acquitted of any injurious prejudices" still pleads guilty to "that ardent patriotism which is the common attribute of Americans, a feeling of nationality inherited with the laws, the language, and the manners of the country from which we derive our origin, and which is sanctioned not less by the comparison of the blessings we enjoy with those of other lands, than by the promptings of good feeling, and the dictates of good taste." It is in the body of the book, however, that we must seek, and where we shall most assuredly find, strong indications of a genius not the less rich, rare, and altogether estimable for the simplicity of its modus operandi.

Commencing with his embarkation at New York, our author succeeds, at once, in rivetting the attention of his readers by a succession of minute details. But there is this vast difference between the details of Mr. Slidell, and the details of many of his contemporaries. They—the many—impressed, apparently, with the belief that mere minuteness is sufficient to constitute force, and that to be accurate is, of necessity, to be verisimilar—have not hesitated in putting in upon their canvass all the actual lines which might be discovered in their subject. This Mr. Slidell has known better than to do. He has felt that the apparent, not the real, is the province of a painter—and that to give (speaking technically) the idea of any desired object, the toning down, or the utter neglect of certain portions of that object is absolutely necessary to the proper bringing out of other portions—portions by whose sole instrumentality the idea of the object is afforded. With a fine eye then for the picturesque, and with that strong sense of propriety which is inseparable from true genius, our American has crossed the water, dallied a week in London, and given us, as the result of his observations, a few masterly sketches, with all the spirit, vigor, raciness and illusion of a panorama.

Very rarely have we seen any thing of the kind superior to the "American in England." The interest begins with the beginning of the book, and abides with us, unabated, to the end. From the scenes in the Yankee harbor, to the departure of the traveller from England, his arrival in France, and installment among the comforts of the Hotel Quillacq, all is terse, nervous, brilliant and original. The review of the ship's company, in the initial chapter of the book is exceedingly entertaining. The last character thus introduced is so peculiarly sketched that we must copy what the author says about him. It will serve to exemplify some of our own prior remarks.

"Let me not forget to make honorable mention of the white-headed little raggamuffin who was working his passage, and who, in this capacity, had the decks to sweep, ropes to haul, chickens and pigs to feed, the cow to milk, and the dishes to wash, as well as all other jobs to do that belonged to no one in particular. As a proof of good will, he had chopped off the tails of a dandy, velvet-collared, blue coat, with the cook's axe, the very first day out. This was performed at the windlass-bits, in full conclave of the crew, and I suspected at the suggestion of a roguish man-of-war's-man, a shipmate of mine. The tails were cut just below the pocket flaps, which gave them a sort of razee look, and, in conjunction with the velvet collar, made the oddest appearance in the world, as he would creep, stern first, out of the long-boat after milking the cow. Blow high or blow low, the poor boy had no time to be sea-sick. Sometimes he would get adrift in the lee scuppers and roll over in the water, keeping fast hold of the plates he was carying to the galley."

Some incidents at sea—such as the narrow escape from running down a brig, and the imminent danger incurred by an English pilot—are told with all the gusto of a seaman. Among other fine passages we may particularize an account of British sailors on shore at Portsmouth—of a family group on board a steamer—of the appearance of the Kentish coast—of the dangers of the Thames—of the Dover coach—of some groups in a London coffee-room—of a stand of hackney-coaches—of St. James' Park—of a midnight scene in the streets—of the Strand—of Temple-Bar—of St. Paul's and the view from the summit—of Rothschild—of Barclay and Perkins' Brewery—of the Thames' Tunnel—of the Tower—of the Zoological Gardens—of Robert Owen—of the habits of retired citizens—and of the rural tastes of Englishmen. A parallel between Regent Street and Broadway brings the two thoroughfares with singular distinctness to the eye of the mind—and in the way of animated and vivid description we can, at this moment, remember nothing in the whole range of fact or fiction much superior to the Lieutenant's narrative of his midnight entrance into London. Indeed we can almost pardon a contemporary for speaking of this picture as sublime. A small portion of it we copy—but no just idea of its total effect can be thus gathered—an effect depending in a great measure upon the gradual manner in which it is brought about.

"I know nothing more exhilirating than to be suddenly ushered in the night into a populous quarter of a great city. My recollection readily conjures up the impressions made upon me under similar circumstances in entering Paris, Madrid, Brussels, Milan, or gay and lively Naples. The lower classes, with their good humor, their quaint drollery and sprightliness, there offer the most agreeable objects of contemplation. Here, however, there was in the corresponding classes nothing pleasing, or even picturesque. All seemed in search of food, of the means of intemperance, and of gratifying low and brutal passions. The idea of amusement had evidently no place. The streets swarmed with abandoned women, filthy in their dress, open, brutal, and indecent in their advances. In the places of the guitar, the serenade, the musical cries of chesnut-women, lemonade-sellers, and watermen, the sounds here were harsh and grating: uttered in words ill pronounced and nasally prolonged, or in an unintelligible and discordant slang which I no longer recognized as belonging to my own language. In the place of skilful musicians performing the favorite airs of Mozart or Rossini, or the witty colloquies of the sententious Punchinello, the poor were invited, in the nasal twang of clamorous mountebanks to amuse themselves by a sight of the latest cases of seduction, murder, suicide, and hanging, represented in the shadows of the camera obscura. The dark masses of dwelling-houses had a confined, narrow, gloomy, and lugubrious aspect. They were of brick, without window-sills of marble or other colored stone; unpainted, and unenlivened by blinds. They were closely shut, and the glimpses of cheerfulness and domestic comfort exhibited in our streets were here unseen. All the shops were open to the weather: Many of them having the whole front removed, and gas-lights blazing and streaming like great torches, rather than with the puny and flickering illumination seen in ours. The articles were completely exposed to view at the side of the street; clothing, provisions, crockery, hardware; whatever is necessary to the wants of man. The druggists, with their variegated vases, as with us, cast the Iris hues of their nauseous mixtures into the street. Sellers of cheap goods exposed them in the windows, with their price labelled. The butchers hung out beef, pork, sausages, and enormous coarse sheep, in a nearly whole state, with sometimes the price affixed to the inferior portions, in order that the poor might judge whether the price they had received for their day's labor, would compass a meal of meat; or whether they should seek a diet more suited to their means, of a neighboring potato-merchant: or whether to turn in despair, as many of the most wretched seemed to do, to accept the flattering invitation of the magnificent gin-palace at the corner. It was the most splendid building in the neighborhood; built with some little architectural elegance, whose effect was magnified by the unadorned character and gloomy air of the surrounding edifices. A beautiful gas-light, in a richly ornamented lamp, stood as an inviting beacon, visible in many diverging directions. The windows were glazed with costly plate-glass, bearing inscribed, in illuminated letters, the words—gin at three-pence—generous wines hot-spiced;—and the door surrounded by stained panes of rich dye, having rosettes, bunches of grapes, and gay devices."

There are some few niaiseries in the work before us, which, although insufficient to affect its character as a whole, yet constitute a weak point in what otherwise is beautiful, and cause us to regret sincerely, the accidents which have admitted them. We may mention, in especial, the too frequent introduction of the monosyllable "how," in such sentences as "they told how"—"it was related how"—"I was informed how," &c. Mr. Slidell will find, upon self-scrutiny, that he has fallen into this habit through the sin of imitation. The Lieutenant, too, suffers his work to savor far too strongly of the ship, and lets slip him no opportunity of thrusting upon the public attention the fact of his particular vocation—insisting, indeed, upon this matter with a pertinacity even ludicrous—a pertinacity which will be exemplified in the following passage:

"Unaccustomed as I had been in the larger vessels, in which I had sailed of late, to be thus unceremoniously boarded on the hallowed region of the quarter-deck, this seemed to me quite a superfluous piece of impertinence. The remains of my sentiment were at once washed away, and not minding a little honest salt-water, I betook myself forthwith to the substantial comfortings of the repast, which I found smoking on the cabin table. Dinner was over: tea and conversation had followed; the evening was already far advanced, and I began to yield to the sleepy sensation which the familiar roll of the sea inspired. Before turning in I ascended to the companionway to breathe the fresh air, and see what progress we were making. Familiar as I was with the sight of ships in every possible situation, I was much struck with the beauty of the scene."

Again. Although the author evinces, in theory, a very laudable contempt for that silly vanity so often inducing men to blazon forth their intimacy with the distinguished; and although, in the volumes now before us, he more than once directs the arrows of his satire at the infirmity—still he is found not altogether free from it himself; and, in one especial instance, is even awkwardly uneasy, lest we should remain ignorant of his acquaintance with Washington Irving. "I thought," quoth the Lieutenant, when there was no necessity for thinking about any such matter, "I thought of the 'spectral box-coats' of my inimitable friend Geoffrey Crayon; and would have given the world in that moment of despondency, for one of his quiet unwritten jokes, or one friendly pressure of his hand."

Upon Mr. Slidell's mechanical style we cannot bring ourselves to look with favor. Indeed while running over, with some astonishment, a few of his singularly ill-constructed sentences, we begin to think that the sentiments expressed in the conclusion of his Preface are not, as we at first suspected, merely the common cant of the literateur, and that his book is actually, as he represents it to be, "the result of an up-hill journey," and "a work which he regards with a feeling of aversion." What else than great tedium and utter weariness with his labor, could have induced our author to trust such passages as the following to the critical eye of the public?

"The absence of intellectual and moral culture, in occupations which rendered it unnecessary for those who worked only to administer food to themselves and profit or luxury to the class of masters, could only account for the absence of forehead, of the ornamental parts of that face which was moulded after a divine model."

We perused this sentence more than once before we could fathom its meaning. Mr. Slidell wishes to say, that narrowness of forehead in the rabble is owing to want of mental exercise—they being laborers not thinkers. But from the words of our author we are led to conclude that some occupations (certainly very strange ones) rendered it unnecessary for those who worked, to administer food to themselves—that is, to eat. The pronoun "it," however, will be found, upon examination, to refer to "moral culture." The repetition of the word "only" is also disagreeable, and the entire passage is overloaded with verbiage. A rigid scrutiny will show that all essential portions of the intended idea are embodied in the lines Italicised. In the original sentence are fifty-four words—in our own eighteen—or precisely one third. It follows, that if all the Lieutenant's sentences had been abridged in a similar manner—a process which would have redounded greatly to their advantage—we might have been spared much trouble, and the public much time, trouble, and expense—the "American in England" making its appearance in a duodecimo of one hundred and ninety-two pages, rather than in two octavos of five hundred and seventy-six.

At page 122, vol. I, we have what follows.

"My situation here was uncomfortable enough; if I were softly cushioned on one side, this only tended, by the contrast, to increase the obduracy of a small iron rod, which served as a parapet to protect me from falling off the precipice, over which I hung toppling, and against which I was forced with a pressure proportioned to the circumstances of my being compressed into a space somewhat narrower than myself; the seat having doubtless been contrived to accommodate five men, and there being no greater anatomical mistake than to suppose there would be more room because four of them were women."

'If I were,' in this sentence, is not English—but there are few persons who will believe that "if" does not in all instances require the subjunctive. In the words "a small iron rod which served as a parapet to protect me from falling off the precipice over which I hung, and against which I was forced," &c. let us say nothing of the injudicious use of the word parapet as applied to a small iron rod. Passing over this, it is evident, that the second relative pronoun "which," has for its antecedent, in strict syntactical arrangement, the same noun as the first relative pronoun "which"—that is to say, it has the word "precipice" for its antecedent. The sentence would thus imply that Mr. Slidell was forced against the precipice. But the actual meaning (at which we arrive by guessing) is, that Mr. Slidell was forced against the iron rod. In the words "I was forced with a pressure proportioned to the circumstances of my being compressed into a space," &c. let us again be indulgent, and say as little as possible of the tautology in "pressure" and "compressed." But we ask where are the circumstances spoken of? There is only one circumstance—the circumstance of being compressed. In the conclusion of the passage where the Lieutenant speaks of "a seat having doubtless been contrived to accommodate five men, and there being no greater anatomical mistake than to suppose there would be more room because four of them were women," it is quite unnecessary to point out the "bull egregious"—a bull which could have been readily avoided by the simple substitute of "persons" for "men."

