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 THE 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 HON. JOB DURFEE, LL. D., 
 
 LATE CHIEF JUSTICE OF RHODE-ISLAND : 
 
 WITH 
 
 A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 EDITED BY HIS SON. 
 
 PROVIDENCE: 
 GLADDING AND PROUD. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 CHARLES C. LITTLE AND JAMES BROWN. 
 
 1849. 
 

 h5^ 
 
 Entered according- to Act of Congress in the year 1848, 
 
 By THOMAS DURFEE, 
 
 In the Clerk's OflBce of the District Court of Rhode-Island. 
 
 PROVIDENCE : 
 PRINTED BY JOSEPH KNOWLBB.. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Preface, Page v. 
 
 Memoir, vii. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Whatcheer, or Roger Williams in Banishment, - - - 1 
 
 The School of Queen Mab, 179 
 
 A Summons to the Country, 197 
 
 Hymn by Twilight, 197 
 
 Life's Voyage, 198 
 
 LECTURES. 
 
 History of the Subjection and Extermination of the Nar- 
 
 ragansets, 203 
 
 The Idea of the Supernatural among the Indians, - - 249 
 
 DISCOURSE 
 
 Delivered before the Rhode Island Historical Society, - 273 
 
 ORATION 
 Delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Brown 
 
 University, 315 
 
 THE PANIDEA, 347 
 
 CHARGES TO THE GRAND JURY. 
 
 The Law of Treason, 477 
 
 Perjury, 493 
 
 The Moral Duty of Obeying the Law, .... 503 
 
 The Relative Duties of Court and Jury, - - - - 509 
 
 The Character of Ciuef Justice Eddy, - - - - 519 
 
 mS089'?7 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/completeworkswitOOdurfrich 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 At a meeting of the Board of Trustees of the Rhode 
 Island Historical Society, holden shortly after the decease 
 of Chief Justice Durfee, the following resolution was 
 adopted : 
 
 Resolved. That we deem it highly important that the works of the 
 lamented Chief Justice Durfee should be published, believing their 
 publication would be as serviceable to our State, especially in refer- 
 ence to its Aboriginal History, as it would be honorable to his memory : 
 and we would earnestly recommend to the members of this Society, 
 and to the friends of sound learning at large in the State, to aid the 
 undertaking by their individual subscriptions, in case the family of 
 the deceased should consent to the publication. 
 
 In accordance with this resolution, expressing, it is be- 
 lieved, the feelings of a large number of the citizens of 
 the State, the present publication was undertaken, and, 
 after many unavoidable delays, is now offered to the 
 Public. It contains all the writings of Judge Durfee, 
 which it was thought advisable to preserve ; many, which 
 he himself had never thought of publishing. Some im- 
 mature productions of his youth, and others, purely polit- 
 ical, have been purposely omitted; the first, because they 
 are chiefly valuable as indications of his early pursuits. 
 
VI. PREFACE. 
 
 the second, because it is the misfortune of such writings 
 to share the ephemeral interest of the subjects to which 
 the J relate. 
 
 Except the Whatcheer and his published addresses, 
 these writings are without the benefit of the author's final 
 revision, and therefore contain, perhaps, many imper- 
 fections which would, otherwise, have been removed. 
 The doctrines of the Panidea, he was still illustrating, 
 still testing by applications to history, still elucidating 
 and confirming, at the time of his death ; and could he 
 have been spared, he would, doubtless, have done much to 
 redeem them from the reproach of being pure metaphysi- 
 cal abstractions, by showing their bearing upon actual 
 life. But, notwithstanding these disadvantages, and its 
 deficiency in general interest, to omit it in any edition of 
 his works, would be to withdraw the central light from 
 which many of his most popular productions have bor- 
 rowed their chiefest splendor. 
 
 In conclusion, the Editor has only to crave for himself 
 the indulgence of the public, for an imperfect discharge 
 of the trust which he, perhaps, too hastily accepted, plead- 
 ing his youth and inexperience in palliation ; and to thank 
 them for this opportunity of contributing his mite to a 
 worthy monument of one, whom the instincts of nature 
 have taught him to love and revere as a Parent, and for 
 whom a familiar acquaintance has enabled him to cherish 
 unmingied honor and admiration as a Man. 
 
 Thomas Durfee. 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 JoD DuRFEE was bom in Tiverton, Rhode Island, on the 20th of 
 September, 1790. His father, the Hon. Thomas Durfee, was a self- 
 made man, who was born of a Rhode Island ancestry, and transmitted 
 to his son a genuine love of his State. He was a soldier of the Revo- 
 lution, engaged in the fight on Quaker Hill, and, by his reminiscences 
 of those memorable days, imbued his son with his own glowing patriot- 
 ism. He afterwards devoted himself to the study of Law, soon acquired 
 the confidence of his fellow citizens, and, for several years previous to 
 his death, was Chief Justice of the Court of Common Pleas. A gentle, 
 pious and affectionate mother watched over his childhood, and instilled 
 into his bosom, both by example and precept, a single-hearted obedi- 
 ence to the duties of life. 
 
 His father's residence was situated near the Heights of Tiverton, 
 overlooking the picturesque waters of Narraganset Bay. Here were 
 passed his youth and early manhood, in view of a prospect, so magni- 
 ficent and varied, that those who love to trace the influence of local 
 scenery upon character, may, perhaps, regard it as no unmeaning sym- 
 bol of his magnanimity and versatile powers. 
 
 His earliest years were passed in the common sports and labors of 
 childhood. He recurred to them as the happiest of his life — " the 
 halcyon days of boyhood, teeming with present joys and bright liopes, 
 when to outstrip my comrade in the race or to possess the swiftest 
 shingle-boat was a triumph, and the frown of my schoolmaster was my 
 only fear." As he grew older his pursuits were divided between the 
 plough and the school. He was ambitious of excellence, and surpassed 
 his companions scarcely less in athletic than in intellectual exercises. 
 His devotion to reading and talking upon grave subjects of literature 
 and politics was remarkable ; and, when a mere boy, he surprised and 
 
viii. MEMOIR. 
 
 delighted his playmates by an attempt at authorship, in a " History of 
 the Thumbs and Tits," describing a pigmy race and their contentions 
 in founding their empire. 
 
 He found the materials of his first poem in his own neighborhood. 
 At a shop, not far from his father's house, a small circle of toping quid- 
 nuncs nightly met to discuss politics and news, and repeat the oft-told 
 anecdotes, which never failed to elicit the accustomed laugh. The 
 bottle and the pipe were the Penates of the establishment ; and under 
 their influences, as their hearts expanded, they displayed many a lurk- 
 ing penchant, ludicrous foible, or queer prejudice, seasoned with the 
 grotesque pungency of mother-wit — the motley oddities which then 
 played over the surfaces of human life, but have since retired under 
 the sober livery of temperance. These the young poet carefully noted, 
 and once, when the fist sided with the tongue to decide its contests, 
 and the gossips parted with torn garments and blue noses, he took 
 occasion to celebrate the affray in rhyme. The production was found 
 posted to the shop-door, without signature. Each of the party was in 
 high glee with the portraitures of his neighbors, declaring them as 
 natural as life, while at the same time he thought himself outrageously 
 caricatured and satirized. The shop-keeper, who possessed the manu- 
 script, was very shy of showing it, and amused the author and those 
 in his secret by his deprecatory criticisms and wild guesses at its 
 authorship. 
 
 It may not be amiss to add still another to the many anecdotes in 
 the Lives of Authors, showing how often the attempt to represent some 
 personal adventure reveals to them the bent of their minds. In the 
 neighborhood was a man whose whole life had been a listless day-dream 
 of enriching himself by money-digging. For three successive nights 
 he had been directed to the place of a hidden treasure, but dared not 
 visit it alone. He therefore obtained the assistance of Mr. Durfee — 
 whose Latin fitted him to act the magician — and his brother, and at 
 midnight proceeded to the haunted spot. The magician described his 
 circle, pronounced the awful spells to exorcise the spirit who kept the 
 money in charge, and then they commenced digging. Meanwhile some 
 mischief-loving persons, previously let into the secret, had stationed 
 themselves behind a rock near by, with phizes and sheets, the para- 
 phernalia of ghosts and goblins. Soon some coins were produced, and 
 the old man deemed his hopes realized. He cheered on the digging — 
 when suddenly a hideous shriek, and the apparition of a sheeted spec- 
 tre, sent a shudder through his heart. The magician boldly faced it, 
 fulminated his gibberish, and waved his wand. Another, and another, 
 
MEMOIR, J^X. 
 
 and another, appeared ; tlicy yelled, they spit fire, they rushed furi- 
 ously round the ring, 
 
 BefJore, behind, on every side, 
 
 They yelled and pressed, and pressing* tried 
 
 To break the mystic spell ; 
 Strained to its utmost heig-ht 
 Tha stern mag-ician's mag-ic mig'ht 
 
 Could scarce the demons quell. 
 
 The circle was broken — the spectres rushed in, and the magician 
 rushed out, followed by the money-digger, shrieking in talismanic jar- 
 gon, " avamus ! avamus ! " nor did he stop till he reached a neighbor- 
 ing house, confused and shivering, his husky voice scarcely audible 
 through his white lips. The visionary, uncured by his mishaps, lived 
 on to dream again of hidden gold ; the neighborhood found his adven- 
 tures the source of ample merriment ; his companion made them the 
 foundation of a poem. 
 
 But he was early called to mingle the passionate wailings of elegy 
 with the fantastic sports of his muse. His father was a votary of the 
 occult sciences, and sometimes excited the fears and curiosity of the 
 credulous by his mystic drawings and necromantic jargon.* At the 
 birth of his son he had drawn his horoscope, and foretold, from the 
 configuration of the celestial signs, his premature death by drowning. 
 In this instance, at least, his prophecy came near being sadly verified. 
 His son, with his sister, a lovely girl to whom he was tenderly attached, 
 was with a young party sailing in the bay by moonlight. In the midst 
 of their pleasure the boat suddenly sprang a leak, and in spite of all 
 their efforts, filled and overturned. Mr. Durfee caught the lady near- 
 est him by the arm, and with her clung to the keel. As soon as the 
 instinct of self-preservation gave way to reflection, he gazed about him, 
 but saw only one of his companions, who swam for the shore. The 
 waters lay around unruffled, glassing the sky and stars, but his eyes 
 searched vainly for any living form. His sister and three others were 
 drowned, and his grief was uncontrollable. The hurried passing to 
 and fro of lights upon the shore, the quick paddling of the boats that 
 came to his aid — the stifled agony of the bereaved relatives — the sub- 
 dued voices of the gatliering neighbors — the anxious raking for the 
 bodies of the dead — afld the funeral procession that attended the re- 
 mains to their home, produced, indeed, a scene that filled the most 
 
 * Judicial Astrolog-y still retained the shadow of its former reputation ; and, thoug"h 
 Mr. Durfee studied it merely as an amusement, far from practising* the jug-g-lery of a 
 mountebank, lie doubtless shared the common curiosity and interest in the results of 
 his calcidations. 
 
 B 
 
X. MEMOIR. 
 
 indifferent witli solemn thoughts and gloomy speculations. But the 
 afflicted brother was distracted by a phrenzy of anguish, which seemed 
 for a while to threaten the derangement of his intellect. In after 
 years, though hidden from common eyes, his sorrow survived all the 
 intercourse of the world unprofand — a sacred spot in his memory, 
 flowing with the sympathies of kindred sufferings at the bereavements 
 of others. Nor is the story without higher import. Whatever in 
 man's heart is beyond the profanation of earth, becomes the source of 
 moral beauty and exaltation — an avenue for the influx of divinest 
 influences. 
 
 I anticipate the course of my narrative to relate a similar danger 
 to which he was afterwards exposed. He was crossing the pond, in 
 front of his house, on the ice, and broke through where no one dared 
 to come to his relief His. struggles to get out only widened the 
 breach, and finally, when almost exhausted, he barely escaped by 
 pushing himself forward horizontally until he reached firm footing. 
 These hair-breadth escapes may have contributed to inspire his partial 
 faith in astrology. He believed it one of those general truths, untrue 
 when applied in its whole extent to individual cases, because no fixed 
 ratio can be found by which the eccentricities of free-agency may be 
 calculated ; but that its predictions, if they embraced the epochs of 
 national existence instead of the lives of individuals, would not be 
 found unworthy of attention. 
 
 In 1809, after a brief schooling in Bristol, he entered Brown Uni- 
 versity, which was then under the presidency of Dr. Asa Messer, a 
 man more remarkable for the strength and solidity of his talents 
 and erudition, than for elegant and finished scholarship. The man 
 was a type of the institution. Its discipline was relaxed, a rough 
 freedom pervaded the manners of the students, and men were valued 
 more for vigor of thought and expression, than for varied attainments, 
 polished diction or graceful elocution. Its requirements were neither 
 so high nor so varied as in later times — many which arc now prepara- 
 tory studies constituting then a part of the collegiate course. Mr. 
 Durfee's proficiency in Mathematics and Greek must have been incon- 
 siderable ; but in Latin he acquired such skill as made the perusal of 
 Virgil and Cicero one of the purest pleasures of his maturer years. 
 He became yet more thoroughly imbued with the spirit of classical 
 antiquity by a diligent study of Ancient History, and contracted an 
 almost passionate admiration of the moral philosophy of the Stoics 
 and the iron republicanism of the Spartans. His indolence and early 
 acquired predilection for politics, doubtless, exposed him to many inter- 
 
MEMOIR. XI. 
 
 ruptions ; for, in that period of stormy excitement, the quiet haunts 
 of the student often resounded with partisan debates and fierce invec- 
 tive, and he afterwards regretted that many an hour, sacred to the 
 chastening influences of literature, was profaned by political animosi- 
 ties. Yet he found this species of instruction not without use, when, 
 at the close of his academical career, he gave it an appropriate vent in 
 a Fourth of July Oration, which met with such hearty applause among 
 his fellow-townsmen, that it was published. He graduated with high 
 honors, respected among his classmates for his vigorous powers of rea- 
 soning and imagination. 
 
 From College he returned to study law under the direction of his 
 Father. He still found time, however, to devote to literature. The 
 next Commencement he delivered, before the Society of the United 
 Brothers, a poem entitled the Vision of Petrarch, which met with 
 a flattering reception and was published at the request of the Society. 
 It represents Petrarch on a visit at Rome, which he finds in ruins, its 
 heroes and sages dead — their laws and empire gone, and their spirit 
 almost faded from the memories of men. Whilst in despair he pre- 
 dicts the extinction of learning and art, and of humanity itself, the 
 Grenius of Poetry appears to him — bears him to a phantom world and 
 shows to him the forms of future poets. They pass before him sound- 
 ing their lyres, while their various styles of poetry are symbolized by 
 the diverse forms of nature, which come and go with the changes of 
 their music. The poem has some fine passages, a melodious versifica- 
 tion and a luxuriant imagery, but still is rather a promise than a man- 
 ifestation of superior excellence. He borrowed his plan from Virgil, 
 but without catching those life-like and dramatic touches, which have 
 made the fable of .Eneas' descent into Hades almost a matter of 
 belief 
 
 In 1814, he was elected representative to the State legislature. He 
 made his entrance in political life in hot party times, and was a candi- 
 date of the Republican party, in whose principles he had been nurtured 
 from boyhood. As soon as he had become familiarized with his new 
 environment and had worn off the diffidence natural to one bred in 
 rural retirement, he introduced a resolution to tax the banks as a con- 
 sideration for the privileged process which they enjoyed. He urged 
 his resolution in a speech of such eloquence and power, as raised him 
 immediately to a level with the best debaters of the house. Mr. Searle 
 paid him what — coming from so thorough a master of public business — 
 may be thought a flattering compliment, by moving that the resolutions 
 should be deferred until the next session, alleging that Mr. Durfee had 
 
Xll. MEMOIR. 
 
 come iirepared to support them, while the other members were unable 
 to meet the arguments already adduced. The resolution was finally 
 refcrred to a committee of which he was chairman. He drew up the 
 report presented at the next session, which concluded with a resolution 
 to repeal the process altogether. The rcsolutiom was warmly opposed 
 by Messrs. Potter and Dixon, and other influential members. It was 
 again postponed, and the next session underwent another animated 
 discussion. A law was at length passed repealing the bank process, 
 giving the banks time, however, to conclude their business under the 
 old process. In these debates Mr. Durfee constantly participated, and 
 was, in fact, the only member who took an open and active part in the 
 discussion in favor of the measure, successfully supporting himself 
 against the talents and influence of the house. He was uniformly ap- 
 pointed on some one of the standing committees— often the chairman 
 — and on most of the select committees of importance, and was the 
 author of the report on the propriety of making real estate liable to 
 attachment. He kept his seat uninterruptedly for six years, and was 
 then appointed to a higher service. 
 
 In Congress, as in the State legislature, his course was marked by 
 a modest and diligent concern for the welfare of his country, a devot- 
 cdness to the interests of his constituents and a desire to attain wide 
 information and sound statesmanlike views upon every question of 
 national policy. Shrinking from display and speaking only from the 
 call of duty, he addressed the house but twice during the two terms 
 in which he kept his seat. His first eff"ort was upon a bill for a new 
 apportionment of representatives, a bill which, by almost doubling the 
 ratio of representation, would have left for Rhode Island only a single 
 member. He attacked the bill upon constitutional, as well as upon 
 political grounds, pointing out the bad results of materially diminish- 
 ing the number of representatives for a rapidly growing population, 
 whose interests were daily becoming more varied and conflicting. 
 That his remarks had much weight in efl'ecting the subsequent reduc- 
 tion may be inferred from the piquant allusion of Mr Eandolph, who, 
 still mourning over the losses of his darling State, complained that 
 Rhode Island, after regaining her original quota, bore the privations 
 of Virginia and Delaware with all the patience of Job. His second 
 speech was upon the Tarift". He advocated simply a protective and not 
 a stimulative tariff, leaving capital uninfluenced to invigorate all the 
 industrial interests of the country. His views fipon this question, 
 conspiring with local and personal causes, produced his defeat at the 
 next election. The disgust at the chicanery of political opponents and 
 
MEMOIR. xiii. 
 
 the lubricity of political friends, which he experienced upon this oc- 
 casion, contributed much to his subsequent carelessness of popular pre- 
 ferment, and he thereafter devoted himself more unreservedly to lite- 
 rature and philosophy. 
 
 After his defeat, he beguiled the monotony of a farmer's winter, by 
 composing a story intended to burlesque many of the proceedings in 
 Congress, and to expose the absurdity of enormous rates of duty. The 
 inhabitants of Cochin China, according to this story, were once pos- 
 sessed by a notion that the best way to increase their wealth would be 
 to exclude the commerce of foreign nations. Convinced by much logic 
 and theorising that this was a fundamental principle of political econ- 
 omy, they sagaciously determined to drain the waters of the Indian 
 ocean. Their philosophers assured them that a pump, sufficiently 
 powerful to throw the water beyond the earth's attraction, would 
 speedily accomplish their ends. They, therefore, proceeded to build a 
 machine of stupendous dimensions, to be worked by elephants. Mean- 
 while the orators were not idle. Arguments and counter arguments, 
 criminations and recriminations, rained thick and fast, while each suc- 
 ceeding speaker out-did the last in declamation designed to gull the 
 people into a high opinion of his wisdom and eloquence. The names 
 of these speech-makers were formed by transposing the letters in the 
 names of some of the conspicuous debaters in Congress, and the 
 speeches themselves were parodies of the matter and rhetorical 
 peculiarities of the Congressional debates. The press groaned with 
 the labor of printing their harangues, and elephants traversed the 
 country laden with paper burdens, which patriotic representatives sent 
 home to be destribuied, absurdly supposing that their constituents 
 possessed the same facility of reading which they did of talking. The 
 machine was at length completed, and the constituency of Cochin China 
 assembled, with shoutings and bonfires, to witness the exhaustion of 
 the ocean. The spectacle was truly magnificent. Vast volumes of 
 water, glistening with countless rainbows, from sunrise till sunset, or 
 gliding towards the stars with a silvery brightness, floated off into space. 
 The rivers were soon drained, leaving their fish on the land to putrify 
 and taint the air with pestilence, while the monsters of the deep fled 
 terrified to their caverns. But at length Neptune, perceiving that his 
 dominions were invaded, rushing in his chariot and flourishing his tri- 
 dent, dashed his floods against the machinery, battering and over- 
 throwing it with resistless concussions. Earth and air reverberated 
 the shock. The superincumbent mass of water trembled, and, losing 
 its centrifugal motion, returned^ ruining fertile fields and whole cities 
 
X1V» MEMOIR. 
 
 in its course. But a portion of the waters still floated off and formed 
 the moon — a lasting monitor against political experiments, which 
 China respects to this day. 
 
 But this little jeu d'esprit served only to entertain the author 
 and a few personal friends, and was then committed to the flames ; a 
 doom which shortly after befel another of his compositions. He was 
 early attracted by the study of Aboriginal history, and, soon after he 
 left college, we find one of his correspondents sportively titling him 
 " Superintendant of Indian Affairs." He even then had projected a 
 poem upon an Indian subject, and was familiarizing himself with In- 
 dian manners for poetical purposes. But his professional and political 
 engagements interfering, it was not until this period that he executed 
 his design. This poem was entitled " Ousamequin," and has been said 
 to have possessed more fully the elements of popular success than 
 " Whatcheer." 
 
 In 1826, he was again returned to the State Legislature, and was 
 the next year elected Speaker of the House. In 1829 he declined a 
 re-election, and, retiring to private life, mingled with professional and 
 agricultural labors the more delightful pursuits of literature. In the 
 quiet of his fireside, he again recurred to the cherished wish of his 
 youth, and meditated a poem, the scene of which should be laid in his 
 native State. He had at first no design to print it, but living in a 
 place where he had little professional business, and access to no large 
 library, he gladly escaped from the dull round of ordinary cares into 
 the region of romance and poetry. " I mean to finish it," he writes 
 to a friend, " in these vacant hours, and lay it aside, and it may possi- 
 bly, some century or two hence, find its way into the cabinet of some 
 antiquary who will show it to his associates, and inquire who it could 
 be, in an age so enlightened, that would devote so much time in raising 
 such a monument of trumpery to the memory of Roger Williams." 
 But some lurking vanity of authorship — the hope to contribute " some- 
 thing to the permanence of a genuine Rhode Island feeling" — or the 
 praises of his friends, overcame his modesty, and in 1832 a small edi- 
 tion was published, by subscription. 
 
 It was his design at first to have given it a tinge of the burlesque — 
 somewhat in the style of Shenstone's Schoolmistress — and to have 
 thrown over the harsh features of the Puritans and the more genial 
 enthusiasm of Williams a coloring of quaint humor and Quixotic ro- 
 mance ; but when he had examined his theme in all its relations, he 
 found that it involved elements too sacred to be treated otherwise 
 than with the severest truthfulness. He now desired to write a poem, 
 
MEMOIR. XV. 
 
 which would familiarize the common people with the principles upon 
 which the State was based, and would endear to them the memory 
 of its founder. Hence he chose the simplest and directest style, and 
 wished even to keep the narrative unembarrassed by what are called 
 passages of great poetic beauty — ^which stand out from the story, and 
 are prized for their own sake — lest they should divert the mind from 
 the main current of the poem. His characters are not, therefore, like 
 the " artistic creations " of some modern writers, monstrosities or curi- 
 ous studies in human nature, but of the same stamp with our neigh- 
 bors whom we meet and shake hands with every day. His pictures of 
 scenery have the bold and familiar outlines of real landscapes, his por- 
 traitures of manners and passions are intelligible and vivid, and though 
 he has many passages of absorbing interest and stanzas pregnant with 
 elevated sentiments, the former are never unnaturally exciting, nor 
 the latter over-refined. He himself used to say, " I don't claim for 
 Whatcheer the merit of poetry. It has no fine words — no fine images 
 — neither morbid nor etherealized sentiments. I wished to write 
 what all would understand, not what would throw a few into raptures ; 
 not to please the fastidious, but to reach the native feelings of unlet- 
 tered men." And this is the class who are most readily touched by 
 the tale of the exile's trials. I have seen individuals, who believed it 
 as firmly as the early Greeks believed the Iliad or the Odyssey, who 
 seemed perfectly satisfied of the reality of the adventures, and sympa- 
 thized heartily in the sufferings of Williams. 
 
 In his own country the poem has passed through only a single 
 edition. Beyond the borders of his own State it was almost unknown, 
 and at home its reception was cold and captious. He had struck the 
 grandest chords of the human heart — its love of liberty, its patriotism, 
 religion and sympathy with persecuted heroism, and they vibrated 
 only broken or discordant strains. But while thus neglected on the 
 spot which it had clothed with the golden exhalations of poetry, and 
 among the men whose forefathers it celebrates, it passed the Atlantic, 
 and was greeted, by an English critic, as a poem in which " the mag- 
 nanimity, benevolence and patriarchal piety of Williams, his solitary 
 wanderings and perilous sojourn amongst the wild inhabitants of the 
 forest — his heart-thrilling adventures — his hardships, toils and wrongs 
 are so vividly set forth and mingled with such glowing descriptions of 
 American scenery, Indian customs and manners, and accounts so 
 instructive of their traditions as to render it one of the most enchant- 
 ing productions in our language." 
 
 In the Eclectic Review it was reviewed, with splendid encomiums, 
 
 r 
 
XVi. MEMOIR. 
 
 by that deep-thinking essayist and critic, John Foster. After a close 
 and masterly analysis, in which he was " detained at each stage of tho 
 progress by the striking singularity of the story," he says : " We do 
 not pretend to have mastered the philosophical or critical theories 
 which have attempted to define the nature of poetry, as distinct from 
 other modes of intellectual production, which appear very congenial. 
 We are well content when a composition has the substantial elements 
 which all must acknowledge to constitute the essence of poetry. All 
 these we think the present work possesses in a high degree." 
 