We must be pardoned for copying yet another sentence. We will do so with the single remark that it is one of the most ludicrously ill-arranged, and altogether ungainly pieces of composition which it has ever been our ill fortune to encounter.

"I was not long in discovering that the different personages scattered about the room in such an unsocial and misanthropic manner, instead of being collected about the same board, as in France or my own country, and, in the spirit of good fellowship and of boon companions, relieving each other of their mutual ennuis, though they did not speak a word to each other, by which they might hereafter be compromised and socially ruined, by discovering that they had made the acquaintance of an individual several grades below them in the scale of rank, or haply as disagreeably undeceived by the abstraction of a pocket-book, still kept up a certain interchange of sentiment, by occasional glances and mutual observation."

Such passages as the foregoing may be discovered passim in "The American in England." Yet we have heard Mr. Slidell's English called equal to the English of Mr. Irving—than which nothing can be more improbable. The Lieutenant's book is an excellent book—but then it is excellent in spite of its style. So great are the triumphs of genius!

CONTI.

Conti the Discarded: with Other Tales and Fancies. By Henry F. Chorley. 2 vols. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.

Mr. Chorley has hitherto written nothing of any great length. His name, however, is familiar to all readers of English Annuals, and in whatever we have seen from his pen, evidences of a rare genius have been perceptible. In Conti, and in the "Other Tales and Fancies" which accompany it, these evidences are more distinct, more brilliant, and more openly developed. Neither are these pieces wanting in a noble, and, to us, a most thrillingly interesting purpose. In saying that our whole heart is with the author—that the deepest, and we trust, the purest emotions are enkindled within us by his chivalric and magnanimous design—we present but a feeble picture of our individual feelings as influenced by the perusal of Conti. We repeat it—our whole heart is with the author. When shall the artist assume his proper situation in society—in a society of thinking beings? How long shall he be enslaved? How long shall mind succumb to the grossest materiality? How long shall the veriest vermin of the Earth, who crawl around the altar of Mammon, be more esteemed of men than they, the gifted ministers to those exalted emotions which link us with the mysteries of Heaven? To our own query we may venture a reply. Not long. Not long will such rank injustice be committed or permitted. A spirit is already abroad at war with it. And in every billow of the unceasing sea of Change—and in every breath, however gentle, of the wide atmosphere of Revolution encircling us, is that spirit steadily yet irresistibly at work.

"Who has not looked," says Mr. Chorley in his Preface, "with painful interest on the unreckoned-up account of misunderstanding and suspicion which exists between the World and the Artist? Who has not grieved to see the former willing to degrade Art into a mere plaything—to be enjoyed without respect, and then cast aside—instead of receiving her high works as among the most humanizing blessings ever vouchsafed to man by a beneficent Creator? Who has not suffered shame in observing the Artist bring his own calling into contempt by coarsely regarding it as a mere engine of money getting, or holding it up to reproach by making it the excuse for such eccentricities or grave errors as separate him from the rest of society?"

That genius should not and indeed cannot be bound down to the vulgar common-places of existence, is a maxim which, however true, has been too often repeated; and there have appeared on earth enough spirits of the loftiest and most brilliant order who have worthily taken their part in life as useful citizens, affectionate husbands, faithful friends, to deprive of their excuse all such as hold, that to despise and alienate the world is the inevitable and painfully glorious destiny of the highly gifted.

Very few of our readers, it may be, are acquainted with a particular class of works which has long exercised a very powerful influence on the private habits and character, as well as on the literature of the Germans. We speak of the Art Novels—the Kunstromanen—books written not so much in immediate defence, or in illustration, as in personification of individual portions of the Fine Arts—books which, in the guise of Romance, labor to the sole end of reasoning men into admiration and study of the beautiful, by a tissue of bizarre fiction, partly allegorical, and partly metaphysical. In Germany alone could so mad—or perhaps so profound—an idea have originated. From the statement of Mr. Chorley, we find that his original intention was to attempt something in the style of the Kunstromanen, with such modifications as might seem called for by the peculiar spirit of the British national tastes and literature. "It occurred to me, however," says he, "that the very speculations and reveries which appeared to myself so delicious and significant, might be rejected by the rest of the world as fantastic and overstrained." Mr. C. could never have persevered in a scheme so radically erroneous for more than a dozen pages; and neither the world nor himself will have cause to regret that he thought proper to abandon the Art Novels, and embody his fine powers and lofty design in so stirring and so efficient a series of paintings as may be found in the present volumes.

A single passage near the commencement of Conti, will afford to all those who feel and think, direct evidence of the extraordinary abilities of Mr. Chorley. Madame Zerlini is an Italian prima donna, who becoming enamored of Colonel Hardwycke, an Englishman, accompanies him to England as his mistress, and after living with him for twelve years, and bearing him a son, Julius, dies suddenly upon hearing of his intention to marry.

"A strange scene greeted his eyes (those of Julius) as he entered the spacious hall, which, as its windows fronted the east, was already beginning to be dusky with the shadows of twilight. On the lowest step of the stairs lay, in violent hysterics, one of the women servants—she was raving and weeping, half supported by two others, themselves trembling so as to be almost powerless.

"'And here's Master Julius, too!' exclaimed one of the group which obstructed his passage, 'and my master gone away—no one knows for how long. Lord have mercy upon us!—what are we to do, I wonder?'

"'Don't go up stairs!' shrieked the other, leaving her charge, and endeavoring to stop him. 'Don't go up stairs—it is all over!'

"But the boy, whose mind was full of other matters, and who, having wandered away in the morning, before the delirium became so violent, had no idea of his mother's imminent danger, broke from them without catching the meaning of their words, and forced his way up stairs, towards the great drawing room, the folding doors of which were swinging open.

"He went in. Madame Zerlini was there—flung down upon a sofa, in an attitude which, in life, it would have been impossible for her to maintain for many moments. Her head was cast back over one of the pillows, so far, that her long hair, which had been imperfectly fastened, had disengaged itself by its own weight, and was now sweeping heavily downward, with a crushed wreath of passion flowers and myrtles half buried among it. Every thing about her told how fiercely the spirit had passed. Her robe of scarlet muslin was entirely torn off on one shoulder, and disclosed its exquisitely rounded proportions. Her glittering negligé was unclasped, and one end of it clenched firmly in the small left hand, which there was now hardly any possibility of unclosing. Her glazed eyes were wide open—her mouth set in an unnatural, yet fascinating smile; her cheek still flushed with a more delicate, yet intense red than belongs to health; and the excited boy, who was rushing hastily into the room, with the rapid inquiry, 'Where is Father Vanezzi?' stood as fixed on the threshhold, with sudden and conscious horror, as if he had been a thing of marble."

It is not our intention to analyze, or even to give a compend of the Tale of Conti. Such are not the means by which any idea of its singular power can be afforded. We will content ourselves with saying that, in its prevailing tone, it bears no little resemblance to that purest, and most enthralling of fictions, the Bride of Lammermuir; and we have once before expressed our opinion of this, the master novel of Scott. It is not too much to say that no modern composition, and perhaps no composition whatever, with the single exception of Cervantes' Destruction of Numantia, approaches so nearly to the proper character of the dramas of Æschylus, as the magic tale of which Ravenswood is the hero. We are not aware of being sustained by any authority in this opinion—yet we do not believe it the less intrinsically correct.

The other pieces in the volumes of Mr. Chorley are, Margaret Sterne, or The Organist's Journey—an Essay on the Popular Love of Music—Rossini's Otello—The Imaginative Instrumental Writers, Haydn, Beethoven, &c.—The Village Beauty's Wedding—Handel's Messiah—and A few words upon National Music—all of which papers evince literary powers of a high order, an intimate acquaintance with the science of music, and a lofty and passionate devotion to its interests.

NOBLE DEEDS OF WOMAN.

Noble Deeds of Woman. 2 vols. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard.

These are two neat little volumes devoted to a theme of rich interest. From the Preface, or rather from the date and place of date of the Preface, we may form a guess that the work was originally published in London, and that the present edition is merely a reprint. There is nothing in the title-page or in the body of the book indicative of its derivation. But be the "Noble Deeds of Woman" English or American, we recommend them heartily to public attention.

The content-table is thus subdivided: Maternal Affection—Filial Affection—Sisterly Affection—Conjugal Affection—Humanity—Integrity—Benevolence—Fortitude. Under each of these separate heads are collected numerous anecdotes in the manner of the Brothers Percy. Of course it will be impossible to speak of them as a whole. Some are a little passés—for the most part they are piquant and well selected—a few are exceedingly entertaining and recherchés. From page 139, vol. i, we select one or two paragraphs which will be sure to find favor with all our readers. We rejoice in so excellent an opportunity of transferring to our columns a document well deserving preservation.

During the late war between the Turks and the Greeks, some American ladies, touched by the hardships and sufferings of the latter people, presented them with a ship containing money, and various articles of wearing apparel, wrought by their own hands; an offering which, under their forlorn situation, must have been highly acceptable to the unfortunate Greeks.

The letter of Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut, to the Ladies' Greek Committee of that place, to accompany the contributions prepared for the Archipelago, was as follows:

"United States of America, March 12, 1828. The ladies of Hartford, in Connecticut, to the ladies of Greece.

"Sisters and Friends,—From the years of childhood your native clime has been the theme of our admiration: together with our brothers and our husbands we early learned to love the country of Homer, Aristides, of Solon, and of Socrates. That enthusiasm which the glory of ancient Greece enkindled in our bosoms, has preserved a fervent friendship for her descendants. We have beheld with deep sympathy the horrors of Turkish domination, and the struggle so long and nobly sustained by them for existence and for liberty.

"The communications of Dr. Howe, since his return from your land, have made us more intimately acquainted with your personal sufferings. He has presented many of you to us in his vivid descriptions, as seeking refuge in caves, and, under the branches of olive trees, listening for the footsteps of the destroyer, and mourning over your dearest ones slain in battle.

"Sisters and friends, our hearts bleed for you. Deprived of your protectors by the fortune of war, and continually in fear of evils worse than death, our prayers are with you, in all your wanderings, your wants and your griefs. In this vessel (which may God send in safety to your shores) you will receive a portion of that bounty wherewith He hath blessed us. The poor among us have given according to their ability, and our little children have cheerfully aided, that some of you and your children might have bread to eat, and raiment to put on. Could you but behold the faces of our little ones brighten, and their eyes sparkle with joy, while they give up their holidays, that they might work with their needles for Greece; could you see those females who earn a subsistence by labor, gladly casting their mite into our treasury, and taking hours from their repose that an additional garment might be furnished for you; could you witness the active spirit that pervades all classes of our community, it would cheer for a moment the darkness and misery of your lot.

"We are inhabitants of a part of one of the smallest of the United States, and our donations must therefore, of necessity, be more limited than those from the larger and more wealthy cities; yet such as we have, we give in the name of our dear Saviour, with our blessings and our prayers.

"We know the value of sympathy—how it arms the heart to endure—how it plucks the sting from sorrow—therefore we have written these few lines to assure you, that in the remoter parts of our country, as well as in her high places, you are remembered with pity and with affection.

"Sisters and friends, we extend across the ocean our hands to you in the fellowship of Christ. We pray that His Cross and the banner of your land may rise together over the Crescent and the Minaret—that your sons may hail the freedom of ancient Greece restored, and build again the waste places which the oppressor hath trodden down; and that you, admitted once more to the felicities of home, may gather from past perils and adversities a brighter wreath for the kingdom of Heaven.

"LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY,

"Secretary of the Greek Committee of Hartford, Connecticut."

BULWER'S RIENZI.

Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes. By the Author of "Eugene Aram," "Last Days of Pompeii," &c. &c. Two Volumes in one. Philadelphia: Republished by E. L. Carey and A. Hart.

We have long learned to reverence the fine intellect of Bulwer. We take up any production of his pen with a positive certainty that, in reading it, the wildest passions of our nature, the most profound of our thoughts, the brightest visions of our fancy, and the most ennobling and lofty of our aspirations will, in due turn, be enkindled within us. We feel sure of rising from the perusal a wiser if not a better man. In no instance are we deceived. From the brief Tale—from the "Monos and Daimonos" of the author—to his most ponderous and labored novels—all is richly, and glowingly intellectual—all is energetic, or astute, or brilliant, or profound. There may be men now living who possess the power of Bulwer—but it is quite evident that very few have made that power so palpably manifest. Indeed we know of none. Viewing him as a novelist—a point of view exceedingly unfavorable (if we hold to the common acceptation of "the novel") for a proper contemplation of his genius—he is unsurpassed by any writer living or dead. Why should we hesitate to say this, feeling, as we do, thoroughly persuaded of its truth. Scott has excelled him in many points, and "The Bride of Lammormuir" is a better book than any individual work by the author of Pelham—"Ivanhoe" is, perhaps, equal to any. Descending to particulars, D'Israeli has a more brilliant, a more lofty, and a more delicate (we do not say a wilder) imagination. Lady Dacre has written Ellen Wareham, a more forcible tale of Passion. In some species of wit Theodore Hook rivals, and in broad humor our own Paulding surpasses him. The writer of "Godolphin" equals him in energy. Banim is a better sketcher of character. Hope is a richer colorist. Captain Trelawney is as original—Moore is as fanciful, and Horace Smith is as learned. But who is there uniting in one person the imagination, the passion, the humor, the energy, the knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, the fancy and the learning of Edward Lytton Bulwer? In a vivid wit—in profundity and a Gothic massiveness of thought—in style—in a calm certainty and definitiveness of purpose—in industry—and above all in the power of controlling and regulating by volition his illimitable faculties of mind, he is unequalled—he is unapproached.

As Rienzi is the last, so it is the best novel of Bulwer. In the Preface we are informed that the work was commenced two years ago at Rome, but abandoned upon the author's removing to Naples, for the "Last days of Pompeii"—a subject requiring, more than Rienzi, the advantage of a personal residence within reach of the scenes described. The idea of the present work, however, was never dismissed from the writer's mind, and soon after the publication of "Pompeii" he resumed his original undertaking. We are told that having had occasion to look into the original authorities whence are derived all the accounts of modern historians touching Rienzi, Mr. B. was induced to believe that no just picture of the Life or Times of that most remarkable man was at present in the hands of the people. Under this impression the novelist had at first meditated a work of History rather than of Fiction. We doubt, however, whether the spirit of the author's intention is not better fulfilled as it is. He has adhered with scrupulous fidelity to all the main events in the public life of his hero; and by means of the relief afforded through the personages of pure romance which form the filling in of the picture, he has been enabled more fully to develop the private character of the noble Roman. The reader may indeed be startled at the vast difference between the Rienzi of Mr. Bulwer, and the Rienzi of Sismondi, of Gibbon, and of Miss Mitford. But by neither of the two latter are we disposed to swear—and of Sismondi's impartiality we can at no moment be certain. Mr. B., moreover, very justly observes that as, in the work before us, all the acts are given from which is derived his interpretation of the principal agent, the public, having sufficient data for its own judgment, may fashion an opinion for itself.

Generally, the true chronology of Rienzi's life is preserved. In regard to the story—or that chain of fictitious incident usually binding up together the constituent parts of a Romance—there is very little of it in the book. This follows necessarily from the character of the composition—which is essentially Epic rather than Dramatic. The author's apology seems to us therefore supererogative when he says that a work which takes for its subject the crimes and errors of a nation and which ventures to seek the actual and the real in the highest stage of action or passion can rarely adopt with advantage the melo-dramatic effects produced by a vulgar mystery. In his pictures of the Roman populace, and in those of the Roman nobles of the fourteenth century—pictures full at all times of an enthralling interest—Mr. B. professes to have followed literally the descriptions left to us.

Miss Mitford's Rienzi will of course be remembered in reading that of Bulwer. There is however but one point of coincidence—a love-intrigue between a relative of the hero and one of the party of the nobles. This, it will be recollected, forms the basis of the plot of Miss M. In the Rienzi of Bulwer, it is an Episode not affecting in any manner either the story itself, or the destinies of the Tribune.

It is by no means our intention to give an analysis of the volume before us. Every person who reads at all will read Rienzi, and indeed the book is already in the hands of many millions of people. Any thing, therefore, like our usual custom of a digest of the narrative would be superfluous. The principal characters who figure in the novel are Rienzi himself—his brother, whose slaughter by a noble at the commencement of the story, is the immediate cause of Rienzi's change of temper and consequent exaltation—Adrian di Castello, a young noble of the family of Colonna but attached to the cause of the people—Martino di Porto the chief of the house of the Orsini—Stephen Colonna, the chief of the house of the Colonna—Walter de Montreal, a gentleman of Provence, a knight of St. John, and one of the formidable freebooters who at the head of large "Companies" invaded states and pillaged towns at the period of Rienzi's Revolution—Pandulfo di Guido a student, whom, under the appellation of Pandolficcio di Guido, Gibbon styles "the most virtuous citizen of Rome"—Cecco del Vecchio a smith—Giles D'Albornoz of the royal race of Arragon—Petrarch the poet, and the friend of Rienzi—Angelo Villani—Irene, the sister of the Tribune and betrothed to Adrian di Castello—Nina, Rienzi's wife—and Adeline, the mistress of Walter de Montreal.

But as was said before, we should err radically if we regard Rienzi altogether in the light of Romance. Undoubtedly as such—as a fiction, and coming under the title of a novel, it is a glorious, a wonderful conception, and not the less wonderfully and gloriously carried out. What else could we say of a book over which the mind so delightedly lingers in perusal? In its delineations of passion and character—in the fine blending and contrasting of its incidents—in the rich and brilliant tints of its feudal paintings—in a pervading air of chivalry, and grace, and sentiment—in all that can throw a charm over the pages of Romance, the last novel of Bulwer is equal, if not superior, to any of his former productions. Still we should look at the work in a different point of view. It is History. We hesitate not to say that it is History in its truest—in its only true, proper, and philosophical garb. Sismondi's works—were not. There is no greater error than dignifying with the name of History a tissue of dates and details, though the dates be ordinarily correct, and the details indisputably true. Not even with the aid of acute comment will such a tissue satisfy our individual notions of History. To the effect let us look—to the impression rather than to the seal. And how very seldom is any definite impression left upon the mind of the historical reader! How few bear away—even from the pages of Gibbon—Rome and the Romans. Vastly different was the genius of Niebuhr—than whom no man possessed a more discriminative understanding of the uses and the purposes of the pen of the historiographer. But we digress. Bearing in mind that "to contemplate"—ιςορειν^1—should and must be allowed a more noble and a more expansive acceptation than has been usually given it, we shall often discover in Fiction the essential spirit and vitality of Historic Truth—while Truth itself, in many a dull and lumbering Archive, shall be found guilty of all the inefficiency of Fiction.

1 History, from ιςορειν, to contemplate, seems, among the Greeks, to have embraced not only the knowledge of past events, but also Mythology, Esopian, and Milesian fables, Romance, Tragedy and Comedy. But our business is with things, not words.

Rienzi, then, is History. But there are other aspects in which it may be regarded with advantage. Let us survey it as a profound and lucid exposition of the morale of Government—of the Philosophies of Rule and Misrule—of the absolute incompatibility of Freedom and Ignorance—Tyranny in the few and Virtue in the many. Let us consider it as something akin to direct evidence that a people is not a mob, nor a mob a people, nor a mob's idol the idol of a people—that in a nation's self is the only security for a nation—and that it is absolutely necessary to model upon the character of the governed, the machinery, whether simple or complex, of the governmental legislation.

It is proper—we are persuaded—that Rienzi should be held up in these many different points of view, if we desire fully to appreciate its own merits and the talents of Mr. Bulwer. But regard it as we will, it is an extraordinary work—and one which leaves nothing farther to accomplish in its own particular region. It is vastly superior to the "Last Days of Pompeii"—more rich—more glowing, and more vigorous. With all and more than all the distinguishing merits of its noble predecessor, it has none of its chilliness—none of that platitude which (it would not be difficult to say why) is the inevitable result of every attempt at infusing warmth among the marble wildernesses, and vitality into the statue-like existences, of the too-distantly antique.

We will conclude our notice of Rienzi with an Extract. We choose it not with any view of commending it above others—for the book has many equally good and some better—but to give our readers—such of them as have not yet seen the novel, an opportunity of comparing the passage with some similar things in Boccaccio. We may as well say that in all which constitutes good writing the Englishman is infinitely the superior. What we select is Chapter V, of the sixth Book. Irene, the betrothed of the noble Roman Adrian di Castello, being in Florence during the time of the Great Plague, is sought by her lover at the peril of his life. Overpowered by a fever he meets with Irene—but his delirium prevents a recognition. She conveys him to one of the deserted mansions, and officiates as his nurse. Having thrown aside her mantle, under the impression that it retained the infection of the Pestilence, it is found and worn by another.

THE ERROR.

For three days, the three fatal days, did Adrian remain bereft of strength and sense. But he was not smitten by the scourge which his devoted and generous nurse had anticipated. It was a fierce and dangerous fever, brought on by the great fatigue, restlessness, and terrible agitation he had undergone.

No professional mediciner could be found to attend him but a good friar, better perhaps skilled in the healing art than many who claimed its monopoly, visited him daily. And in the long and frequent absences to which his other and numerous duties compelled the monk, there was one ever at hand to smooth the pillow, to wipe the brow, to listen to the moan, to watch the sleep. And even in that dismal office, when, in the frenzy of the sufferer, her name, coupled with terms of passionate endearment, broke from his lips, a thrill of strange pleasure crossed the heart of the betrothed, which she chid as if it were a crime. But even the most unearthly love is selfish in the rapture of being loved! Words cannot tell, heart cannot divine, the mingled emotions that broke over her when, in some of those incoherent ravings, she dimly understood that for her the city had been sought, the death dared, the danger incurred. And as then bending passionately to kiss that burning brow, her tears fell fast over the idol of her youth, the fountains from which they gushed were those, fathomless and countless, which a life could not weep away. Not an impulse of the human and the woman heart that was not stirred; the adoring gratitude, the meek wonder thus to be loved, while deeming it so simple a merit thus to love;—as if all sacrifice in her were a thing of course,—to her, a virtue nature could not paragon, worlds could not repay! And there he lay, the victim to his own fearless faith, helpless—dependent upon her—a thing between life and death, to thank, to serve—to be proud of, yet to protect—to compassionate, yet revere—the saver, to be saved! Never seemed one object to demand at once from a single heart so many and so profound emotions; the romantic enthusiasm of the girl!—the fond idolatry of the bride—the watchful providence of the mother over her child.

And strange to say, with all the excitement of that lonely watch, scarcely stirring from his side, taking food only that her strength might not fail her,—unable to close her eyes—though, from the same cause, she would fain have taken rest, when slumber fell upon her charge—with all such wear and tear of frame and heart, she seemed wonderfully supported. And the holy man marvelled, in each visit, to see the cheek of the nurse still fresh, and her eye still bright. In her own superstition she thought and felt that Heaven gifted her with a preternatural power to be true to so sacred a charge: and in this fancy she did not wholly err;—for Heaven did gift her with that diviner power, when it planted in so soft a heart the enduring might and energy of Affection! The friar had visited the sick man, late on the third night, and administered to him a strong sedative—"This night," said he to Irene, "will be the crisis—should he awaken, as I trust he may, with a returning consciousness, and a calm pulse, he will live—if not, young daughter, prepare for the worst. But should you note any turn in the disease, that may excite alarm, or require my attendance, this scroll will inform you where I am if God spare me still, at each hour of the night and morning."

The monk retired and Irene resumed her watch.