 " It was a daring proposition to the muse to go on an adventure over 
 such a field. Her silken robes and delicate habits were likely to come 
 to rough service among the wildest of forests and of men. The scene 
 of action afi'ords indeed a marked advantage in point of novelty ; but 
 to some tastes this advantage will be counterbalanced by the rugged, 
 sombre, dreary, frowning character of this new region for the incur- 
 sion of poetry. He who has been attempered to all the refinements, 
 genuine or spurious, of cultivated society, or, in his studies, has been 
 sojourning in classic bowers, in the company of nymphs ' of mortal or 
 immortal mould,' softened in the luxuries of fine sentiments, enamored 
 of elegance and grace, fastidious in every taste, will look about him 
 with strange and shrinking sensations, when he finds himself among 
 dark primeval forests, howling wolves, the smoke of wigwams and the 
 yells of savages. 
 
 " There is an importance quite adequate to sustain a poetical struc- 
 ture on so large a scale, in the subject it commemorates, that is, the 
 origination of an absolute religious freedom, springing up on the bor- 
 der of a then barbarous continent, clear of all contamination of hie- 
 rarchical and secular institution, destined to advance and spread 
 through all future ages. And the hero of this noble cause is worthy 
 of his vocation. His soul is earnestly zealous for the principle ; he is 
 firm, patient, persisting, inflexible ; trusting in God and ready to 
 abide all contingencies : nevertheless, not of iron consistence, but 
 subject to anxious, painful and tender emotions. His affectionate 
 manner to his wife is such as is merited by so amiable an associate, 
 whose less vigorous spirit suffers a hard conflict between pious resig- 
 nation and the terrors of the adventure. The narration is perspicuous 
 and consecutive, maintaining a close and natural connexion in the 
 train of events. It is also in fact rapid, though it is not till on reflec- 
 tion how many particulars are told in a short space and in the fewest 
 words, that the reader is aware of it. For there is a very singular 
 cast of sobriety in the language, that leads us on through the changes 
 
MEMOIR. XVll 
 
 even where it relates matters of the strongest excitement, so much, in 
 contrast with the tumultuary, precipitate and sonorous diction, often 
 assumed by poetic narration. There is often a sort of homeliness of 
 phrase, with a slight tinge of quaintness, which does not put the reader 
 in the mood for poetic perception ; he does not seem to know that it 
 is poetic feeling, while he goes on strongly interested by the strange 
 scenes, situations and transactions. 
 
 " In the power of description the poet excels eminently. The wild 
 aspect of nature, in both its permanent and changing phases ; the 
 gloom of a solemn desolation, with, nevertheless, the beauties that here 
 and there sparkle with life, the ominous incidents, the situations of 
 alarm or relief, the external signs of the passions, the appearance, 
 manners and imposing spectacles of the savage tribes, are presented 
 with a graphic reality, by combinations of expression discriminately 
 selected in an ample command of language. "We have noticed many 
 instances of the happy introduction of small but characteristic circum- 
 stances, giving variety to the description, and evincing an intimate, 
 vigilant observation of both material and moral phenomena." 
 
 Yet the poem has defects as striking as its merits. The opening 
 stanzas are said to be comparatively languid and spiritless — the inter- 
 vention of a supernatural being needless and incredible, and should 
 certainly not have been used if it requires a note to explain it ; the 
 interest is sometimes allowed to flag, and the rhymes and versification 
 are often inaccurate. The author felt his faults and labored to remedy 
 them. After its publication he interwove new stanzas, added a vivid 
 episode in the third canto, was constantly retouching and enhancing 
 its beauties, softening its roughness or fixing those fugitive graces of 
 style, which, " like the crimson drops i' the bottom of a cowslip," though 
 often unnoticed, are the seals of a finished and delicate workmanship. 
 In 1833, Mr. Durfee was appointed Associate Justice of the Supreme 
 Court of the State ; and two years after, upon the death of Judge 
 Bray ton and the resignation of Judge Eddy, was made Chief Justice. 
 Amid many changes of parties, he held this office, by annual re-appoint- 
 ment, until the new Constitution changed its tenure. His last sickness 
 stopped his pen in the midst of an unfinished opinion. As a judge, his 
 known talents and integrity commanded the confidence of the people 
 at large, while the dignity and courtesy of his manners conciliated the 
 respect and friendship of the bar. He had studied Law as a treasury 
 of legal principles and maxims — a logical development of the human 
 reason evolved by the civil relations of men. His juridical was a mod- 
 ification of his metaphysical character. His charges to the Grand 
 C 
 
Xviii MEMOIR. 
 
 Jury are essays upon the philosophy and ethics of the law, and his 
 decisions only pleased him when attained by the same logical sequence 
 as the conclusions of the Panidea. His advice to a young friend fur- 
 nishes, probably, the key of his own practice. " First bring your case," 
 said he, " within the sphere of some settled principle or maxim, and 
 then reason it out, taking care never to conflict with common sense. 
 It will be time enough, afterwards, to hunt up precedents and authori- 
 ties to establish and illustrate your reasonings." But, though thus 
 familiar with law as a system of principles, he was imperfectly versed 
 in its details — its forms and applications to individual cases — and was 
 too much enamored of other pursuits to give his days and nights to 
 master all its technical and multifarious learning and endless ramifi- 
 cations. 
 
 But even on the bench he did not escape the uncongenial tumults 
 of politics. In the insurgent movements of 1840 and '41, the court 
 was exposed, unshielded, to the pitiless peltings of partizan and brutish 
 passions. He had watched the gathering of the storm — perceived its 
 revolutionary tendencies, and prepared to resist them. He saw the 
 people inflamed by passionate harangues, processions, songs and mot- 
 toed banners — all the machinery of fanatical excitement successfully 
 brought to bear upon a question of politics. The " People's Consti- 
 tution" was declared the supreme law of the State. The friends of 
 " Law and Order" stood doubtful of the issue — ^wavering — anxiously 
 asking the course to be pursued. At this time, a letter, signed by some 
 of the influential men of Providence, came to the members ef the court, 
 then at Warren, requesting their opinion of the legality of the "People's 
 Constitution." To answer it, was to expose themselves a target to the 
 shafts of unprincipled demagogues and agitators, and to the hatred of 
 an infatuated people. There was little hesitation : a few lines, charac- 
 terizing the movement as illegal, without law and against law, were 
 returned, and published in the public papers. Public opinion was 
 visibly agitated. The letter was followed by a lecture, delivered in 
 several towns of the State, full of eloquent warnings, and breathing 
 an exalted devotion to the true principles of regulated liberty. His 
 efforts were seconded by other powerful speakers, and by the fervid 
 and graceful appeals of the press. They impregnated with vital and 
 energising thoughts the collapsing members of their party — gave it 
 new consistency, courage, and definiteness of purpose. It rallied — the 
 current was changed ; and, though the perils were not yet passed, it 
 became daily more evident that the citizens of Rhode Island still re- 
 vered the insulted majesty of the Law. The next spring, he delivered 
 
MEMOIR. XlX. 
 
 a charge to the Grand Jury, defining, with great clearness, the extent 
 and limitations of popular sovereignty, the constitution of a State, and 
 admonishing them of th« issues of open rebellion. Afterwards, wh 
 the military force of the State was called out to suppress open insur- 
 rection, he offered his services in the field. He was a delegate to the 
 convention to frame a new constitution ; and finally^ in the trial of 
 Mr. Dorr, sealed, with a judicial sentence, his faith in " the great truth, 
 that popular sovereignty can exist only in a legally organized people, 
 and can act only through the forms of its organizations and in accord- 
 ance with its constitution and laws." 
 
 While on the bench he produced neatly all his prose writings. In 
 January, 1838, he delivered two lectures on Aboriginal history, be- 
 fore the Rhode Island Historical Society. In them, he narrates in 
 language clear, glowing, sinewy, the main events of their subjection 
 and extermination. As if imbued with the hereditary sympathies and 
 resentments of the red man, he has given their chivalrous exploits a 
 heightened coloring and historical completeness, redeeming the subject 
 at once from the tediousness and distortions of the Pilgrim Annalists. 
 The winter following, he delivered, before the Massachusetts Historical 
 Society, a lecture upon the " Idea of the Supernatural among the In- 
 dians" — a fitting sequel to the two proceeding. It is pleasing and 
 elegant, with at times a Wordsworthian loftiness of sentiment — philo- 
 sophy and history illuminated with the chastened splendor of poetry. 
 
 But the great work of his life — the nucleus of his speculations through 
 many years and the basis of his fame as a thinker — is the Panidea. 
 Its publication and reception form a striking comment upon the intel- 
 lectual character of the age. Its worth, originality and reach of thought 
 were acknowledged ; but the sublime mystery, how the Infinite One 
 is involved everywhere in the finite many, seemed out of place and 
 old-fashioned as the theme of a book, in this age of novels, periodi- 
 cals, and light reading, when, like a grub, thought seems only spinning 
 its own sepulchure. The book was deemed too abstruse to appear in 
 a seperate form, but a proposal was made that it should appear in some 
 magazine, since a few extra copies might then be struck off at a slight 
 expense. The author replied : " That old simile of the moth allured 
 by the light to fly again and again into the blaze until it is consumed 
 has its thousand-fold applications. The thought of having my treatise 
 printed for private use induces me to address you again — not that I 
 expect pecuniary gain — not that I anticipate fame, I should be content 
 to forego either, but it seems to me that the work contains some ideas 
 that would be of use to the world, and I feel unwilling to let them die on 
 
XX. M E M O I R» 
 
 my hands, without having their usefulness tested or their falsity shown." 
 But the editor, to whom the book was submitted, found it too substan- 
 tial, requiring too much reflection, for his columns. The author agreed, 
 at last, to purchase two fifths of the work himself, and in 1846 the book 
 appeared under the anonymous signature " Theoptes." But to most 
 men its very title-page is a Grorgon's-head. They are sure that noth- 
 ing but infidelity, mysticism, or transcendental puzzles can lurk under 
 such hard names. The critics avoid it utterly. Its solid logic cannot 
 be volatilized into a popular review, and such only do they feel them- 
 selves called upon to write. So does it fare with metaphysics in this 
 nineteenth century — it does not blend and flow on with the general 
 stream, but to men's fancies is a maelstrom, with vortices whirling and 
 sucking its victims down fearful and bottomless deeps. 
 
 But, although the book is written with elaborate precision, it must 
 be admitted that the objections to it are not without cause. Coleridge, 
 speaking of an Essay by Charles Lamb, written upon a man who lived 
 in past time, said that he once thought of adding to it an essay on a 
 man who did not live in time at all, but one side of it, or collaterally. 
 If such a person should fancy to write metaphysics, his system would 
 perhaps result in a Panidea. Theoptes divests himself wholly of the 
 relations of time and space, or rather, retiring entirely from the world 
 of the senses, views them as they exist in the Pure Reason. But this 
 is not all, he requires the reader to retire with him, and, in this em- 
 pyrean of naked abstractions, to follow out his reasonings with scai'ce- 
 ly a sensuous image to assist the apprehension of their logic. His 
 metaphysics are more exacting than the purest mathematics, for in 
 them the ideal conceptions may be symbolized and reasoned upon in 
 lines and cyphers, but here, except by the "visual formula" (the first, per- 
 haps in a series of symbols, yet to be invented, to give to metaphysics 
 a mathematical certainty,) the mind is unaided by outward types. The 
 consequence is that, even when the system is understood, it lies so far 
 out of all ordinary experience that it requires an eff'ort to realize the 
 state of mind necessary to discuss it, and an efi"ort of such sort that 
 only scholars and thinkers will ever be likely to make it. 
 
 His oration on the influence of scientific discovery and invention on 
 social and political progress, developes and illustrates some of the 
 thoughts of the Panidea. He had originally devoted many pages in 
 this work to an exposition of the philosophy of history and the law 
 of progress. Among the fragments of this essay, the subject of this 
 oration is thus spoken of : " In treating of social and political pro- 
 gress, I might be disposed to consider that progress merely in an 
 
MEMOIR. XXI. 
 
 intellectual point of view, leaving out every moral and religious ele- 
 ment, and then I might find the cause of that progress in the progress 
 of science and art. I might trace the discoveries in science, and the 
 inventions in art, to a law of suggestion derived from the supreme 
 reason, and acting from generation to generation, and then show how 
 those discoveries and inventions reflected their influence into all social 
 and political institutions, and eventually controlled their action. But 
 this would be a comparatively limited view — it would not embrace the 
 whole man — however true in itself, it would be less than all the truth 
 pertaining to humanity." I quote this remark, because the deductions 
 of this oration have been sometimes taken in a sense less qualified 
 than the author seems to have intended. 
 