The sleep of Adrian was at first broken and interrupted—his features, his exclamations, his gestures, all evinced great agony whether mental or bodily—it seemed, as perhaps it was, a fierce and doubtful struggle between life and death for the conquest of the sleeper. Patient, silent, breathing but by long-drawn gasps, Irene sate at the bed-head. The lamp was removed to the further end of the chamber, and its ray, shaded by the draperies, did not suffice to give to her gaze more than the outline of the countenance she watched. In that awful suspense, all the thoughts that hitherto had stirred her mind lay hushed and mute. She was only sensible to that unutterable fear which few of us have been happy enough not to know. That crushing weight under which we can scarcely breathe or move, the avalanche over us, freezing and suspended, which we cannot escape from, with which, every moment, we may be buried and overwhelmed. The whole destiny of life was in the chances of that single night! It was just as Adrian at last seemed to glide into a deeper and serener slumber, that the bells of the death-cart broke with their boding knell the palpable silence of the streets. Now hushed, now revived, as the cart stopped for its gloomy passengers, and coming nearer and nearer after every pause. At length she heard the heavy wheels stop under the very casement, and a voice deep and muffled calling aloud "Bring out the dead!" She rose, and with a noiseless step, passed to secure the door, when the dull lamp gleamed upon the dark and shrouded forms of the Becchini.

"You have not marked the door, nor set out the body," said one gruffly, "but this is the third night! He is ready for us!"

"Hush, he sleeps—away, quick, it is not the Plague that seized him."

"Not the Plague," growled the Becchino in a disappointed tone, "I thought no other illness dared encroach upon the rights of the gavocciolo!"

"Go, here's money, leave us."

And the grisly carrier sullenly withdrew. The cart moved on, the bell renewed its summons, till slowly and faintly the dreadful larum died in the distance.

Shading the lamp with her hand, Irene stole to the bed-side, fearful that the sound and the intrusion had disturbed the slumberer. But his face was still locked, as in a vice, with that iron sleep. He stirred not—his breath scarcely passed his lips—she felt his pulse, as the wand lay on the coverlid—there was a slight heat—she was contented—removed the light, and, retiring to a corner of the room, placed the little cross suspended round her neck upon the table, and prayed—in her intense suffering—to Him who had known death, and who—Son of Heaven though he was, and Sovereign of the Seraphim—had also prayed, in his earthly travail, that the cup might pass away.

The morning broke, not, as in the north, slowly and through shadow, but with the sudden glory with which in those climates Day leaps upon earth—like a giant from his sleep. A sudden smile—a burnished glow—and night had vanished. Adrian still slept; not a muscle seemed to have stirred; the sleep was even heavier than before; the silence became a burthen upon the air. Now, in that exceeding torpor so like unto death, the solitary watcher became alarmed and terrified. Time passed—morning glided to noon—still not a sound nor motion. The sun was mid-way in heaven—the friar came not. And now again touching Adrian's pulse, she felt no flutter—she gazed on him, appalled and confounded; surely nought living could be so still and pale. "Was it indeed sleep, might it not be ——." She turned away, sick and frozen; her tongue clove to her lips. Why did the father tarry—she would go to him—she would learn the worst—she could forbear no longer. She glanced over the scroll the monk had left her: "From sunrise," it said, "I shall be at the Convent of the Dominicans. Death has stricken many of the brethren." The Convent was at some distance, but she knew the spot, and fear would wing her steps. She gave one wistful look at the sleeper, and rushed from the house. "I shall see thee again presently," she murmured. Alas! what hope can calculate beyond the moment. And who shall claim the tenure of "The Again!"

It was not many minutes after Irene had left the room, ere, with a long sigh, Adrian opened his eyes—an altered and another man; the fever was gone, the reviving pulse beat low indeed, but calm. His mind was once more master of his body, and, though weak and feeble, the danger was past, and life and intellect regained.

"I have slept long," he muttered—"and oh such dreams—and methought I saw Irene, but could not speak to her; and while I attempted to grasp her, her face changed, her form dilated, and I was in the clutch of the foul grave-digger. It is late—the sun is high—I must be up and stirring. Irene is in Lombardy. No, no; that was a lie, a wicked lie—she is at Florence—I must renew my search."

As this duty came to his remembrance, he rose from the bed—he was amazed at his own debility; at first he could not stand without support from the wall—by degrees, however, he so far regained the mastery of his limbs, as to walk, though with effort and pain. A ravening hunger preyed upon him; he found some scanty and light food in the chamber, which he devoured eagerly. And with scarce less eagerness laved his enfeebled form and haggard face with the water that stood at hand. He now felt refreshed and invigorated, and began to indue his garments, which he found thrown on a heap beside the bed. He gazed with surprise and a kind of self-compassion upon his emaciated hands and shrunken limbs, and began now to comprehend that he must have had some severe but unconscious illness. "Alone too," thought he, "no one near to tend me! Nature my only nurse! But alas! alas! how long a time may thus have been wasted, and my adored Irene——quick, quick, not a moment more will I lose."

He soon found himself in the open street; the air revived him; and that morning, the first known for weeks, had sprung up the blessed breeze. He wandered on very slowly and feebly till he came to a broad square, from which, in the vista, might be seen one of the principal gates of Florence, and the fig-trees and olive-groves beyond. It was then that a pilgrim of tall stature approached towards him as from the gate; his hood was thrown back, and gave to view a countenance of great but sad command; a face, in whose high features, massive brow, and proud, unshrinking gaze, shaded by an expression of melancholy more stern than soft, Nature seemed to have written majesty, and Fate disaster. As in that silent and dreary place, these two, the only tenants of the street, now encountered, Adrian stopped abruptly, and said in a startled and doubting voice: "Do I dream still, or do I behold Rienzi?"

The pilgrim paused also, as he heard the name, and gazing long on the attenuated features of the young lord, said: "I am he that was Rienzi! and you, pale shadow, is it in this grave of Italy that I meet with the gay and high Colonna? Alas, young friend," he added in a more relaxed and kindly voice, "hath the Plague not spared the flower of the Roman nobles? Come, I, the cruel and the harsh tribune, I will be thy nurse: he who might have been my brother, shall yet claim from me a brother's care."

With these words, he wound his arm tenderly round Adrian; and the young noble, touched by his compassion, and agitated by the surprize, leant upon Rienzi's breast in silence.

"Poor youth," resumed the Tribune, for so since rather fallen than deposed he may yet be called, "I ever loved the young; (my brother died young!) and you more than most. What fatality brought thee hither?"

"Irene!" replied Adrian falteringly.

"Is it so, really? Art thou a Colonna, and yet prize the fallen? The same duty has brought me also to the City of Death. From the farthest south—over the mountains of the robber—through the fastnesses of my foes—through towns in which the herald proclaimed in my ear the price of my head—I have passed hither, on foot and alone, safe under the wings of the Almighty One. Young man, thou shouldst have left this task to one who bears a wizard's life, and whom Heaven and Earth yet reserve for an appointed end!"

The Tribune said this in a deep and inward voice; and in his raised eye and solemn brow might be seen how much his reverses had deepened his fanaticism, and added even to the sanguineness of his hopes.

"But," asked Adrian, withdrawing gently from Rienzi's arm, "thou knowest, then, where Irene is to be found, let us go together. Lose not a moment in this talk—time is of inestimable value, and a moment in this city is often but the border to eternity."

"Right," said Rienzi, awakening to his object. "But fear not; I have dreamt that I shall save her, the gem and darling of my house. Fear not—I have no fear."

"Know you where to seek," said Adrian, impatiently; "the convent holds far other guests."

"Ha! so said my dream!"

"Talk not now of dreams," said the lover, "but if you have no other guide, let us part at once in quest of her; I will take yonder street, you take the opposite, and at sunset let us meet in the same spot."

"Rash man," said the Tribune, with great solemnity, "scoff not at the visions which Heaven makes a parable to its Chosen. Thou seekest counsel of thy human wisdom; I, less presumptuous, follow the hand of the mysterious Providence, moving even now before my gaze as a pillar of light, through the wilderness of dread. Ay, meet we here at sunset, and prove whose guide is the most unerring. If my dream tell me true, I shall see my sister living, ere the sun reach yonder hill, and by a church dedicated to St. Mark."

The grave earnestness with which Rienzi spoke, impressed Adrian with a hope his reason would not acknowledge. He saw him depart with that proud and stately step to which his sweeping garments gave a yet more imposing dignity, and then passed up the street to the right hand. He had not got half way when he felt himself pulled by the mantle. He turned and saw the shapeless mask of a Becchino.

"I feared you were sped, and that another had cheated me of my office," said the grave-digger, "seeing that you returned not to the old prince's palace. You don't know me from the rest of us, I see, but I am the one you told to seek——"

"Irene!"

"Yes, Irene di Gabrini, you promised ample reward."

"You shall have it."

"Follow me."

The Becchino strode on, and soon arrived at a mansion. He knocked twice at the porter's entrance; an old woman cautiously opened the door. "Fear not, good aunt," said the grave-digger, "this is the young lord I spoke to thee of. Thou sayest thou hadst two ladies in the palace, who alone survived of all the lodgers, and their names were Bianca di Medici, and—what was the other?"

"Irene di Gabrini, a Roman lady. But I told thee this was the fourth day they left the house, terrified by the deaths within it."

"Thou didst so—and was there any thing remarkable in the dress of the Signora di Gabrini?"

"Yes, I have told thee, a blue mantle, such as I have rarely seen, wrought with silver."

"Was the broidery that of stars, silver stars," exclaimed Adrian, "with a sun in the centre."

"It was!"

"Alas! alas! the arms of the Tribune's family! I remember how I praised the mantle the first day she wore it—the day on which we were betrothed!" And the lover at once conjectured the secret sentiment which had induced Irene to retain so carefully a robe so endeared by association.

"You know no more of your lodgers?"

"Nothing."

"And is this all you have learnt, knave?" cried Adrian.

"Patience. I must bring you from proof to proof, and link to link, in order to win my reward. Follow, Signor."

The Becchino then passing through the several lanes and streets, arrived at another house of less magnificent size and architecture. Again he tapped thrice at the parlor door, and this time came forth a man withered, old, and palsied, whom death seemed to disdain to strike.

"Signor Astuccio," said the Becchino, "pardon me; but I told thee I might trouble thee again. This is the gentleman who wants to know, what is often best unknown—but that's not my affair. Did a lady—young and beautiful—with dark hair, and of a slender form, enter this house, stricken with the first symptom of the plague, three days since?"

"Ay, thou knowest that well enough—and thou knowest still better—that she has departed these two days; it was quick work with her, quicker than with most!"

"Did she wear any thing remarkable?"

"Yes, troublesome man, a blue cloak with stars of silver."

"Couldst thou guess aught of her previous circumstances?"

"No, save that she raved much about the nunnery of Santa Maria dei Pazza, and bravos, and sacrilege."

"Are you satisfied, Signor?" asked the grave-digger, with an air of triumph, turning to Adrian. "But no, I will satisfy thee better, if thou hast courage. Wilt thou follow?"

"I comprehend thee; lead on. Courage! what is there on earth now to fear?"

Muttering to himself—"Ay, leave me alone. I have a head worth something; I ask no gentleman to go by my word; I will make his own eyes the judge of what my trouble is worth." The grave-digger now led the way through one of the gates a little out of the city. And here under a shed sat six of his ghastly and ill-omened brethren, with spades and pick-axes at their feet.

His guide now turned round to Adrian, whose face was set and resolute in despair.

"Fair Signor," said he, with some touch of lingering compassion, "wouldst thou really convince thine own eyes and heart; the sight may appal, the contagion may destroy thee,—if, indeed, as it seems to me, Death has not already written 'mine' upon thee."

"Raven of bode and woe," answered Adrian, "seest thou not that all I shrink from is thy voice and aspect? Show me her I seek, living or dead."

"I will show her to you, then," said the Becchino, sullenly, "such as two nights since she was committed to my charge. Line and lineament may already be swept away, for the Plague hath a rapid besom; but I have left that upon her by which you will know the Becchino is no liar. Bring hither the torches, comrades, and lift the door. Never stare; it's the gentleman's whim, and he'll pay it well."

Turning to the right, while Adrian mechanically followed his conductors,—a spectacle whose dire philosophy crushes as with a wheel all the pride of mortal man—the spectacle of that vault in which earth hides all that on earth flourished, rejoiced, exulted—awaited his eye!

The Becchino lifted a ponderous grate, lowered their torches (scarcely needed, for through the aperture rushed, with a hideous glare, the light of the burning sun,) and motioned to Adrian to advance. He stood upon the summit of the abyss and gazed below.

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It was a large, deep and circular space, like the bottom of an exhausted well. In niches cut into the walls of earth around, lay, duly confined, those who had been the earliest victims of the plague, when the Becchino's market was not yet glutted, and priest followed, and friend mourned, the dead. But on the floor below, there was the loathsome horror! Huddled and matted together,—some naked, some in shrouds already black and rotten,—lay the later guests, the unshriven and unblest! The torches, the sun, streamed broad and red over corruption in all its stages, from the pale blue tint and swollen shape, to the moistened undistinguishable mass, or the riddled bones, where yet clung, in strips and tatters, the black and mangled flesh. In many the face remained almost perfect, while the rest of the body was but bone; the long hair, the human face, surmounting the grisly skeleton. There, was the infant, still on the mother's breast; there, was the lover stretched across the dainty limbs of his adored! The rats (for they clustered in numbers to that feast,) disturbed, not scared, sate up from their horrid meal as the light glimmered over them, and thousands of them lay round, stark and dead, poisoned by that they fed on! There, too, the wild satire of the grave-diggers had cast, though stripped of their gold and jewels, the emblems that spoke of departed rank;—the broken wand of the Councillor; the General's baton; the Priestly Mitre! The foul and livid exhalations gathered like flesh itself, fungous and putrid, upon the walls, and the——

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But who shall detail the ineffable and unimaginable horrors that reigned over the Palace where the Great King received the prisoners whom the sword of the Pestilence had subdued.

But through all that crowded court—crowded with beauty and with birth, with the strength of the young and the honors of the old, and the valor of the brave, and the wisdom of the learned, and the wit of the scorner, and the piety of the faithful—one only figure attracted Adrian's eye. Apart from the rest, a late comer—the long locks streaming far and dark over arm and breast—lay a female, the face turned partially aside, the little seen not recognisable even by the mother of the dead,—but wrapped round in that fatal mantle, on which, though blackened and tarnished, was yet visible the starry heraldry assumed by those who claimed the name of the proud Tribune of Rome. Adrian saw no more—he fell back in the arms of the grave diggers: when he recovered, he was still without the gates of Florence—reclined upon a green mound—his guide stood beside him—holding his steed by the bridle as it grazed patiently on the neglected grass. The other brethren of the axe had resumed their seat under the shed.

"So you have revived; ah! I thought it was only the effluvia; few stand it as we do. And so, as your search is over, deeming you would not be quitting Florence if you have any sense left to you, I went for your good horse. I have fed him since your departure from the palace. Indeed I fancied he would be my perquisite, but there are plenty as good. Come, young Sir, mount. I feel a pity for you, I know not why, except that you are the only one I have met for weeks who seem to care for another more than for yourself. I hope you are satisfied now that I showed some brains, eh! in your service, and as I have kept my promise, you'll keep yours."

"Friend," said Adrian, "here is gold enough to make thee rich; here too is a jewel that merchants will tell thee princes might vie to purchase. Thou seemest honest, despite thy calling, or thou mightest have robbed and murdered me long since. Do me one favor more."

"By my poor mother's soul, yes."

"Take yon—yon clay from that fearful place. Inter it in some quiet and remote spot—apart—alone! You promise me—you swear it—it is well. And now help me on my horse."

"Farewell Italy, and if I die not with this stroke, may I die as befits at once honor and despair—with trumpet and banner round me—in a well-fought field against a worthy foe!—save a knightly death nothing is left to live for!"

Here, in many incidents of extraordinary force—in the call of the Becchini on the third night—in the most agonizing circumstance of Irene's abandonment of Adrian—in the bodily weakness and mental prostration of that young nobleman—in the desolation of the streets—in the meeting with Rienzi—in the colossal dignity of the words, "I am he that was Rienzi!"—in the affectionate attention of the fallen hero—and lastly, in the appalling horror of the vault and its details—may be seen and will be felt much, but not all, of the exceeding power of the "Last of the Tribunes."

ROGET'S PHYSIOLOGY.

Animal and Vegetable Physiology, considered with reference to Natural Theology. By Peter Mark Roget, M.D. Secretary to the Royal Society, &c. &c. 2 vols, large octavo. Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.

As we have no doubt that the great majority of our readers are acquainted with the circumstances attending the publication of the Bridgewater Treatises, we shall content ourselves with a very brief statement of those circumstances, by way of introduction to some few observations respecting this, the fifth of the Series.

Francis Henry, Earl of Bridgewater, who died some time in the beginning of the year 1829, directed certain Trustees mentioned in his Will, to invest eight thousand pounds sterling in the public funds, which eight thousand pounds, with the interest accruing, was to be under the control of the President, for the time being, of the Royal Society of London. The money thus invested, was to be paid by the President to such person or persons as he, the President, should appoint to "write, print and publish, one thousand copies of a work, On the Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifested in the Creation; illustrating such work by all reasonable arguments, as, for instance, the variety and formation of God's creatures, in the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms; the effect of digestion, and thereby of conversion; the construction of the hand of man, and an infinite variety of other arguments; as also by discoveries ancient and modern, in arts, sciences, and the whole extent of literature." The profits of the works were to be paid to the authors.

Davies Gilbert, Esq. being President of the Royal Society, advised with the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, and "a nobleman immediately connected with the deceased," in regard to the best mode of carrying into effect the design of the testator. It was finally resolved to divide the eight thousand pounds among eight gentlemen, who were to compose eight Treatises as follows. Thomas Chalmers, D.D. Professor of Divinity in the University of Edinburgh, was to write on "The Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifested in the Adaptation of External Nature to the Moral and Intellectual Constitution of Man,"—John Kidd, M.D. F. R. S. Regius Professor of Medicine in the University of Oxford, on "The Adaptation of External Nature to the Physical Condition of Man,"—William Whewell, M.A. F. R. S. Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, on "Astronomy and General Physics considered with reference to Natural Theology,"—Sir Charles Bell, K. G. H. F. R. S. L. and E. on "The Hand: its Mechanism and Vital Endowments as Evincing Design,"—Peter Mark Roget, M.D. Fellow of and Secretary to the Royal Society, on "Animal and Vegetable Physiology,"—William Buckland, D.D. F. R. S. Professor of Geology in the University of Oxford, on "Geology and Mineralogy,"—William Kirby, M.A. F. R. S., on "The History, Habits, and Instincts of Animals"—and William Prout, M.D. F. R. S., on "Chemistry, Meteorology, and the Function of Digestion, considered with Reference to Natural Theology."

However excellent and praiseworthy the intention of the Earl of Bridgewater, and however liberal the sum bequeathed, there can be little doubt that in the wording of his bequest, in the encumbering of the work so nobly proposed with a specification of the arguments to be employed in its execution, he has offered a very serious impediment to the fulfilment of the spirit of his design. It is perhaps, too, a matter of regret, that the introduction of the words "person or persons" in the paragraph touching the contemplated publication, should have left it optional with the President of the Royal Society to divide the eight thousand pounds among so many. We are sorry that the eight treatises were determined upon for several reasons. First, we do not believe any such arrangement to have been contemplated by the testator—his words "write, print, and publish one thousand copies of a work," &c., inducing the opinion that one single book or treatise was intended: and we the rather hold to this belief, as it might easily be proved (we will speak farther of this hereafter,) that the whole argument set forth in the words of the Testament, and indeed the whole arguments of the whole eight Treatises now published, might have been readily discussed in one connected work of no greater bulk than the Physiology whose title forms the heading of this article. In the second place—the bequest of the eight thousand pounds, which en masse, is magnificent, and which might thus have operated as a sufficient inducement for some one competent person to devote a sufficiency of time to the steady and gradual completion of a noble and extraordinary work—this bequest, we say, is somewhat of a common-place affair when we regard it in its subdivision. Thirdly, one thousand pounds is but little for the labor necessary in a work like any one of the Treatises, and we are mistaken if the "profits of the sales" meet in any degree either the merits or the expectations of the respective authors. If they do, however, it is a matter altogether foreign to and apart from the liberality of the testator—a liberality whose proper development should have been scrupulously borne in view by the Trustee. Fourthly—the result of the combination of a number of intellects is seldom in any case—never in a case like the present—equal to the sum of the results of the same intellects laboring individually—the difference, generally, being in precise ratio with the number of the intellects engaged. It follows that each writer of a Bridgewater Treatise has been employed at a disadvantage. Lastly—an accurate examination of the nature and argument of each Treatise as allotted, will convince one a priori that the whole must, in any attempt at a full discussion, unavoidably run one into the other—this indeed in so very great a degree that each Treatise respectively would embody a vast quantity of matter, (handled in a style necessarily similar) to be found in each and all of the remaining seven Treatises. Here again is not only labor wasted by the writers—but, by the readers of the works, much time and trouble unprofitably thrown away. We say that this might have been proved a priori by an inspection of the arguments of the Treatises. It has been fully proved, a posteriori, by the fact: and this fact will go far in establishing what we asserted in our first reason for disapproving of the subdivision—to wit: that the whole argument of the whole eight Treatises might have been readily discussed in one connected work of no greater bulk than the Physiology now before us.

We cannot bring ourselves to think Dr. Roget's book the best of the Bridgewater series, although we have heard it so called. Indeed in the very singular and too partial arrangement of the subjects, it would have been really a matter for wonder if Dr. Whewell had not written the best, and Sir Charles Bell the worst of the Treatises. The talents of Dr. Roget, however, are a sufficient guarantee that he has furnished no ordinary work. We are grieved to learn from the Preface that his progress has been greatly impeded by "long protracted anxieties and afflictions, and by the almost overwhelming pressure of domestic calamity."

The chief difficulty of the Physiologist in handling a subject of so vast and almost interminable extent as the science to which his labors have been devoted—a science comprehending all the animal and vegetable beings in existence—has evidently been the difficulty of selection from an exuberance of materials. He has excluded from the Treatise—(it was necessary to exclude a great deal)—"all those particulars of the natural history both of animals and plants, and all description of those structures, of which the relation to final causes cannot be distinctly traced." In a word, he has admitted such facts alone as afford palpable evidence of Almighty design. He has also abstained from entering into historical accounts of the progress of discovery—the present state of Physiological science being his only aim. The work is illustrated by nearly 500 wood cuts by Mr. Byfield, and references in the Index to passages in the volumes where terms of mere technical science have been explained. Appended are also a catalogue of the engravings, and a tabular view of the classification of animals adopted by Cuvier in his "Regne Animal" with examples included. This Table is reprinted from that in the author's "Introductory Lecture on Human and Comparative Physiology," published in 1826. Such alterations, however, have been introduced as were requisite to make the Table correspond with Cuvier's second edition.

CAREY'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

We have been delighted with the perusal of this book, and consider it one of the most instructive as well as one of the most amusing of autobiographies. The ruling feature of the work is candor—a candor of the rarest and noblest description. The author has not scrupled, or even hesitated, in a single instance to declare, without prevarication, the truth and the whole truth, however little redounding to his own credit. Nor in the details so frankly laid before the eye of the public, are the many—very many other excellent qualities less manifest, which have exalted the autobiographer to so enviable a station in the opinions of his fellow-citizens. In the whole private and public course of Mr. Mathew Carey, from that chivalrous Essay against Duelling, of which he has rendered so amusing an account in the commencement of his "Life," to the more important yet equally Quixottic publication of the Olive Branch, the strictest scrutiny can detect nothing derogatory to the character of "the noblest work of God, an honest man." His energy, his high-mindedness, and his indomitable perseverance, will force themselves upon the most casual observer. It is not surprising that, with qualifications so well adapted for success in life, Mr. C. should have been enabled finally to set at defiance the innumerable obstacles which obstructed his path. Indeed, although few men have labored under greater incidental disadvantages, very few have been better prepared to overcome them by both moral and physical constitution.

There is much in these Memoirs of Mr. Carey, which will bring to the mind of the reader Benjamin Franklin, his shrewdness, his difficulties, and his indefatigability. It is therefore almost unnecessary to add, that apart from its other merits, the Autobiography now before us has all the value so unequivocally due to good example. Its perusal cannot well fail of having a salutary effect upon those who struggle with adversity—of imparting a salutary strength to all who grow feeble under the pressure of the innumerable harassing cares which encumber and weigh so ponderously upon the "man of the world." It may, indeed, if rightly considered, have a still more beneficial influence. It may incite to good deeds. It may induce a love of our fellow-men, in many bosoms hitherto self-hardened against the urgent demands of philanthropy. What so likely to bring about a kindly spirit in any human heart as the contemplation of a kindly spirit in others?