 His discourse on the Rhode-Island Idea of Grovernment, delivered 
 the winter previous to his death, is a special application of the Pani- 
 deal philosophy to history, and shows how fruitful it is in beautiful 
 thoughts. It traces the idea of " Soul-Liberty " from its first indis- 
 tinct twinklings in the Middle Ages, as it struggled fitfully through 
 the mists and shadows of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, as it 
 crossed the Atlantic with the little band of persecuted pilgrims, till 
 at last it shone out in all its surpassing glory upon the wilderness 
 home of Roger Williams. It shows its development here, and influ- 
 ence upon the State — its magnificent results and glorious destiny. It 
 breathes his own fervent love of liberty, his exulting thankfulness at 
 the mind's escape from the vassalage of error into the freedom of a 
 great and exalting truth, and his faith that the winding policies of 
 man are ever ignorantly developing the order of Divine Providence. 
 
 He sometimes made use of a novel illustration of the manner in 
 which a nation, notwithstanding the free activity of the individual, is 
 impelled to fulfil the Divine purposes. " During a violent snow-storm, 
 a flock of sheep belonging to a farmer on the small islands in the Vin- 
 yard Sound, moved in a mass across one of those bleak and exposed 
 commons, into the ocean, and every one of the whole number was 
 drowned. The manner in which it was done was as follows : The vio- 
 lence of the storm was such that they collected together in a mass for 
 mutual shelter ; but standing thus together, those behind, or on the 
 windward side, were constantly passing around to the front or leaward 
 side, and they thus gradually advanced toward the sea. Their owner 
 in vain attempted to oppose their progress, he could but retard it, and 
 the whole mass still moved on, until all were buried in the ocean. 
 This rural incident is highly emblematical of a nation under the gov- 
 ernment of its predominant idea. The individuals of which it consists 
 
XXll. 
 
 ItfE M O IB. 
 
 \^ 
 
 in general, voluntarily act in accordance with its idea, and carry the 
 nation forward to its destiny — some there may be who act adversely to it 
 
 nay, a whole generation may do so — but in so doing they do but retard 
 
 it for a time, they are forced at last to obey the idea which is a law 
 to the whole, and thus ultimately fulfil the nation's destiny." 
 
 He was still busied with theso august speculations, and earnest in 
 the discharge of his official duties, when an illness, from which at first 
 no serious results were anticipated, put a period to his life. He had 
 returned from a laborious session indisposed, and gradually grew 
 worse. He was himself the first to predict a fatal termination, 
 and resigned himself with cheerful composure. Death was to him no 
 startling thought. He had already gazed into its abyss of awful 
 secrets, and surrounded it with a beautiful philosophy. It was but to 
 divest himself of his sensuous relations and live on amid eternal reali- 
 ties — to fold together the scroll of the material universe, and read, with 
 purified vision, the wonderful Apocalypse of the Spirit. He gave his 
 last instructions with affectionate concern, but as quietly as if he were 
 merely to take a brief journey, and to the last conversed with his phy- 
 sician with his usual familiar and bantering manner. To a friend who 
 expressed his sorrow at the event, he replied, " Yes, my disease is 
 rapidly approaching the crisis, but to myself it matters little which 
 way the balance turns, and I do not know that it does to others. I 
 have done what I thought to be my duty." The next day, July 26, 
 1847, he ceased to breathe. He died in the undiminished vigor of his 
 intellect, with a full confidence in the Divine Providence, and re- 
 quested that his tombstone should be engraved with the Rhode Island 
 coat of arms, and the inscription, " His trust was and is in Gtob" 
 
 In his person, Mr. Durfee was corpulant, of the middle height, with 
 greyish eyes, a voice flexible and powerful, and a forehead and face 
 marked with thought and reflecting the varying movements of his 
 mind. Physically indolent almost to a proverb, he was in mind 
 thoughtful, meditative, with seasons of great intellectual activity and 
 never sunk in listlessness, for he knew that the passions of the soul, like 
 Michael Scott's demon, though excellent servants while busied, became 
 its destroyers when suffered to remain unemployed. In his manners 
 he was simple, unpretending, with a Pythagorean love of silegpe ; yet 
 in his affable moods exchanged his thoughts with mirthful vivacity, 
 while upon subjects of philosophy or politics he held his listener by 
 the abundance of his ideas, the compass of his intellect and the vivid- 
 ness of his expression. He seldom sprinkled his conversation with 
 personalities, was charitable to the follies and weaknesses of others 
 
MEMOIR. XXm, 
 
 and gladly recognised susceptibilities of virtue in the wickedest of 
 men. In the captivating accomplishments of social intercourse he was 
 excelled by hundreds. Cloistered in his own choice thoughts, even 
 amid the lively gossip of the crowded drawing room, its gaieties and 
 dissipations vexed and pestered rather than amused him. He loved 
 the true — the grand — the beautiful, humanity in its diviner attributes, 
 and nature in her aspects of imposing grandeur or placid loveliness, 
 rather than in her delicate pencilings on leaf and flower, and these 
 tastes, too exclusively cultivated, added to his natural reserve, unfitted 
 him for the agreeable trifling, the showy graces, and the festive hila- 
 rity of social life, while they led him to despise its fopperies, frivolities, 
 gloss and heartlessness. To some his love of truth and justice may 
 have seemed severe ; but, if he evinced something of the stern spirit of 
 the Eoman censor, he yet possessed a heart that keenly felt for human 
 sufferings and temptations, that melted with childlike tenderness even 
 at the death of a sparrow, and flashed indignant scorn at cruelty in 
 every shape. He had formed to himself a lofty ideal of humanity, 
 " the abstract of the moral, intellectual, and physical perfections of all 
 grades of society, the person divested of all adventitious qualities of 
 time, place and circumstance, the individual who, through order and 
 law has attained to that perfection of his nature, in which by acting 
 in obedience to the dictates of the pure Reason he renders all other 
 law inoperative and unnecessary," — a conception never to be realized, 
 but which could not fail to ennoble all his aspirations. 
 
 As a student, he read much, rather than many books. In oratory 
 he loved the copious eloquence of Cicero and Burke, the luminous and 
 impassioned logic of Demosthenes and Webster — the minds that pen" 
 etrate to the marrow of a subject and unfold it from its inmost princi- 
 ples, or upon the fluctuations of human fortunes reflect the steady light 
 of great ideas. In poetry his reading was so confined as to suggest a 
 doubt whether he was so deeply enamored of his art as became a pro- 
 fessor. But if his favorites were few they were well chosen. Homer, 
 (Pope's translation,) Virgil, Shakspeare, and Milton, those vast orbs 
 of song, 
 
 "Whither, as to their fountains, other stars 
 Repairing", in their g-olden urns draw lig-ht," 
 
 he read with deep and repeated pleasure, and compensated for his ex- 
 clusiveness by an appreciative attachment. In his historical studies 
 he possessed that happy faculty of great minds, to seize almost intui- 
 tively those central facts, which, being rightly interpreted, constitute 
 the philosophy of history. When composing his poem he read the history 
 
Xxiv. MEMOIR. 
 
 of the New England Colonists, and studied their characters so carefully 
 that — to use his own expression — " he could almost hear the old fellows 
 talk." But, with him, these studies subserved a still higher purpose. He 
 sought in them the causes and the law of human progress, and aimed 
 to blend the lights of history and metaphysics, saying that " the philo- 
 sophy of the human mind may be studied on the grand scale of history 
 as well as in the microscopic regions of our own breasts." To ascertain 
 the authors who contributed to the results of his system, and mark 
 how, by accidental hints, the borrowed light of kindred minds and 
 patient thinking, it grew from its rude embryo in the visual formula 
 to its complete development, might be a curious and instructive task^ 
 but one which cannot now be accomplished. That he was early devot- 
 ed to metaphysical studies is proved by many essays, setting forth his 
 views, while still in a state of transition. His first guides were Locke, 
 Hartley, Stewart and Brown, to the last of whom he was at one time very 
 partial. But "he who is to follow philosophy must be a freeman in 
 mind " is the maxim of an ancient sage. He must be the one-eyed Poly- 
 phemus of no sect or system. He must sit in willing discipleship at the 
 feet of every teacher. He must make his mind a focus where rays from 
 all objects of knowledge may meet and shed mutual illuminations. Such, 
 at least, was Mr. Durfee's creed. He found the philosophical tenets of 
 Swedenbourg — to whom he is perhaps more indebted than to any other 
 — the subtle speculations of Coleridge, and the searching eclecticism of 
 Cousin, all fraught either with direct teaching or pregnant suggestions. 
 He knew the Grerman philosophers but slightly and only at second 
 hand. Still his own mind was the main fountain of his speculations. 
 He was forever revolving some philosophical question, and when he 
 once began to consider an idea, it pursued, harassed and haunted him 
 with a power which neither sleep nor labor could exorcise until he had 
 viewed it in all phases and settled its doubtful points. It was, I think, 
 when in Congress that he first began to speculate upon what he has 
 termed " the visual formula " — an enigmatical expression of Sweeden- 
 bourg's, " the Divine fill all things without space," again directed his 
 mind to the subject ; truths dimly seen brightened as he watched 
 them, and finally (thought after thought) the entire system was de- 
 veloped. 
 
 He was a politician of the old school of Democrats, or Republicans ; 
 though at the close of his life his sympathies were oftener with the 
 Whigs. His political career was a conflict between his ambition and his 
 taste. The aspirations and capacity of the statesman were continually 
 opposed by the tranquil tastes and delicate sensibilities of the recluse. 
 
MEMOIR. XXV. 
 
 He was divided against himself, and, as might be expected, grew weary 
 of a pursuit which could gratify only one half of his nature. He 
 disdained subterfuge and duplicity ; he chafed at the surveillance of 
 party ; he was galled by its asperities and fervors ; a sad experience 
 taught him to value justly the calm delights of letters and philosophy. 
 His introduction to Whatcheer is a picture drawn wholly from truth. 
 As a philosopher he at length stood above parties, although he still 
 kept up his old connexions. " The truth is," he writes, " a man may 
 perform equal service to his country in either party, granting that the 
 party must, from the nature of things, exist. A man honestly devoted 
 to his country, or, what is the same thing, the great cause of truth, is 
 useful every where. He imbues those with whom he is connected with 
 something of his own character. I will cherish the desire of attaining 
 this point of usefulness ; and whilst doing this, if I see others who 
 have already been pre-eminently successful, no matter where they are, 
 my mind does them voluntary homage. I can freely say to them, go 
 on and prosper to the full extent of every good purpose ; if my situa- 
 tion in society forbids my co-operation, I can at least use my feeble 
 efforts to mitigate the violence of opposition." He feared the tenden- 
 cies of the popular elements of the government. The increasing ex- 
 citements of elections were a source of ominous anxiety. He suggested 
 a new scheme of election. " Let the mass," said he, " be resolved into 
 sections of tens or twenties, and let each section vote for all, except 
 municipal officers, by one unpledged and sworn elector, annually cho- 
 sen, who, though he may listen to the arguments of those who chose 
 to be advocates, touching the question which he is to decide, shall not 
 himself act the part of advocate, but on the contrary shall make oath 
 at the time he casts his vote, that he stands unpledged by word or 
 deed to any party, and that he now votes with an exclusive view to the 
 best interests of the country. If he falsifies his oath, let him be con- 
 victed of perjury, and forfeit his electoral right. The duties of such 
 elector would be analogous to those of a judge or juror, in reference 
 to the cause which he has sworn to decide truly. And surely the wel- 
 fare of a whole people demand guaranties as solemn as those by which 
 individual right is secured." He thought the country had less to fear 
 from bad legislation upon finance, commerce, and internal improve- 
 ment, than from the growing irreverence towards the constitution, 
 when it stands in the way of a popular measure. The despotic power, 
 of the President, the immunity with which he tramples down the con- 
 stitutional barriers, so long as the imaginations of the people are daz- 
 zled by magnificent or captivating projects, filled him with apprehen- 
 D 
 
XXVI. MEMOIR. 
 
 ' sions. "Nothing," lie would often Bay, "remains of the government 
 
 \^ established in the time of Washington but the judiciary. We have 
 
 /■ undergone in the political sphere a revolution which the future histo- 
 
 ■^s rian will see and declare, but which there are few among us who now 
 
 - see, or if they do see, will acknowledge." 
 