It is perhaps already known to many that Mr. Carey was born in Dublin in 1760. His hatred of oppression, which broke out, as early as his seventeenth year, in the "Essay against Duelling," to which we have already alluded, and which, in 1779, rendered him obnoxious to the British Government, and forced him into a temporary exile, at length, in 1784, made it necessary for him to abandon his country altogether, and seek an asylum in America. He arrived in Philadelphia, greatly embarrassed in his pecuniary circumstances; and an incident by means of which he obtained relief, has proved of so deep interest to ourselves, that we cannot but think it may prove equally so to our readers. We copy the following from page 10 of the Autobiography.

Behold me now landed in Philadelphia, with about a dozen guineas in my pocket, without relation, or friend, and even without an acquaintance, except my compagnons de voyage, of whom very few were eligible associates.

While I was contemplating a removal into the country, where I could have boarded at about a dollar or a dollar and a quarter a week, intending to wait the arrival of my funds, a most extraordinary and unlooked-for circumstance occurred, which changed my purpose, gave a new direction to my views, and, in some degree, colored the course of my future life. It reflects great credit on the Marquess de La Fayette, who was then at Mount Vernon, to take leave of Gen. Washington. A young gentleman of the name of Wallace, a fellow passenger of mine, had brought letters of recommendation to the General; and having gone to his seat to deliver them, fell into the Marquess's company, and in the course of conversation, the affairs of Ireland came on the tapis. The Marquess, who had, in the Philadelphia papers, seen an account of my adventures with the Parliament, and the persecution I had undergone, inquired of Wallace, what had become of the poor persecuted Dublin printer? He replied, "he came passenger with me, and is now in Philadelphia," stating the boarding house where I had pitched my tent. On the arrival of the Marquess in this city, he sent me a billet, requesting to see me at his lodgings, whither I went. He received me with great kindness; condoled with me on the persecution I had undergone; inquired into my prospects;—and having told him that I proposed, on receipt of my funds, to set up a newspaper, he approved the idea, and promised to recommend me to his friends, Robert Morris, Thomas Fitzsimons, &c. &c. After half an hour's conversation, we parted. Next morning, while I was at breakfast, a letter from him was handed me, which, to my very great surprise, contained four one hundred dollar notes of the Bank of North America. This was the more extraordinary and liberal, as not a word had passed between us on the subject of giving or receiving, borrowing or lending money. And a remarkable feature in the affair was, that the letter did not contain a word of reference to the enclosure.

In the course of the day I went to his lodgings, and found that he had, an hour or two previously, departed for Princeton, where Congress then sat, having been in some measure driven from Philadelphia, by a mutiny among the soldiers, who were clamorous for their pay, and had kept them in a state of siege for three hours in the State House. I wrote to him to New York, whither, I understood, he had gone from Princeton, expressive of my gratitude in the strongest terms, and received a very kind and friendly answer.

I cannot pass over this noble trait in the character of the illustrious Marquess, without urging it strongly on the overgrown wealthy of our country, as an example worthy of imitation. Here was a foreign nobleman, who had devoted years of the prime of his life, and greatly impaired his fortune, in the service of a country, separated by thousands of miles distance from his native land. After these mighty sacrifices, he meets, by an extraordinary accident, with a poor persecuted young man, destitute of friends and protectors—his heart expands towards him—he freely gives him means of making a living without the most remote expectation of return, or of ever again seeing the object of his bounty. He withdraws from the city to avoid the expression of the gratitude of the beneficiary. I have more than once assumed, and I now repeat, that I doubt whether in the whole life of this (I had almost said) unparalleled man, there is to be found any thing, which, all the circumstances of the case considered, more highly elevates his character.1

1 It is due to myself to state, that though this was in every sense of the word a gift, I regarded it as a loan, payable to the Marquess's countrymen, according to the exalted sentiment of Dr. Franklin, who, when he presented a bill for ten pounds to the Rev. Mr. Nixon, an Irish Clergyman, (who was in distress in Paris, and wanted to migrate to America,) told him to pay the sum to any Americans whom he might find in distress, and thus "let good offices go round." I fully paid the debt to Frenchmen in distress—consigned one or two hogsheads of tobacco to the Marquess, (I believe it was two, but am uncertain,) and, moreover, when in 1824, he reached this country, with shattered fortunes, sent him to New York, a check for the full sum of four hundred dollars, which he retained till he reached Philadelphia, and was very reluctant to use, and finally consented only at my earnest instance.

The annexed little anecdote, which Mr. Carey justly considers an instance of the truest pathos, we must be pardoned for inserting as an appropriate pendant to the above.

To an importunate mendicant, whom I had sometimes relieved, I said one day, on giving him a trifle—"Do not let me see you again for a long time." He conformed to the direction, and refrained from applying for about seven months. At length he ventured to bring and hand me a billet, of which I annex a copy verbatim et literatim.

"Sir—You desired me, last time you relieved me, not to call for a long time. It was a few days after Easter. To a wretch in distress 'it is a very long time.'

Yours gratefully,

Nov. 14.

R. W."

At page 21, is an account of a publication, some of whose predictions were certainly imbued with a rare spirit of prophecy.

In October 1786, I commenced, in partnership with T. Siddons, Charles Cist, C. Talbot, W. Spotswood, and J. Trenchard, the Columbian Magazine. In the first number, I wrote four pieces, "The Life of General Greene," "The Shipwreck, a Lamentable Story, Founded on Fact," "A Philosophical Dream," and "Hard Times, a Fragment."

The Philosophical Dream was an anticipation of the state of the country in the year 1850, on the plan of Mercier's celebrated work, "The Year 2500." Some of the predictions, which at that period must have been regarded as farcical, have been wonderfully fulfilled, and others are likely to be realized previous to the arrival of the year 1850. I annex a few of them, which may serve to amuse the reader.

"Pittsburg, Jan. 15, 1850. The canal which is making from the river Ohio, to the Susquehanna, and thence to the Delaware, will be of immense advantage to the United States. If the same progress continues to be made hereafter as has been for some time past, it will be completed in less than two years."

This was probably the first suggestion of the grand project of uniting the waters of the Delaware with those of the Ohio. It preceded by four years the project of the financier, Robert Morris, and his friends, to unite the Delaware with the Schuylkill and the Susquehanna, which was broached in 1790.

"Pittsburg, Jan. 15. Delegates from the thirtieth new state, laid off a few months since by order of Congress, lately arrived at Columbia; and on producing their credentials, were received into the Federal Council.

"Charleston, April 15. No less than 10,000 blacks have been transported from this state and Virginia, during the last two years, to Africa, where they have formed a settlement near the mouth of the river Goree. Very few blacks remain in this country now: and we sincerely hope that in a few years every vestige of the infamous traffic carried on by our ancestors in the human species, will be done away.

"Richmond, April 30. By authentic advices from Kentucky, we are informed,—that 'no less than 150 vessels have been built on the river Ohio, during the last year, and sent down that river and the Mississippi, laden with valuable produce, which has been carried to the West Indies, where the vessels and their cargoes have been disposed of to great advantage.'

"Boston, April 30. At length the canal across the Isthmus of Darien is completed. It is about sixty miles long. First-rate vessels of war can with ease sail through. Two vessels belonging to this port, two to Philadelphia, and one to New York, sailed through on the 20th of January last, bound for Canton, in China.

"Columbia, May 1. Extract from the Journals of Congress.—'Ordered that there be twenty professors in the University of Columbia, in this city; viz. of Divinity, of Church History, of Hebrew, of Greek, of Humanity, of Logic, of Moral Philosophy, of Natural Philosophy, of Mathematics, of Civil History, of Natural History, of Common and Civil Law, of the Law of Nature and Nations, of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, of Botany, of Materia Medica, of Physic, of Chemistry, of Anatomy, and of Midwifery.'"

Philadelphia, Oct. 1, 1786.

There is much characteristic simplicity in Mr. Carey's manner of telling the anecdote annexed.

In travelling from New York to Philadelphia, some years since, the slenderness of my knowledge of the French led me into a most egregious error, and excited the displeasure of a splendid French lady who was in the stage. She had lived a long time in New York, and yet spoke the English language very imperfectly. I told her she ought to speak English constantly, when she was in company with English or Americans: that this was the only way in which she could acquire it. "Monsieur," says she, "j'ai honte," I am ashamed; literally, "I have shame." Reiterating her own word, I replied, "Madame, je croyais que les dames Françoises n' avaient pas de honte"—whereas I ought to have said, as I really meant, "mauvaise honte." She was exasperated, and told me indignantly that the French ladies had as much "shame" (meaning modesty) as the Americans; and that there was more immorality practised in New York than in Marseilles, of which she was a native, or in Martinique, where she had long resided. It was in vain that I repeatedly pledged my honor that I had not meant to affront her; that I was led into error solely by repeating her own word. It was equally in vain that I appealed to some of the passengers who understood French, who testified that the mistake was perfectly natural, and was justified by the imperfection of my knowledge of her language. Nothing could pacify her, and after several vain attempts, I relinquished the hope of soothing her feelings, and she scarcely spoke another word during the rest of the journey.

AUTOGRAPHY.

Our friend and particular acquaintance, Joseph Miller, Esq. (who, by the way, signs his name, we think, Joseph A. Miller, or Joseph B. Miller, or at least Joseph C. Miller) paid us a visit a few days ago. His behavior was excessively odd. Walking into our sanctum without saying a word, he seated himself with a dogged air in our own exclusive arm-chair, and surveyed us, for some minutes, in silence, and in a very suspicious manner, over the rim of his spectacles. There was evidently something in the wind. "What can the man want?" thought we, without saying so.

"I will tell you," said Joseph Miller, Esq.—that is to say, Joseph D. Miller, Joseph E. Miller, or possibly Joseph F. Miller, Esq. "I will tell you," said he. Now, it is a positive fact that we had not so much as attempted to open any of our mouths.

"I will tell you," said he, reading our thoughts.

"Ah, thank you!" we replied, slightly smiling, and feeling excessively uncomfortable—"thank you!—we should like to know."

"I believe," resumed he—resumed Joseph G. Miller—"I believe you are not altogether unacquainted with our family."

"Why, not altogether, certainly—pray, sir, proceed."

"It is one of the oldest families in —— in ——"

"In Great Britain," we interposed, seeing him at a loss.

"In the United States," said Mr. Miller—that is, Joseph H. Miller, Esq.

"In the United States!—why, sir, you are joking surely: we thought the Miller family were particularly British—The Jest-Book you know ——"

"You are in error," interrupted he—interrupted Joseph I. Miller—"we are British, but not particularly British. You should know that the Miller family are indigenous every where, and have little connection with either time or place. This is a riddle which you may be able to read hereafter. At present let it pass, and listen to me. You know I have many peculiar notions and opinions—many particularly bright fancies which, by the way, the rabble have thought proper to call whims, oddities, and eccentricities. But, sir, they are not. You have heard of my passion for autographs?"

"We have."

"Well, sir, to be brief. Have you, or have you not, seen a certain rascally piece of business in the London Athenæum?"

"Very possible," we replied.

"And, pray sir, what do you think of it?"

"Think of what?"

"No, sir, not of what," said he—said Joseph K. Miller, Esq. getting very angry, "not of what at all; but of that absurd, nefarious, and superfluous piece of autographical rascality therein—that is to say in the London Athenæum—deliberately, falsely, and maliciously fathered upon me, and laid to my charge—to the charge of me, I say, Joseph L. Miller." Here, Mr. M. arose, and, unbuttoning his coat in a great rage, took from his breast pocket a bundle of MSS. and laid them emphatically upon the table.

"Ah ha!" said we, getting particularly nervous, "we begin to understand you. We comprehend. Sit down! You, Joseph M.—that is to say, Joseph N. Miller—have had—that is to say, ought to have had, eh?—and the London Athenæum is—that is to say, it is not, &c.—and—and—and—oh, precisely!"