 He was married in 1820, to Judith Borden, a daughter of Simeon 
 Borden, and was the father of seven children. After his marriage he 
 resided on a farm, the property of his wife. To agriculture he was 
 always ardently attached. There is no other pursuit, he said, so well 
 fitted to develope the whole man ; to unfold, harmoniously, his mental, 
 moral and physical being. His contemplative character found itself 
 at home in this quiet and primitive employment. " Nature," says 
 Plato, " is Grod's epistle to mankind," and farming fosters the closest 
 
 •^ "intimacies with nature. Its processes suggest such thousand-fold corres- 
 
 pondences and symbols of man's spiritual training, that the thoughtful 
 
 mind must ever be attracted to it. He delighted to sit in front of his 
 house by twilight, when the blending lights and beautiful colors of 
 evening fell upon the earth ; to watch the clear waters as they mir- 
 rored the long semi-elipse of shaggy hills that skirt their margin; the 
 living green of spring and the gorgeous mosaic of autumn ; the ascend- 
 ing spirals of the hawk, wheeling up to the clouds ; to listen to the 
 low susurrus of the |^ winds, the drowsy murmurs of insects and the 
 vesper hymns of birds, and gradually harmonise his own spirit with 
 the universal concert. At such times he repeated some favorite pas- 
 sage of poetry, or some stanzas of his own poem, with ever-varying 
 intonation — rather as a richly modulated chant than a tame recitation. 
 As, one by one, the stars blazed upon the dusky rim of the horizon, 
 and impearled the firmament, his musings acquired a loftier rapture, 
 a devouter spirituality, a more mystical inspiration, and, in the depths 
 of his own being, he recognized the presence and the impulses of the 
 Divine and Universal Spirit. 
 
 In closing these brief memoirs I need make no apology for the 
 meagreness of the narrative to those who know how uneventful is the 
 life of a scholar, and how little the subject of this sketch was given to 
 merely personal reminiscences. His was an inner life, whose inci- 
 dents are unchronicled, save in the silent growth of mind and charac- 
 ter, and if these have been too indiscriminately portrayed, my near 
 . relation to him must plead my excuse ; if too inadequately, his own 
 works will aff'ord a vindication. 
 
WHATCHEEE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 EOGER WILLIAMS IN BANISHMENT. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 TO THE KEY. ROMEO ELTON, 
 
 PROFESSOR OF LANGUAGES IN BROWN UNIVERSITY.- 
 
 What time, dear Elton, we were wont to rove 
 From classic Brown along- fair Seekonk's vale, 
 
 And, in the murmurs of his storied cove. 
 
 Hear barbarous voices still our Founder hail ; 
 
 E'en then my bosom with young- rapture hove 
 To g-ive to deathless verse the exile's tale ; 
 
 And every ripple's moan, or breeze's sigh, 
 
 Brought back whole centuries as it murmured by. 
 
 But soon the transient dream of youth was gone, 
 And different labors to our lots were given : 
 
 You at the shrine of peace and glory shown ; 
 
 Sublime your toils, for still your theme was Heaven — 
 
 I, upon life's tempestuous billows thrown — 
 A little bark before the tempest driven — 
 
 Strove for a time the surging tide to breast. 
 
 And up its rolling mountains sought for rest. 
 
 Wearied, at length, with the unceasing strife, 
 
 I gave my pinnace to the harbor's lee, 
 And left that ocean, still with tempests rife, 
 
 To mad ambition's heartless rivalry ; 
 No longer venturing for exalted life, 
 
 (For storms and quicksands have no charms for me,) 
 I, in the listless labors of the swain, 
 Provoke no turmoil, and awake no pain. 
 
 To drive the team afield, and guide the plough, 
 Or lead the herds to graze the dewy mead, 
 
 Wakes not the glance of lynx-eyed rival now. 
 And makes no heart with disappointment bleed ; 
 
 Once more I joy to see the rivers flow, 
 
 The lambkins sport, and brindled oxen feed. 
 
 And o'er the tranquil soul returns the dream, 
 
 Which once she cherished by fair Seekonk's stream. 
 
4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 And when stern winter breathes the chilling* stormi, 
 And night comes down on earth in mantle hoar, 
 
 I g-uide the herds and flocks to shelter warm, 
 And sate their hunger from the gathered store ; 
 
 Then round the cottage hearth the circle form 
 Of childhood lovelier than the vernal flower, 
 
 Partake its harmless glee and prattle gay, 
 
 And soothe my soul to tune the artless lay. 
 
 Thus were the numbers taught at first to flow. 
 Scarce conscious that they bore a tale along — 
 
 Beneath my hand still would the pages grow — 
 They were not labor, but the joy of song — 
 
 Still every line would unsung beauties show 
 In Williams' soul, and still the strain prolong ; 
 
 Till, all in rapture with the theme sublime, 
 
 My thoughts spontaneous sought the embodying rhymes 
 
 No man was he of heart with love confined — 
 With blessings only for his bosom friend — 
 
 His glowing soul embraced the human kind — 
 He toiled and sufiered for earth's farthest end. 
 
 Touched by the truths of his unyielding mind, 
 The human soul did her long bondage rend ; 
 
 Stern Persecution paused — blushed — dropped the rod — 
 
 He strove like man, but conquered like a God. 
 
 And now, my Elton, as in hours of ease. 
 With aimless joy I filled this frail balloon, 
 
 So like blind impulse bids me trust the breeze. 
 And soar on dancing winds to fate unknown ; 
 
 And be my lot whatever chance decrees — 
 Let gales propitious gently waft me on. 
 
 Or tempests dash far down oblivious night — 
 
 Whate'er the goal, I tempt the heedless flight. 
 
 Tivertm, R. /., September, 1832. 
 
WHATCHEER. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 [Scenes. The Fire-Side at Salem— The Wilderness— The Wig-wam.j 
 
 I SING of trials stern, and sufferings great, 
 
 Which Father Williams in his exile bore, 
 That he the conscience-bound might liberate, 
 
 And her religious rights the soul restore ; 
 How, after flying persecution's hate. 
 
 And roving long by Narraganset's shore, 
 In lone Mooshausick's vale at last he sate, 
 
 And gave soulrliberty Jier Gicardian State. 
 II. 
 He was a man of spirit true and bold ; 
 
 Feared not to speak his thoughts whate'er they were 
 His frame, though light, was of an iron mould, 
 
 And fitted well fatigue and change to bear ; 
 For Grod ordained that he should breast the cold 
 
 Of northern Wilderness in winter drear, 
 And of red savages protection pray 
 From Christians, but — more savage far than they. 
 
 III. 
 Midwinter reigned ; and Salem's infant town, 
 
 Where late were cleft the forests' skirts away. 
 Showed its low roofs, and from the thatching brown, 
 
 The sheeted ice sent back the sun's last ray ; 
 The school-boys left the slippery hillock's crown. 
 
 So keen the blast came o'er the eastern bay. 
 And the pale sun in vapors thick went down, 
 And the glassed forest cast a sombre frown. 
 
WHATCHEER. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The busy house-wife guarded well the door, 
 
 That night, against the gathering winter storm — 
 
 Did the rude walls of all the cot explore 
 
 Where'er the snow-gust might a passage form ; 
 
 And to the couch of age and childhood bore 
 With anxious care the mantle thick and warm ; 
 
 And then of fuel gathered ample store, 
 
 And bade the blaze up the rude chimney roar. 
 
 V. 
 
 On this drear night was Williams seated by 
 His blazing hearth, his family beside, 
 
 And from his consort often burst the sigh, 
 As still her task of needle-work she plied ; 
 
 And, from the lashes of her azure eye, 
 
 She often brushed the starting tear aside — 
 
 At spring's approach they savage wilds must try : 
 
 Such was the sentence of stern bigotry ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Beside the good-man lay his Bible's fair 
 
 Broad open paga upon the accustomed stand, 
 
 And many a passage had he noted there. 
 
 Of Israel wandering the wild wastes of sand, 
 
 And each assurance had he marked with care, 
 Made by Jehovah of the j^^omised land ; 
 
 And from the sacred page he learned to dare 
 
 The exile's fate in wilderness afar. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Whilst pondered he the sacred volume o'er, 
 And often told, to cheer his consort's breast, 
 
 How, for their faith, the blest apostles bore 
 
 The exile's wanderings and the dungeon's pest, 
 
 A heavy foot approached his humble door, 
 And open wide abrupt an entrance prest ; 
 
 And lowered an elder not unknown before, 
 
 Strong in a church ensphered in civil power. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " I come." he said in accents hard and stern, 
 " The G overnor and Council's word to bear : 
 
 They are assembled, and with deep concern, 
 Hear thou abusest their indulgence fair ; 
 
CANTO FIRST. 
 
 Thy damned creed, with horror do they learn, 
 
 Still thou to teach thy visiters dost dare, 
 Who, smitten with thy sanctity, discern 
 Strange godliness in thee, and from ns turn. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Till Spring we gave ; and thou wast not to teach 
 Thy sentenced faith to erring men the while : 
 
 But to depart, or, with submissive speech, 
 
 Regain the church and leave thy doctrines vile ; 
 
 Of this injunction thou committest breach, 
 
 And Salem's church dost of her saints despoil : — 
 
 Plan, too, 'tis rumored by the mouth of each, 
 
 A State, where Antichrist himself may preach. 
 
 X. 
 
 " From such a State our blessed elders see 
 
 Christ's church, e'en here, may the infection share ; 
 'Tis therefore that the Council now decree, 
 
 That to the wilderness thou shalt not fare ; 
 But 'tis their mandate, hither sent by me, 
 
 That thou to Boston presently repair — 
 A ship there waits, now ready for the sea, 
 
 Homeward to bear thy heresy and thee." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Williams replied, " Thy message is unkind — 
 I e'en perchance may think it something rude • 
 
 The snow falls fast and searching is the wind. 
 
 And wild the blast howls through the darkened wood. 
 
 The path to Boston too is somewhat blind. 
 
 Nor are my nerves now in their better mood — 
 
 My soul has seldom at her lot repined. 
 
 But to obedience now she's disinclined. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " A voyage to England, and to start this night, 
 And brave the ocean at this season drear ! — 
 
 'T would scantly give the hardy tar delight, 
 
 Much less my consort and these pledges dear. — 
 
 Gro tell the council that we are not quite 
 In health to bear a trial so severe. 
 
 And that if yield we, 'tis to lawless might, 
 
 And not to their kind feelings or their right."' 
 
S WHATCHEER. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Much do I grieve," the elder then replied, 
 " To bear this answer to the governor — 
 
 'Twill show that thou hast Church and State dej5ed, 
 And will I ween make not a little stir ; 
 
 And should a pinnace, on the morn espied 
 O'er yonder waters speeding, hither skirr,* 
 
 With musketeers, and Underhill their guide, 
 
 Be not surprised, but — Williams, quell thy pride !" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 This said, he turned, and hastily withdrew. 
 And all save Williams left behind in tears ; 
 
 His wife, still fair, now lost her blooming hue, 
 And nature yielded to her rising fears ; 
 
 A giddy whirling passed her senses through — 
 She almost heard the blazing musketeers — 
 
 And trembling to her couch she flew to sigh. 
 
 And breathe such prayers as angels bear on high. 
 
 XV. 
 
 What could his firmness in this trying strait, 
 By Church and State with allied might assailed ! 
 
 Should he forego the project of his state, 
 And leave the fagot to his race entailed ? — 
 
 His hoped-for home in wilderness of late. 
 
 At once beneath this blighting mandate failed, 
 
 And in his prospect he beholds await 
 
 The ready ship and ocean desolate. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 '• ! for a friend," still as he paced the floor. 
 He often sighed, " now in my utmost need, 
 
 Whose counsels might some hidden way explore, 
 And give the glorious purpose to succeed ; 
 
 But closed this night is every cottage door — 
 Yet there is one who is a friend indeed, 
 
 Forever present to the meek and poor — 
 
 I will thy counsels, mighty Lord, implore." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Here dropt the friend of conscience on his knees, 
 
 And prayed, with hand and heart to Heaven upreared- 
 " 0, thou, that God who parted Egypt's seas, 
 ♦ Skirr, obsolete—to scud or move hastily ; used by Byron and Fletcher. 
 
CANTO FIRST, 9 
 
 And cloud or fire in Israel's van appeared, 
 Send down thine angel now, if so it please, 
 
 That forth from Church within the State ensphered 
 He guide my steps, to where there yet may be 
 A Church not ruled by men, but ruled by Thee." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Our Father ceased — The tempest roared around 
 
 With double fury at this moment drear, 
 The cottage trembled, and the very ground 
 
 Seemed e'en to feel the element's career ; 
 With ice and snow the window-panes were bound, 
 
 Nor through their dimness could earth's robe appear, 
 While still by fits its way the tempest found 
 Down the rude chimney, with a roaring sound. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 As voice divine it did to Williams seem, 
 
 He sate a space within himself retired, 
 Then seemed to rouse as from a transient dream, 
 
 Just as the lamp's last flickering ray expired ; 
 Around the room is shed a quivering beam, 
 
 Cast from the brands that on the hearth are fired ; 
 The tempest lulls apace, until he seems 
 To hear from neighboring woods the panther's screams. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " But what is this ? a knocking at the door — 
 Some way-lost wanderer seeks a shelter here ; 
 
 On this dark night amid the tempest roar, 
 Ah, wretched man, thy sufferings are severe !" 
 
 He raised the bar that made the pass secure. 
 
 And with the snow-gust from the darkness drear, 
 
 A stranger entered, whose large garments bore 
 
 No doubtful tokens of the tempest's power. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Aged he seemed, and staff of length had he, 
 
 Which well a holy pilgrim had become, 
 But yet he sought, with solemn dignity 
 
 And easy step, the centre of the room ; 
 Then by the glancing light could Williams see, 
 
 His flowing beard, white as the lily's bloom — 
 Age scored his temples, but still glancing free, 
 As from the imprint of a century. 
 9 
 
10 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 His eye beamed youtli ; and such a solemn mien, 
 Blent with such majesty and graceful air, 
 
 Our Founder deemed he ne'er before had seen 
 In mortal form ; and at the oifered chair 
 
 The stranger gently shook his brow serene, 
 And by the act revealed his long white hair, 
 
 As fell the fleecy covering from it clean, 
 
 Where down his shoulders hung its tresses sheen. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And when he spake his voice was low and clear, 
 But yet so deeply thrilling was its tone. 
 
 The listening soul seemed rapt into a sphere 
 Where angels speak in music of their own. 
 
 " Williams," it said, " I come on message here. 
 Of moment great to this blind age unknown, 
 
 Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear. 
 
 But fly at morn into the forest drear. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Thou art to voyage an unexplored flood ; 
 
 No chart is there thy lonely bark to steer ; 
 Beneath her, rocks — around her, tempests rude — 
 
 And persecution's billows in her rear, 
 Shall shake thy soul till it is near subdued — 
 
 But when the welcome of ' What cheer ! What cheer !' 
 Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude. 
 Cast thou thine AncJwr there, and trust in God" 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The stranger ceased, and gently past away, 
 
 Tliough Williams kindly strove him to detain — 
 
 " The night was dark, and wild the tempest's sway. 
 And lone the desert," but 'twas all in vain — 
 
 He only in soft accents seemed to say, 
 
 " Williams, perchance I shall behold again 
 
 Thee when thy day shall more auspicious be, 
 
 When hope shall joy in hallowed victory." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The stranger past, and Williams, by the fire. 
 Long mused on this mysterious event : 
 
 Was it some seraph, robed in man's attire. 
 Come down to urge and hallow his intent ? — 
 
CANTO FIRST. 11 
 
 To counsel — kindle — and his breast inspire 
 
 With words fired with prophetic sentiment 1 
 Or had he dreamed — and had his fancy clear, 
 Drawn in his mind the vision of this seer ? 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 'Twas strange — mysterious ! Yet, if dream it were, 
 'Twas such as prophets old had often known, 
 
 When Jacob saw the heaven-ascending stair. 
 And Joseph hoarded for the dearth foreshown. 
 
 Ah ! did the Omniscient hear his earnest prayer, 
 And did e'en Heaven the glorious project own ! 
 
 Then would he by the morrow's light repair. 
 
 The voice obeying, to the wilds afar. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He sought for rest, but feverous was the plight 
 Of Williams then for slumber calm, I trow ; 
 
 Still mused he on the toils of morrow's flight. 
 
 Through unknown wilderness and wastes of snow ; 
 
 How to elude the persecutor's sight, 
 
 Or shun the following quest of eager foe, 
 
 Tasked his invention with no labor light — 
 
 And long, and slow, and lagging past the night. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And if by fits came intervening sleep, 
 
 Through deserts wild and rugged roved his soul, 
 
 Here rose the rock — there sunk the headlong steep, 
 And fiercely round him seemed the storm to howl ; 
 
 Whilst from the sheltered glen his foes would peep, 
 With taunts and jeers, and with revilings foul, 
 
 Scofi" at his efforts ; and their clamors deep 
 
 Came mingled with that awful tempest's sweep. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Morn came at last ; and by the dawning day, 
 Our Founder rose his secret flight to take ; 
 
 His wife and infant still in slumber lay — 
 ! shall he now that blissful slumber break 1 
 
 Yes ! he is one who deems that trials may, 
 Within the mind, its mightier powers awake. 
 
 And that the storms, which gloom the pilgrim's way, 
 
 Prepare the soul for her eternal day. 
 
12 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 '' Mary !" (she woke) " prepare the meet attire, 
 Mj pocket-compass and my mantle strong, 
 
 My flint and steel to yield the needful fire — 
 Food for a week, if that be not too long ; 
 
 My hatchet too — its service I require 
 To clip my fuel desert wilds among ; 
 
 With these I go to found, in forests drear, 
 
 A State where none shall persecution fear." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " What ! goest thou, Roger, in this chilling storm ? 
 
 Wait ! wait at least until its rage is o'er — 
 Its wrath will bar e'en persecution's arm 
 
 From thee and me until it fails to roar — 
 ! what protecting hand will shield from harm 
 
 Thee by dark night ; and where the friendly door 
 To give thee refuge at the dire alarm 
 Of hungry wolves, and beasts in human form !" 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Cease, cease, my Mary ; thou dost e'en complain 
 That Heaven doth kindly interpose to save — 
 
 Both wing this tempest's fury to restrain 
 
 The quest of foes, and prompt my soul to brave 
 
 The desert's perils, that I may maintain 
 
 The conscience free, 'gainst those who would enslave- 
 
 Wait till the storm shall cease to sweep the plain, 
 
 And we are doomed to cross yon heaving main." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 No more he said, for she in silence went, 
 From place to place until her task was o'er ; 
 
 Williams, the whilst, the fleeting moments spent 
 To scrawl a message to delay the more — 
 
 Aye, to beguile the beagles on the scent. 
 
 Till he had gained the distant wilds secure — 
 
 And hope, perchance, still vain illusions lent, 
 
 Friendship might plead, and bigotry relent. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Then he to Heaven his weeping spouse commends — 
 Implores its blessing on his purpose bold ; 
 
 Salem still sleeps, and forth our Founder wends, 
 To breast the driving storm and chilling cold ; 
 
CANTO FIRST. |8 
 
 Whilst the lone mother from the window sends 
 
 A glance that all her heaving bosom told — 
 Dimly she marks him as his course he bends 
 O'er the white fields, and toward the woods extends. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 To show him parting, to the light she rears 
 
 His child, unconscious yet of human wo. 
 And oft its guileless silver voice she hears, 
 
 " ! where goes father, through the driving snow ?" 
 The tender accents start the mother's tears, 
 
 " He does, my child, to the wild red men go, 
 To seek protection from hard brethren here, 
 For thee and me, and all to him that's dear." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 So forth he ventured — even like the dove 
 
 Which earliest left the angel-guarded ark ; 
 On weary pinions hovered she above 
 
 The vast of waters, heaving wild and dark. 
 Over waste realms of death, whilst still she strove 
 
 Some peak emergent from the flood to mark, 
 Where she might rest above the billows' sweep. 
 And build a stormy home 'mid that unquiet deep. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 In boundless forests now our Founder trod. 
 And southwest far his doubtful course he took ; 
 
 The lofty pines and cedars round him nod — 
 Loud roars the tempest through the leafless oak ; 
 
 Deep lies the snow upon the frozen sod, 
 
 And still the storm's descending torrents choke 
 
 The Heavens above ; and only fancy could, 
 
 So dim the view, conceive the solitude 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Of the wide forests that before him lay : 
 
 His ever steady onward pace alone 
 Told that from home he lengthened yet his way. 
 
 Whilst the same forms — the same drear hollow moan. 
 Seemed lingering around him yet to stay, 
 
 And every step of progress to disown ; 
 As with all sail the bark the current may 
 Labor against, whilst still its downward sway 
 
44 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Impedes her course, and makes all labor vain. 
 
 So to our Father seemed his journeying now ; 
 Yet still he toiled — and still did he sustain 
 
 The same firm spirit. — Think ye he would bow, 
 Or yield to sufferings of corporeal pain, 
 
 Whom God had summoned from the Tempter's slough 
 To throne Soul-Liberty, and to maintain 
 Her standard firm on fair Mooshausick's plain ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Above his head the branches writhe and bend, 
 Or in the mingled wreck their ruin flies — ■ 
 
 The storm redoubles, and the whirlwinds blend 
 The rising snow-drift with descending skies ; 
 
 And oft the crags a friendly shelter lend 
 His breathless bosom, and his sightless eyes ; 
 
 But, when the transient gust its fury spends. 
 
 He through the storm again upon his journey wends. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Still truly does his course the magnet keep — 
 No toils fatigue him, and no fears appal ; 
 
 Oft turns he at the glimpse of swampy deep. 
 Or thicket dense, or crag abrupt and tall. 
 
 Or backward treads to shun the headlong steep, 
 Or pass above the tumbling waterfall ; 
 
 Yet still he joys whene'er the torrent's leap, 
 
 Or crag abrupt, or thicket dense, or swamp's far sweep 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Assures him progress, — From gray morn till noon — 
 Hour after hour — from that drear noon until 
 
 The evening's gathering darkness had begun 
 To clothe with deeper glooms the vale and hill. 
 
 Sire Williams journeyed in the forest lone ; 
 
 And then night's thickening shades began to fill 
 
 His soul with doubt — ^for shelter had he none — 
 
 And all the out-stretched waste was clad with one 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Vast mantle hoar. And he began to hear. 
 At times, the fox's bark, and the fierce howl 
 
 Of wolf, sometimes afar — sometimes so near, 
 That in the very glen they seemed to prowl 
 
CANTO FIRST. |$ 
 
 Where now he, wearied, paused — and then his ear 
 Started to note some shaggy monster's growl, 
 
 That from his snow-clad, rocky den did peer, 
 
 Shrunk with gaunt famine in that tempest drear, 
 
 XLV. 
 
 And scenting human blood — ^yea, and so nigh. 
 Thrice did our northern tiger seem to come, 
 
 He thought he heard the fagots crackling by. 
 
 And saw, through driven snow and twilight gloom. 
 
 Peer from the thickets his fierce burning eye. 
 
 Scanning his destined prey, and through the broom, 
 
 Thrice stealing on his ears, the whining cry 
 
 Swelled by degrees above the tempest high. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Wayworn he stood — and fast that stormy night 
 Was gathering round him over hill and dale — 
 
 He glanced around, and by the lingering light 
 Found he had paused within a narrow vale ; 
 
 On either hand a snow-clad rocky height 
 Ascended high, a shelter from the gale. 
 
 Whilst deep between them, in thick glooms bedight, 
 
 A swampy dingle caught the wanderer's sight. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 Through the white billows thither did he wade, 
 
 And deep within its solemn bosom trod ; 
 There on the snow his oft repeated tread 
 
 Hardened a flooring for his night's abode ; 
 All there was calm, for the thick branches made 
 
 A screen above, and round him closely stood 
 The trunks of cedars, and of pines arrayed 
 To the rude tempest, a firm barricade. 
 
 xLVin. 
 And now his hatchet, with resounding stroke. 
 
 Hewed down the boscage that around him rose. 
 And the dry pine of brittle branches broke. 
 
 To yield him fuel for the night's repose : 
 The gathered heap an ample store bespoke — 
 
 He smites the steel — the tinder brightly glows, 
 And the fired match the kindled flame awoke. 
 And light upon night's seated darkness broke. 
 
16 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 High branched the pines, and far the colonnade 
 
 Of tapering trunks stood glimmering through the glen 
 
 Then joyed our Father in this lonely glade, 
 So far from haunts of persecuting men, 
 
 That he might break of honesty the bread, 
 And blessings crave in his own way again — 
 
 Of the piled brush a seat and board he made. 
 
 Spread his plain fare, and piously he prayed. 
 
 L. 
 
 "Father of mercies ! thou the wanderer's guide, 
 In this dire storm along the howling waste. 
 
 Thanks for the shelter thou dost here provide. 
 Thanks for the mercies of the day that's past ; 
 
 Thanks for the frugal fare thou hast supplied ; 
 And ! may still thy tender mercies last ; 
 
 And may thy light on every falsehood shine. 
 
 Till man's freed spirit own no law save thine ! 
 
 LI. 
 
 " Grrant that thy humble instrument still shun 
 
 His persecutors in their eager quest ; 
 Grrant the asylum yet to be begun. 
 
 To persecution's exiles yield a rest ; 
 Let ages after ages take the boon. 
 
 And in soul-liberty fore'er be blest — 
 • Grrant that I live until this task be done. 
 
 And then, Lord ! receive me as thine own !" 
 
 LII. 
 
 Our father ceased, and with keen relish he 
 
 Refreshed his wearied frame in that lone dell ; 
 Ah ! little can his far posterity 
 
 Conceive the pleasures of that frugal meal ; 
 For naught he knew of pampered luxury, 
 
 And toil and fast had done their office well. 
 And not the dainties brought o'er India's seas 
 Or wrung from sweat of modern slavery, 
 
 Lm. 
 Are now so sweet as was his simple fare. 
 
 His banquet past, he would have sought repose ; 
 But at the kindling blaze, heard wide and far. 
 