"My dear sir," said Mr. Miller, affectionately, "you are a fool—a confounded fool. Hold your tongue! This is the state of the case. I, Joseph O. Miller, being smitten, as all the world knows, with a passion for autographs, am supposed, in that detestable article to which I am alluding, and which appeared some time ago in the London Athenæum,—am supposed, I say, to have indited sundry epistles, to several and sundry characters of literary notoriety about London, with the sinister design, hope, and intention, of thereby eliciting autograph replies—the said epistles, presumed to be indited by me, each and individually being neither more nor less than one and the same thing, and consisting——"

"Yes sir," said we, "and consisting——"

"And consisting," resumed Mr. Joseph P. Miller, "of certain silly inquiries respecting the character of certain ——"

"Of certain cooks, scullions, and chambermaids," said we, having now some faint recollection of the article alluded to.

"Precisely," said our visiter—"of certain cooks, scullions, chambermaids, and boot-blacks."

"And concerning whose character you are supposed to be excessively anxious."

"Yes, sir—I—excessively anxious!—only think of that!—I, Joseph Q. Miller, excessively anxious!"

"Horrible!" we ejaculated.

"Damnable!" said Mr. M.

"But what papers are these?" demanded we, taking courage, and eyeing the bundle of MSS. which our friend had thrown upon the table.

"Those papers," said Mr. Miller, after a pause, and with considerable dignity of manner, "those papers are, to tell you the truth, the result of some—of some ingenuity on the part of your humble servant. They are autographs—but they are American autographs, and as such may be of some little value in your eyes. Pray accept them—they are entirely at your service. I beg leave, however, to assure you that I have resorted to no petty arts for the consummation of a glorious purpose. No man can accuse me, sir, me, Joseph R. Miller, of meanness or of superficiality. My letters have invariably been—have been—that is to say, have been every thing they should be. Moreover, they have not been what they should not be. I have propounded no inquiries about scullions. I wrote not to the sublimated Mr. ——, [here we do not feel justified in indicating more fully the name mentioned by Mr. M.] touching a chambermaid, nor to Mr. ——, in relation to a character. On the contrary, I have adapted my means to my ends. I have—I have—in short, sir, I have accomplished many great and glorious things, all of which you shall behold in the sequel." We bowed, and our visiter continued.

"The autographs here included are, you will perceive, the autographs of our principal literati. They will prove interesting to the public. It would be as well to insert the letters in your Messenger, with facsimiles of the signatures. Of my own letters eliciting these replies I have unfortunately preserved no copies." Here Mr. M. handed us the MSS.

"Mr. Joseph S. Miller"—we began, deeply penetrated by his kindness.

"Joseph T. Miller, if you please," interrupted he, with an emphasis on the T.

"Well, sir," said we—"so be it; Mr. Joseph V. Miller, then, since you will have it so, we are highly sensible of your noble, of your disinterested generosity. We are ——"

"Say no more," interrupted our friend, with a sigh—"say no more, I beseech you. The MSS. are entirely at your service. You have been very kind to me, and when I forget a kindness my name is no longer Joseph W. Miller."

"Then your name is—is positively Joseph W. Miller?"—we inquired with some hesitation.

"It is"—he replied, with a toss of the head, which we thought slightly supercilious—"It is—Joseph X. Miller. But why do you ask? Good day! In a style epistolary and non-epistolary I must bid you adieu—that is to say I must depart (and not remain) your obedient servant, Joseph Y. Miller."

"Extremely ambiguous!" we thought, as he whipped out of the room—"Mr. Miller! Mr. Miller!"—and we hallooed after him at the top of our voice. Mr. Miller returned at the call, but most unfortunately we had forgotten what we had been so anxious to say.

"Mr. Miller," said we, at length, "shall we not send you a number of the Magazine containing your correspondence?"

"Certainly!"—he replied—"drop it in the Post Office."

"But, sir," said we, highly embarrassed,—"to what—to what address shall we direct it?"

"Address!" ejaculated he—"you astonish me! Address me, sir, if you please—Joseph Z. Miller."

The package handed us by Mr. M. we inspected with a great deal of pleasure. The letters were neatly arranged and endorsed, and numbered from one to twenty-four. We print them verbatim, and with facsimiles of the signatures, in compliance with our friend's suggestion. The dates, throughout, were overscored, and we have been forced, accordingly, to leave them blank. The remarks appended to each letter are our own.

LETTER I.

Philadelphia, ——.

Dear Sir,—I regret that you had the trouble of addressing me twice respecting the Review of your publication. The truth is it was only yesterday I enjoyed the opportunity of reading it, and bearing public testimony to its merits. I think the work might have a wider circulation if, in the next edition, it were printed without the preface. Of your talents and other merits I have long entertained a high opinion.

Respectfully, your faithful servant,

JOSEPH A. MILLER, ESQ.

There is nothing very peculiar in the physique of this letter. The hand-writing is bold, large, sprawling, and irregular. It is rather rotund than angular, and is by no means illegible. One would suppose it written in a violent hurry. The t's are crossed with a sweeping scratch of the pen, giving the whole letter an odd appearance if held upside-down, or in any position other than the proper one. The whole air of the letter is dictatorial. The paper is of good but not superior quality. The seal is of brown wax mingled with gold, and bears a Latin motto, of which only the words trans and mortuus are legible.

LETTER II.

Hartford, ——.

My Dear Sir,—Your letter of the — ult. with the accompanying parcel, reached me in safety, and I thank you for that polite attention, which is the more gratifying, as I have hitherto not had the pleasure of your acquaintance. The perusal of the pamphlet afforded me great delight, and I think it displays so much good sense, mingled with so much fine taste, as would render it an acceptable present to readers even more fastidious than myself. The purely Christian opinions with which the work abounds, will not fail of recommending it to all lovers of virtue, and of the truth.

I remain yours, with respect and esteem,

JOSEPH B. MILLER, ESQ.

Much pains seem to have been taken in the MS. of this epistle. Black lines have been used, apparently. Every t is crossed and every i dotted with precision. The punctuation is faultless. Yet the tout-ensemble of the letter has nothing of formality or undue effeminacy. The characters are free, well-sized, and handsomely formed, preserving throughout a perfectly uniform and beautiful appearance, although generally unconnected with each other. Were one to form an estimate of the character of Mrs. Sigourney's compositions from the character of her hand writing, the estimate would not be very far from the truth. Freedom, dignity, precision, and grace of thought, without abrupt or startling transitions, might be attributed to her with propriety. The paper is good, the seal small—of green and gold wax—and without impression.

LETTER III.

New York, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have delayed replying to your letter of the — ult. until I could find time to make the necessary inquiries about the circumstances to which you allude. I am sorry to inform you that these inquiries have been altogether fruitless, and that I am consequently unable, at present, to give you the desired information. If, hereafter, any thing shall come to light which may aid you in your researches, it will give me great pleasure to communicate with you upon the subject.

I am, Dear Sir, your friend and servant,

JOSEPH C. MILLER, ESQ.

There is much in the hand-writing here like that of Mrs. Sigourney, and yet, as a whole, it is very different. In both MSS. perfect uniformity and regularity exist, and in both, the character of the writing is formed—that is to say, decided. Both are beautiful, and, at a casual glance, both have a somewhat similar effect. But Mrs. Sigourney's MS. is one of the most legible, and Mr. Paulding's one of the most illegible in the world. His small a's, t's and c's are all alike, and the style of the characters generally is French. No correct notion of Mr. Paulding's literary peculiarities could be obtained from an inspection of his MS. It has probably been modified by strong adventitious circumstances. The paper is of a very fine glossy texture, and of a blue tint, with gilt edges.

LETTER IV.

Boston, ——.

It is due from me to advise you that the communication of the — ult. addressed by you to myself involves some error. It is evident that you have mistaken me for some other person of the same surname, as I am altogether ignorant of the circumstances to which you refer.

I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant,

JOSEPH D. MILLER, ESQ.

The hand writing here is of an odd appearance. The capitals and long letters extend far above or below the line, and the rest have a running and diminutive formation, rendering it difficult to distinguish one from another. The words are unusually far apart, and but little matter is contained in much space. At first sight the MS. appears to be hurried—but a few moments' examination will prove that this is not the case. The capital I's might be mistaken for T's. The whole has a clean and uniform appearance. The paper is common, and the seal (of red wax) is oval in shape—probably a shield—the device illegible.

LETTER V.

St. Mark's Place, New York, ——.

Dear Sir,—Your obliging letter of the —— was received in due course of mail, and I am gratified by your good opinion. At the same time my numerous engagements will render it out of my power to send you any communication for your valuable Magazine, 'The Humdrum,' for some months to come at least. Wishing you all success, and with many thanks for your attention.

I remain, sir, your humble servant,

JOSEPH E. MILLER, ESQ.

Mr. Cooper's MS. is bad—very bad. There is no distinctive character about it, and it appears to be unformed. The writing will probably be different in other letters. Upon reference we find this to be the fact. In the letter to Mr. Miller, the MS. is of a petite and finicky appearance, and looks as if scratched with a steel pen—the lines are crooked. The paper is fine, and of a bluish tint. A wafer is used.

LETTER VI.

New York, ——.

My Dear Sir,—I owe you a very humble apology for not answering sooner your flattering epistle of the — ult. The truth is, being from home when your letter reached my residence, my reply fell into the ever open grave of deferred duties.

As regards the information you desire I regret that it is out of my power to aid you. My studies and pursuits have been directed, of late years, in so very different a channel, that I am by no means au fait on the particular subject you mention. Believe me, with earnest wishes for your success,

Very respectfully yours,

JOSEPH F. MILLER, ESQ.

The penmanship of Miss Sedgwick is excellent. The characters are well-sized, distinct, elegantly, but not ostentatiously formed; and, with perfect freedom of manner, are still sufficiently feminine. The hair strokes of the pen differ little in thickness from the other parts of the MS.—which has thus a uniform appearance it might not otherwise have. Strong common sense, and a scorn of superfluous ornament, one might suppose, from Miss Sedgwick's hand writing, to be the characteristics of her literary style. The paper is very good, blue in tint, and ruled by machine. The seal of red wax, plain.

LETTER VII.

New York, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have received your favor of the ——. The report to which it alludes was entirely without foundation. I have never had, and have not now, any intention of editing a Magazine. The Bookseller's statement on this subject originated in a misunderstanding.

Your Poem on "Things in General," I have not had the pleasure of seeing. I have not, however, the least doubt of its—of its—that is to say, of its extreme delicacy of sentiment, and highly original style of thinking—to say nothing at present of that—of that extraordinary and felicitous manner of expression which so particularly characterizes all that—that I have seen of your writings. I shall endeavor, sir, to procure your Poem, and anticipate much pleasure in its perusal.

Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

JOSEPH G. MILLER, ESQ.

Mr. Halleck's is a free, mercantile hand, and evinces a love for the graceful rather than for the picturesque. There is some force, too, in its expression. The tout ensemble is pleasing. Mr. H.'s letter is probably written currente calamo—but without hurry. The paper is very good, and bluish—the seal of red wax.

LETTER VIII.

Alexandria, Red River, ——, Louisiana.

Dear Sir,—Your polite letter of the — is before me, and the view which you present of the estimation in which you hold my poor labors is every way gratifying. It would afford me great pleasure to send you a few trifles for the Hum-drum, which I have no doubt will prove a very useful periodical if its design is well carried out—but the truth is my time is entirely occupied.

Yours,

JOSEPH H. MILLER, ESQ.

The writing in this letter has a fidgetty appearance, and would seem to indicate a mind without settled aims—restless and full of activity. Few of the characters are written twice in the same manner, and their direction varies continually. Sometimes the words lie perpendicularly on the page—then slope to the right—then, with a jerk, fly off in an opposite way. The thickness, also, of the MS. is changeable—sometimes the letters are very light and fine—sometimes excessively heavy. Upon a casual glance at Mr. F.'s epistle, one might mistake it for an imitation of a written letter by a child. The paper is bad—and wafered.

LETTER IX.

Philadelphia, ——.

compliments to Mr. Miller. She has no knowledge of the person spoken of in Mr. Miller's note, and is quite certain there must be some mistake in the statement alluded to.