 The bowlings drear of forest monsters rose ; 
 
CANTO FIRST. 17 
 
 And, lured around him by the vivid glare, 
 
 Came darkling with light foot along the snows 
 Whole packs of wolves, from their far mountain lair, 
 And the fierce cat, which scarce the blaze might scare. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Growling they come, and in dark groups they stand, 
 Show the white fang, and roll the brightening eye ; 
 
 Till urged by famine's rage, the shaggy band 
 Seemed e'en the flame's bright terrors to defy — 
 
 Then 'mid the group he hurled the blazing brand ; 
 Swift they disperse, and raise the scattered cry ; 
 
 But, rallying, soon back to the siege they came. 
 
 And scarce their rage paused at the mounting flame. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Yet Williams deemed that persecution took 
 
 A form in them less odious than in men ; 
 He on their dreary solitude had broke — 
 
 Ay, and had trespassed on their native glen ; 
 His human shape they scantly too might brook ; 
 
 For it had been an enemy to them ; 
 But bigot man did into conscience look. 
 And for the secret thought his brother struck. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Oft he recruited now the sinking blaze — 
 His stock of fuel seemed too scant to last ; 
 
 And, in the terror of the glittering rays. 
 Was now the anchor of his safety cast ; 
 
 With utmost reach the boscage did he raze. 
 Or dipt the branches overhead that past ; 
 
 And still the burning pyre at times would raise, 
 
 Or hurl the flame at the fierce monster's gaze. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 At length the groups a panic seemed to seize, 
 
 And(soon he knew the terrifying cause ; 
 For swelling slowly 'neath the arching trees. 
 
 Trilled the long whine the dreadful panther draws ; 
 A sound that might the boldest bosom freeze — 
 
 'Twas followed by a drear and awful pause — 
 Naught marred the silence save the murmuring breeze, 
 And the far storm, like roar of distant seas. 
 
 3 
 
1 8 WHATCHEER, 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Of all the monsters of the dreary wood, 
 
 None did the hunter dread like panther dire, 
 
 For man and beast he fearlessly pursued — 
 Whilst others shunned, he was allured by fire ; 
 
 And Williams knew how perilous his mood, 
 
 And braced his nerves to meet the monster's ire ; 
 
 Still by the rising blaze he firmly stood, 
 
 And every avenue of danger viewed. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 In Grod he trusted for deliverance — 
 
 He thought of Daniel in the lion's den — 
 
 He waited silent for the fierce advance — 
 He heard the fagots break along the glen — ^ 
 
 Another long-drawn yell, and the fierce glance 
 Of two bright burning eye-balls looking then 
 
 Out from the darkness, seemed e'en to enhance 
 
 The mortal terrors of the sure mischance. 
 
 LX. 
 
 But at this moment from the darkness broke 
 A human voice, in Narraganset's tongue ; 
 
 " Neemat !" (my brother) in kind tone it spoke, 
 " How comes Awanux these drear wilds among ?" 
 
 And at the accents the dark thickets shook. 
 And from them lightly the red hunter sprung, 
 
 And from his belt familiarly he took 
 
 And fired his calumet, and curled its smoke. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Then to our Founder passed the simple cheer, 
 In sign of friendship to a wandering man, 
 
 " Let not," he said, " my brother quake with fear, 
 'Twas Waban^s ctj at which the monsters ran." 
 
 Williams received the pledge of faith sincere ; 
 Yet warily his guest began to scan. 
 
 Tall did his strait and active form appear, 
 
 i^nd armed but with the hunter's simple gear. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The bear's dark fur loose o'er his shoulders cast, 
 His hand did only at the breast confine, 
 
 The wampum wreath, which round his forehead past, 
 Did with the flame's reflected brightness shine ; 
 
CANTO FIRST,, 19, 
 
 ^he beaver's girdle closely swathed his waist ; 
 
 Its skirts hung low, all trimm'd with 'broidery fine ; 
 The well-formed ankles the close gaiters bound, 
 With furs befringed, and starred with tinsal round. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Nature's kind feelings did his visage grace ; 
 
 His gently arching brow was shorn all bare. 
 And the slight smile now vanished from his face, 
 
 Left the full trace of serious goodness there. 
 Though bright his eyes flashed 'neath the forehead's base, 
 
 They rather seem'd to smile than fiercely glare, 
 And the free dignity of Waban^s race 
 Seemed moving in his limbs and breathing from his face. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Williams the pledge of friendship now returned, 
 And courteous thanks to the red hunter gave : 
 
 " From the Great Spirit sure my brother learned 
 His brother's danger, when he came to save." 
 
 " Waban," he answered, " from his lodge discerned 
 A stranger's fire, and heard the monsters rave — 
 
 Waban has long within these wilds sojourned ; 
 
 But ne'er before has pale Awanux burned 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " His fire within this far sequestered glade. 
 
 Wanders my brother from his homeward way ? 
 The storm is thick, he surely may have strayed — 
 
 Or has he hunted through the weary day 
 
 The rapid moose ; or has he come to lay 
 The subtle snare beneath this lonely shade, 
 
 To trap the deer, or artfully essay 
 To catch the wily beavers, who have made 
 Their cunning wigwams in the river's bed ?" 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " 'Twere hard to tell my brother of the woods 
 
 What cause has forced his pale-faced brother here, 
 The red and white men have their different modes, 
 
 And scant is Narraganset's tongue, I fear, 
 
 In fitting terms to teach my brother's ear 
 The themes of strife among white multitudes — 
 
 Themes yet unknown within these forests drear, 
 
20 WHATCHEI^R. 
 
 Where undisturbed ye worship various gods, 
 And persecution leave to white abodes. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " Let it suffice, (for weary is the night,) 
 
 That late across the mighty lake I came, 
 Seeking protection here of brethren white, 
 
 From those pale chiefs who had, with scoxu'ge and flame, 
 Driven them, as me, on long and dangerous flight 
 
 Over the waves. — Our wrongs were thus the same : 
 God had we worshipped as to us seemed right. 
 And roused the vengeance of our men of might. 
 
 Lxvm. 
 " My brethren, then, had persecution fled. 
 
 And much I hoped with them a home to find ; 
 But to our common God whene'er we prayed. 
 
 My worship seemed ill-suited to their mind ; 
 It differed greatly from their own, they said ; 
 
 Their anger kindled, and, with speech unkind, 
 They drove me from my family and shed, 
 To rove an exile in this tempest dread. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 " And now, my brother, through the wilds I go. 
 To seek some far — some lone sequestered glen — 
 
 Where never shall the flame of fagot glow, 
 Kindled by wrath of persecuting men ; 
 
 Where all may worship, as their gods they know. 
 Or lights the conscience the believer's ken. 
 
 Where ages after ages still may bow. 
 
 And from free hearts free orisons may flow." 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Waban a space mused on our Founder's tale ; 
 
 Silent he sate in meditative mood. 
 For much he wondered why his brothers pale 
 
 For different worship sought their kindred's blood. 
 At last he deemed, they little understood 
 
 That the Great Spirit was a father kind. 
 Or thought that Chepian* was perchance their god. 
 
 Who to all deeds of goodness disinclined, 
 
 Joyed only in the fell and cruel mind. 
 
 * The name of the Indian devil. 
 
CANTO FIRST. 2l 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Then blended pity with his wonder grew ; 
 
 Here was the victim of that evil one, 
 Who from the demon's angry servants flew 
 
 To seek a shelter in the forest lone. 
 " Brother," he said, " thy brother's mused upon 
 
 The tales thou tellest of thy kindred's ire. 
 And much it grieves him thou art forced to shun 
 
 Thy well-framed wigwam — thy familiar fire, 
 
 And sleep in wilds afar amid this tempest dire. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " Hear, brother, now, what Waban has to say : 
 
 The night is cold, and fast the snows descend^- 
 Here round thy sleep will howl the beasts of pray, 
 
 And scarce the flames will thy repose defend ; 
 Will not my brother to my wigwam wend ? 
 
 It smokes hard-by, deep in the sheltered glen ; 
 There may my brother this drear season spend. 
 
 And shun the wrath of Chepian's angry men, 
 
 Until Sowaniu's breezes scatter flowers again. 
 Lxxm. 
 " Right welcome to the red man's lodge shall be 
 
 His pale-faced brother, safe from Sachems pale ; 
 Waban's nausamp and venison shall be free 
 
 When hunger craves, and when his store shall fail 
 His dart is true, and swift and far will he 
 
 Pursue the bounding deer o'er hill and vale — 
 When melts the snow we may together raise. 
 On Seekonk's banks, our common field of maize." 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Williams replied, " My brother sure is kind. 
 
 But his red friends are doubtless with him here ; 
 
 And they may show my kindred left behind, 
 
 To track my footsteps through the forest drear — ■■ 
 
 To journey homeward I have little mind ; 
 My course is with the sun to wilds afar — 
 
 There would I form, if granted the domain, 
 
 A tribe which never should the soul enchain." 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " Alone is Waban," was the sad reply ; 
 
 His wife and child have to that country gone 
 
22 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Where go our spirits when our bodies die, 
 And left thy brother in his lodge alone: 
 
 He goes by day to catch the beavers shy, 
 And sits by night in his still house to moan, 
 
 And much 'twould please him should the wanderer come, 
 
 And tell him where the loved ones' spirits roam." 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 " Brother, I thank thee — thou art kind indeed," 
 Our Founder said — " and with thee I will go ; 
 
 "Would that my brethren of the Christian creed 
 Did half thy charity and goodness know ! 
 
 Waban, thou wilt thy brother's purpose speed. 
 And all the boundaries of those countries show 
 
 Which lie around famed Narraganset's bay. 
 
 And name the chiefs, and count the tribes they sway." 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 " Waban can do it "—was the answer quick — 
 And Williams followed as the hunter led ; 
 
 With blazing brands they moved through boscage thick ; 
 The wolves around them gathered as they sped ; 
 
 But Waban often raised the mimic shriek 
 Of the fierce panther, and as oft they fled ; 
 
 And now the path, descending swiftly steep, 
 
 Led where the hunter dwelt in valley deep. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Then Williams noted, through the deepest night, 
 The sparkles rising from the roof unseen. 
 
 And, by the glancing of the fire-brand's light, 
 
 Above him marked the thickening branches screen ; 
 
 For denser here, and of a loftier height. 
 
 The pines and cedars arched their sombre green ; 
 
 Their still boughs bent beneath the burden hoar. 
 
 And further off was heard the hollow tempest's roar. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The undressed deerskin closed the entrance rude 
 Of the frail mansion of our Founder's friend j 
 
 " Brother," said he, " this is my poor abode. 
 But thou art welcome — it will thee defend 
 
 From this cold storm," and as he spoke he showed 
 The open pass. Beneath its axeh they bend — 
 
CANTO FIRST. 123 
 
 From 'mid the room the blazing fagots sent 
 
 The smoke and sparkles through the vault's low vent. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 And, glancing round, did for the ceiling show 
 
 The braided mat of many colors made, 
 Veiled here and there, where, hanging in a row, 
 
 The beavers' hides their silvery coats displayed; 
 And oft the antlers that once armed the brow 
 
 Of bounding buck, were round the room arrayed ; 
 And here and there the hunter's gear among 
 The dusky haunches of his • venison hung. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Hard-by the blazing hearth, raised from the ground 
 Three braided pallets, with their furs bespread, 
 
 Shewed where red "Waban's family once found 
 The humble settle, and still humbler bed ; 
 
 But now, alas ! beneath their grassy mound, 
 Two of the three sat with the silent dead ;* 
 
 The wampum girdle, that his spouse once wore, 
 
 Grleamed on her garb of furs the settle o'er. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Warm was the room, and plenteous was the cheer 
 Which generous Waban did our Founder bring ; 
 
 In trays the nocake,t and the joints of deer, 
 And in the gourd-shell water from the spring ; 
 
 And all the whilst he made our Founder hear. 
 How he had pierced the wild duck on the wing ; 
 
 How westward lately he the moose pursued. 
 
 Until he struck him far in lone Mooshausick's wood. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Slightly our Founder tasted the plain fare. 
 For toil and chill far more than hunger prest ; 
 
 This Waban noted, and with tender care. 
 
 The vacant pallet shewed, and urged him rest ; 
 
 Waban, he said, would still the fire repair. 
 And comfortable keep his pale-faced guest, 
 
 " And may the Manitto of dreams," he said, 
 
 " The happiest visions on thy slumbers shed. 
 
 * The Indians bury their dead in a sitting- posture, 
 t A corruption of the Indian Nokehick— parched meal. 
 
24 WHATCHEER. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 " Upon this pallet she was wont to lay 
 
 Her active form, whose spirit now is gone ; 
 
 And may that spirit to thy visions say 
 
 Where now she dwells, and where my little son ; 
 
 Whether on that blest island far away, 
 O'er the hlue hills beyond the setting sun, 
 
 They with their kindred joy, or nearer home, 
 
 Still lingering, wait until the father come." 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Williams replied, that he would speak at morn 
 Of that far journey which the spirit takes ; 
 
 And name the Guide, who never soul forlorn, 
 
 Whilst passing through death's gloomy night, forsakes. 
 
 His brother, then, on fitting day in turn. 
 
 Would name the bounds, by rivers, bays, and lakes, 
 
 Of neighboring chiefs, and say what Sachems might 
 
 His mission threaten, or its hopes invite. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Our Founder slept ; and on that night, I ween, 
 Deep was the slumber of that pallet low, 
 
 Calm were its dreams as was his breast serene — 
 Such sleep can persecutors never know ; 
 
 He slept, until the dawning light was seen 
 
 Down through the dome to glance upon his brow ; 
 
 Then Waban woke him to his simple cheer 
 
 Of the pure fount, nausamp,* and savory deer. 
 
 * The word samp is a corruption of the Indian word nausamp^ and has the same 
 meaning-. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 
 
 [Scenes. The Wig-wam — The Wilderness — Pawtucket Falls — Seekonk's Meads- 
 
 The Wigwam.] 
 
 It was the morning of a Sabbath day, 
 
 When Williams rose to Waban's simple cheer, 
 But where, knew not, save that vast forests lay 
 
 Betwixt his home and the lone wigwam here ; 
 Yet 'twas a place of peace, no thing of clay, 
 
 'Twixt God and conscience in communion near, 
 Came, with profane and impious control. 
 To check the heavenward wanderings of his soul. 
 
 II. 
 God loves the wilderness — in deserts lone, 
 
 Where all is silent — ^where no living thing 
 Mars the hushed solitudes — ^where Heaven looks down, 
 
 And Earth looks up, each as if marvelling 
 That aught should be ; and, through the vast unknown, 
 
 Thought-breathing silence seems as uttering 
 The present God — there does he rear his throne. 
 And, tranced in boundless thoughts, the soul doth own 
 
 III. 
 And feel his strength within. — This day, once more, 
 
 In place thus sacred, did our Founder keep ; 
 None, save the Deity he bent before. 
 
 Marked the devotions of his feelings deep — 
 None, do I say ? yet there was Waban poor ; 
 
 Alas ! his mind in utter night did sleep ; 
 He saw our Founder at his earnest prayer. 
 But knew not what his supplications were. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet earnestly the pious man besought, 
 
 That Heaven would deign to shed the Gospel light 
 
 On the kind pagan's breast, as yet untaught, 
 Save in the dreams of her primordial nia^ht ; 
 
 4 
 
26 WHATCHEER. 
 
 And mucli he prayed, that to the truth when brought, 
 
 Cleansed of his sins, in garments pure and white, 
 He might subdue the fierceness of his clan, 
 And win man refuge from intolerant man. 
 
 V. 
 
 Williams the task angelic now essayed, 
 To trance the wanderer in a worship new ; 
 
 The tenfold darkness, that his soul arrayed. 
 
 Concealed her workings from our Founder's view, 
 
 Save when some question, rare and strange, betrayed, 
 His dream-bewildered glimpses of the true. — 
 
 Long was the task ; and Williams back began, 
 
 At earth's creation and the fall of man. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He told how Grod from nothing formed the earth. 
 And gave each being shape surpassing fair ; 
 
 How He in Eden, at their happy birth, 
 
 Placed with kind blessings the first human pair ; 
 
 How, disobeying, they were driven forth. 
 
 And they, and theirs, consigned to sad despair — 
 
 Until the God incarnate pitying gave 
 
 Himself for man, and made it just to save. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then told he how the blessed martyrs bore 
 The chains of dungeons, and the fagot's flame, 
 
 Glad that their sufferings might attest the more 
 To their full faith in their Redeemer's name ; 
 
 How His disciples past from shore to shore. 
 Salvation's joyful tidings to proclaim ; 
 
 How hither now they brought the Gospel's light 
 
 To cheer the red men, wrapt in pagan night. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Waban attentive heard our Founder's strain, 
 And at its pause he long in silence sate ; 
 
 A graver cast did o'er his visage reign. 
 And all his heart's deep feelings indicate. 
 
 At length he vented thus the mental train — 
 " Weak is my soul, and dark is her estate ! 
 
 No book has she to tell of Manit high, 
 
 Except this outstretched earth and starry sky. 
 
CANl^O SECOND. ^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 *' Grreat news Awanux "brings tlie red men liere — 
 News that doth far their legends old excel ; 
 
 Yet give to Waban the attentive ear, 
 And the traditions of his sires he'll tell, 
 
 From days afar, down many a rolling year — 
 Down to thy brothers red — their fathers' tale 
 
 Comes to inform them in their mortal state 
 
 "What powers they should revere or deprecate." 
 
 X, 
 
 Here Waban paused, and, sitting, mused a space. 
 
 As pondering gravely on the mighty theme ; 
 Deep thought was graven in his solemn face, 
 
 And dimly did his groping memory seem 
 Gathering the scattered legends of his race. 
 
 At length he roused, as from a passing dream. 
 And from his mat, majestically slow, 
 
 Reared his tall form, and thus began, in accents low : 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Brother, that time is distant — far away — 
 
 When Heaven or Earth, or living thing was not, 
 
 Save our great God, Cawtantowit, who lay 
 Extended through immensity, where naught 
 
 Save shoreless waters were— and dead were they — 
 No living thing did on their bosom float — • 
 
 And silence all that boundless space did fill ; 
 
 For the Great Spirit slept — and all was still. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ^' But though he slept, yet, as the human soul 
 
 To this small frame, his being did pervade 
 The universal space, and ruled the whole. 
 
 E'en as the soul, when in deep slumber laid. 
 Doth her wild fantasies and dreams control. 
 
 And giveth wild creation shape and shade 
 Just as she will'th. But the Great Spirit broke 
 His sleep at last, and all the boundless shook. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " In a vast eagle's form embodied. He 
 
 Did o'er the deep on outstretched pinions spring ; 
 
 Fire in his eye lit all immensity, 
 Whilst his majestically gliding wing 
 
28 WHATCHEERi 
 
 Trembled hoarse thunders to the shuddering sea ; 
 
 And, through their utmost limit quivering, 
 The conscious waters felt their Manittoo, 
 And life, at once, their deepest regions knew. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " The mountain whale came spouting from beloWj 
 The porpoise plunged along the foaming main, 
 
 The smalleT broods in sporting myriads go. 
 With glancing backs, along the liquid plain ; 
 
 Yet still refused her giant form to show — 
 Ay, sullenly below did yet remain 
 
 Earth-bearing Tortoise, the TJnamis vast, 
 
 And o'er her back the lofty billows past. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Then great Cawtantowit in his anger spoke', 
 And from his flaming eyes the lightnings past, 
 
 And from his wings the tenfold thunders broke. 
 The sullen Tortoise heard his words at last — 
 
 And slowly she her rocky grasp forsook. 
 
 And her huge back of woods and mountains vast, 
 
 From the far depths tow'rd upper light began • 
 
 Slowly to heave — the affrighted waters ran 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Hither and thither, tumultuous and far — 
 
 But still TJnamis, heaving from below 
 The full formed earth, first, through the waves did rear 
 
 The fast sky-climbing Alleghany's brow, 
 Dark, vast and craggy — from its summits bare 
 
 The rolling billows fell — and rising now, 
 All its vast forest up the breezy air 
 Came out of Ocean, and, from verdure fair, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Shed the salt showers. Far o'er the deep, 
 Hills after hills still lift their clustered trees, 
 
 Wild down the rising slopes the waters leap. 
 Then from the up-surging plain the ocean flees, 
 
 Till lifted from the flood, in vale and steep. 
 And rock, and forest waving to the breeze, 
 
 Earth, on the Tortoise borne, frowned ocean o'er, 
 
 And spurned the angry billows from her thundering shore. 
 
CANTO SECOND. ' 29 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " But great Cantantowit, on his pinions still, 
 
 O'er the lone earth majestically sprung, 
 And whispered to the mountain, vale and hill, 
 
 And with new life the teeming regions rung ; 
 The feathered songsters tune their carols shrill. 
 
 Herds upon herds the plain and mountain throng ; 
 In the still pools the cunning beavers toil, 
 And the armed seseks* their strong folds uncoil. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Yet man was not— then great Cantantowit spoke 
 To the hard mountain crags and called for man. 
 
 And sculptured, breathing, from the cleaving rock, 
 Sprang the armed warrior, and a strife began 
 
 With living things. — Hard as his native block, 
 "Was his stone heart, and through it ran 
 
 Blood cold as ice — and the Grreat Spirit struck 
 
 This cruel man, and him to atoms broke. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " T^hen He the oak, of fibre hard and fine, 
 
 With the first red man's soul and form endowed, 
 
 And made he woman of the tapering pine. 
 
 Which 'neath that oak in peaceful beauty bowed ; 
 
 She on the red man's bosom did recline, 
 
 Like the bright rainbow on the thunder-cloud. 
 
 And the Great Spirit saw his work divine. 
 
 And on the first red pair shed smiles benign. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " He gave them all these forests far and near, 
 
 The forms that fly, and those that creeping go. 
 The healthful fountains, and the rivers clear, 
 
 And all the broods that sport their waves below ; 
 Then gave he man the swiftness of the deer. 
 
 And armed his hands with arrows and the bow. 
 And bade him shelter still his consort dear. 
 And tread his far domain without a peer. 
 
 xxn. 
 " Then did he send Yotaanit on high, 
 
 (For Grods he fashioned as he formed the land,) 
 
 * Sesek— rattlesnake. 
 
30 WHATCHEER. 
 
 And bade Mm star witli fires the azure sky, 
 And kindle the round hlaze of Keesuckquand ; 
 
 And then, to cheer by night the hunter's eye, 
 Bright Nanapaushat sprung from Wamponand ; 
 
 Thus with his will the manittoos comply, 
 
 And every region knows its deity.* 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " All things were formed thus from materials good, 
 
 And the foul refuse every evil had. 
 But it had felt the influence of the God, 
 
 (How should it not ?) and a black demon, sad, 
 Cruel and stern, and loving strife and blood. 
 
 Filled with all malice, and with fury mad. 
 Sprang into life — such was fell Chepian's birth. 
 The hate of gods, and terror of the earth. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Then to the south-west the Great Spirit flew. 
 Whence the soft breezes of the summer come, 
 
 And from the depths Sowaniu'sf island drew. 
 And bade its fields with lasting verdure bloom. 
 
 O'er it he bent another welkin blue. 
 
 Which never night, nor clouds, or tempests gloom, 
 
 And kindred suns the lofty arches through, 
 
 And bade them shine with glory ever new. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " When great Cawtantowit thus had finished all. 
 No more did he on eagle's pinions roam ; 
 
 There did he limits to his works install. 
 There centred he his everlasting home ; 
 
 There did he cast the eagle, and recall 
 
 His pristine shape, and manit-man become ; 
 
 There still he dwells, the all-pervading soul 
 
 Of men and manittoos — ^yea, of creation's whole. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " All that is good does from Cawtantowit flow, 
 All that is bad does Chepian fell supply ; 
 
 Praying for good we to Cawtantowit bow, 
 And shunning evil we to Chepian cry ; 
 
 * See note. 
 
 t Sowaniu — used here as a word of three syllables, was written by R. Williams, 
 " Sowwainiu." 
 
CANTO SECOND, ^ 
 
 To other manittoos we offerings owe, 
 
 . Dwell they in mountain, flood, or lofty sky ; 
 And oft they aid us when we hunting go, 
 Or in fierce battle rushing on the foe. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " And manitoos, that neyer death shall fear, 
 
 Do too within this mortal form abide ; 
 What else, my brother, is it beating here ? 
 
 What heaves this breast — what rolls its crimson tide ? 
 Whilst, like Cawtantowit, does the soul appear 
 
 To live through all and over all preside ; 
 And when her mortal mansion here decays, 
 She to Sowania's blessed island strays, 
 
 xxvm. 
 " There aye to joy ; if, whilst she dwelt with men. 
 
 She wisely counseled, and did bravely fight, 
 Or watchful caught the beavers in the glen. 
 
 Or nimbly followed the far moose's flight ; 
 But, if a sluggard and a coward, then 
 
 To rove all wretched in the glooms of night. 
 Misled by Chepian, a poor wandering ghost 
 'Mong swamps, dens, fens, brakes, bogs, and brambles lost. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " And now, my brother, rightly worship we, 
 
 When to Cawtantowit mounts our zealous prayer ; 
 
 Or when of Chepian we, right earnestly. 
 Entreat that us from every harm he spare ? 
 
 For every harm is all his own, we see. 
 
 And good Cawtantowit has not e'en a share — 
 
 Why should I not beseech that Chepian be 
 
 Much sparing of his harm to mine and me?" 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Williams replied, " When the red warriors brave 
 The fight's dark tempest, and for glory die, 
 
 Trembles my brother whilst the battles rave, 
 And at the glancing arrows winks his eye ? 
 
 •Or, basely cowering, does he mercy crave 
 Of the red hatchet o'er him lifted high ? 
 
 Who prays to Chepian is a trembling slave. 
 
 And, dying, fills at last a coward's grave." 
 
32 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Strongly these words to Waban's pride appealed ; 
 
 Yet back upon him did the memory rush 
 Of by-gone ages, and of many a