JOSEPH I. MILLER, ESQ.

Several persons of our acquaintance, between whose mental character and that of Miss Leslie we have fancied a strong similitude, write a hand almost identical with this lady's—yet we are unable to point out much in the MS. itself according with the literary peculiarities of Miss L. Neatness and finish, without over-effeminacy, are, perhaps, the only features of resemblance. We might, also, by straining a point, imagine (from the MS.) that Miss L. regards rather the effect of her writings as a whole than the polishing of their constituent parts. The penmanship is rotund, and the words are always finished with an inward twirl. The paper tolerable—and wafered.

LETTER X.

Boston, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have your favor of the ——. For the present I must decline replying to the queries you have propounded. Be pleased to accept my thanks for the flattering manner in which you speak of my Lecture.

I am, Dear Sir, very faithfully, yours,

JOSEPH K. MILLER, ESQ.

Here is a noble MS. It has an air of deliberate precision about it emblematic of the statesman; and a mingled solidity and grace speaking the scholar. Nothing can be more legible. The words are at proper intervals—the lines also are at proper intervals, and perfectly straight. There are no superfluous flourishes. The man who writes thus will never grossly err in judgment or otherwise. We may venture to say, however, that he will not attain the loftiest pinnacles of renown. The paper is excellent—stout yet soft—with gilt edges. The seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the initials E. E. and surrounded with a scroll, on which are legible only the word cum and the letters c. o. r. d. a.

LETTER XI.

New York, ——.

My Dear Sir,—I must be pardoned for refusing your request touching your MS. "Treatise on Pigs." I was obliged, some years ago, to come to the resolution not to express opinions of works sent to me. A candid opinion of those whose merit seemed to me small, gave offence, and I found it the best way to avoid a judgment in any case. I hope this will be satisfactory.

I am, my Dear Sir, very respectfully yours,

JOSEPH L. MILLER, ESQ.

Mr. Irving's hand writing is common-place. There is nothing indicative of genius about it. Neither could any one suspect, from such penmanship, a high finish in the author's compositions. This style of writing is more frequently met with than any other. It is a very usual clerk's hand—scratchy and tapering in appearance, showing (strange to say)—an eye deficient in a due sense of the picturesque. There may be something, however, in the circumstance that the epistle to Mr. Miller is evidently written in a desperate hurry. Paper very indifferent, and wafered.

LETTER XII.

Boston, ——.

Sir,—In reply to your note of the ——, in which you demand if I am "the author of a certain scurrilous attack upon Joseph M. Miller, in the Daily Polyglot of the — ult." I have to say that I am happy in knowing nothing about the attack, the Polyglot, or yourself.

JOSEPH M. MILLER.

Mr. Neal's MS. is exceedingly illegible, and very careless. It is necessary to read one half his epistle and guess at the balance. The capitals and long letters, like those of Mr. Palfrey, extend far above and below the line, while the small letters are generally nothing but dots and scratches. Many of the words are run together—so that what is actually a sentence is frequently mistaken for a single word. One might suppose Mr. Neal's mind (from his penmanship) to be bold, excessively active, energetic, and irregular. Paper very common, and wafered.

LETTER XIII.

Baltimore, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have received your note of the — ult. and its contents puzzle me no little. I fear it will be impossible to give a definitive reply to an epistle so enigmatically worded. Please write again.

Yours truly,

JOSEPH N. MILLER, ESQ.

This is our beau ideal of penmanship. Its prevailing character is picturesque. This appearance is given by terminating every letter abruptly, without tapering, and by using no perfect angles, and none at all which are not spherical. Great uniformity is preserved in the whole air of the MS.—with great variety in the constituent parts. Every character has the clearness and blackness of a bold wood-cut, and appears to be placed upon the paper with singular precision. The long letters do not rise or fall in an undue degree above the line. From this specimen of his hand writing, we should suppose Mr. Kennedy to have the eye of a painter, more especially in regard to the picturesque—to have refined tastes generally—to be exquisitely alive to the proprieties of life—to possess energy, decision, and great talent—to have a penchant also for the bizarre. The paper is very fine, clear and white, with gilt edges—the seal neat and much in keeping with the MS. Just sufficient wax, and no more than sufficient, is used for the impression, which is nearly square, with a lion's head in full alto relievo, surrounded by the motto "il parle par tout."

LETTER XIV.

Philadelphia, ——.

Dear Sir,—Enclosed is your letter of the — ult. addressed to Dr. Robert M. Bird, Philadelphia. From the contents of the note it is evidently not intended for myself. There is, I believe, a Dr. Robert Bird, who resides somewhere in the Northern Liberties—also several Robert Birds in different parts of the city.

Very respectfully, your obedient, humble servant,

JOSEPH O. MILLER, ESQ.

Dr. Bird's chirography is by no means bad—still it cannot be called good. It is very legible and has force. There is some degree of nervousness about it. It bears a slight resemblance to the writing of Miss Leslie, especially in the curling of the final letters—but is more open, and occupies more space. The characters have the air of not being able to keep pace with the thought, and an uneasy want of finish seems to have been the consequence. A restless and vivid imagination might be deduced from this MS. It has no little of the picturesque also. The paper good—wafered and sealed.

LETTER XV.

Oak Hill, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have received your polite letter of the ——, and will have no objection to aid you in your enterprise by such information as I can afford. There are many others, however, who would be much better able to assist you in this matter than myself. When I get a little leisure you shall hear from me again.

I am, Dear Sir, with respect, your obedient,

JOSEPH P. MILLER, ESQ.

The hand writing of the Chief Justice is not unlike that of Neal—but much better and more legible. The habit of running two words into one (a habit which we noticed in Neal) is also observable in the Chief Justice. The characters are utterly devoid of ornament or unnecessary flourish, and there is a good deal of abruptness about them. They are heavy and black, with very little hair stroke. The lines are exceedingly crooked, running diagonally across the paper. A wide margin is on the left side of the page, with none at all on the right. The whole air of the MS. in its utter simplicity, is strikingly indicative of the man. The paper is a half sheet of coarse foolscap, wafered.

LETTER XVI.

Baltimore, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have received your letter of the — ult. in which you do me the honor of requesting an autograph. In reply, I have to say, that if this scrawl will answer your purpose it is entirely at your service.

Yours respectfully,

JOSEPH Q. MILLER, ESQ.

Mr. Wirt's hand writing has a strong resemblance to that of his friend John P. Kennedy—it is by no means, however, as good, and has too much tapering about it to be thoroughly picturesque. The writing is black, strong, clear, and very neat. It is, upon the whole, little in accordance with the character of Mr. W.'s compositions. The lines are crooked. The paper bluish and English—wafered.

LETTER XVII.

Washington, ——.

Dear Sir,—In answer to your kind inquiries concerning my health, I am happy to inform you that I was never better in my life. I cannot conceive in what manner the report to which you allude could have originated.

Believe me with the highest respect, your much obliged friend and servant,

JOSEPH R. MILLER, ESQ.

Judge Story's is a very excellent hand, and has the air of being written with great rapidity and ease. It is rotund, and might be characterized as a rolling hand. The direction of the letters occasionally varies from right to left, and from left to right. The same peculiarity was observable in Mr. Flint's. Judge Story's MS. is decidedly picturesque. The lines are at equal distances, but lie diagonally on the page. The paper good, of a bluish tint, and folded to form a marginal line. The seal of red wax, and stamped with a common compting-house stamp.

LETTER XVIII.

New York, ——.

My Dear Sir,—I thank you for the hints you have been so kind as to give me in relation to my next edition of the "Voyage," but as that edition has already gone to press, it will be impossible to avail myself of your attention until the sixth impression.

Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

JOSEPH S. MILLER, ESQ.

We are not partial to Mr. Reynolds' style of chirography. It is a common mercantile hand, in which the words taper off from their beginning to their end. There is much freedom, but no strength about it. The paper good, and wafered.

LETTER XIX.

Portland, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have no knowledge of your owing me the small sum sent in your letter of the ——, and consequently I re-enclose you the amount. You will no doubt be able to discover and rectify the mistake.

Very truly yours,

JOSEPH T. MILLER, ESQ.

Mr. Brooks writes a very good hand, strong, bold, and abrupt—highly indicative of the author's peculiar features of mind. These are nervous common sense, without tinsel or artificiality, and a straight forward directness of conception. The lines are even—and the words at proper intervals. The paper good—and wafered.

LETTER XX.

Washington, ——.

Sir,—I shall be better enabled to answer your letter about "certain mysterious occurrences," of which you desire an explanation, when you inform me explicitly (and I request you will do this) what are the mysterious occurrences to which you allude.

JOSEPH V. MILLER, ESQ.

The chirography of the Ex-President is legible—but has an odd appearance, on account of the wavering of the capitals and long letters. The writing is clear, somewhat heavy, and picturesque—without ornament. Black lines seem to have been used. A margin is preserved to the right and left. The proportion of the letters is well maintained throughout. The paper common, and wafered.

LETTER XXI.

Philadelphia, ——.

Dear Sir,—I have just received your letter of the ——, in which you complain of my neglect in not replying to your favors of the —— of the —— and of the —— ult. I do assure you, sir, that the letters have never come to hand. If you will be so good as to repeat their contents, it will give me great pleasure to answer them, each and all. The Post Office is in a very bad condition.

Yours respectfully,

JOSEPH W. MILLER, ESQ.

Mr. Carey does not write a legible hand—although in other respects a good one. It resembles that of Neal very nearly. Several of the words in the letter to Mr. Miller are run together. The i's are seldom dotted. The lines are at equal distances, and straight. The paper very good—wafered.

LETTER XXII.

Boston, ——.

Dear Sir,—No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been in my employ as a coachman, or otherwise. The name is an odd one, and not likely to be forgotten. The man must have reference to some other Dr. Channing. It would be as well to question him closely.

Respectfully yours,

JOSEPH X. MILLER, ESQ.

Dr. Channing's MS. is very excellent. The letters are bold, well-sized, and beautifully formed. They are, perhaps, too closely crowded upon one another. One might, with some little acumen, detect the high finish of Dr. C.'s style of composition in the character of his chirography. Boldness and accuracy are united with elegance in both. The paper very good, and wafered.

LETTER XXIII.

Philadelphia, ——.

Dear Sir,—I must be pardoned for declining to loan the books you mention. The fact is, I have lost many volumes in this way—and as you are personally unknown to me you will excuse my complying with your request.

Yours, &c.

JOSEPH Y. MILLER, ESQ.

This is a very good MS.—forcible, neat, legible, and devoid of superfluous ornament. Some of the words are run together. The writing slopes considerably. It is too uniform to be picturesque. The lines are at equal distances, and a broad margin is on the left of the page. The chirography is as good at the conclusion as at the commencement of the letter—a rare quality in MSS.—and evincing indefatigability of temperament.

LETTER XXIV.

Washington, ——.

Sir,—Yours of the —— came duly to hand. I cannot send you what you wish. The fact is, I have been so pestered with applications for my autograph, that I have made a resolution to grant one in no case whatsoever.

Yours, &c.

JOSEPH Z. MILLER, ESQ.

The writing of the orator is bold, dashing, and chivalrous—the few words addressed to Mr. Miller occupying a full page. The lines are at unequal distances, and run diagonally across the letter. Each sentence is terminated by a long dash—black and heavy. Such an epistle might write the Grand Mogul. The paper is what the English call silver paper—very beautiful and wafered.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 3, FEBRUARY, 1836 ***

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Table of Contents

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 3

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

SELECTION IN READING.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

A LAY OF RUIN.

BALLAD.

THE GOURD OF JONAH.

THE COUSIN OF THE MARRIED,

THE DUC DE L'OMELETTE.

THE ILIAD.

RUSTIC COURTSHIP

PALÆSTINE.

MARTORELLI.

LIVING ALONE.

THE VALLEY NIS.

NEW TESTAMENT.

CASTELLANUS,

SONG.

LINES

LIBERIAN LITERATURE.

GIBBON AND FOX.

STATIUS.

LIONEL GRANBY.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

LINES

SKETCHES OF LAKE SUPERIOR.

GREECE.

READINGS WITH MY PENCIL.

EDITORIAL.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

AUTOGRAPHY.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE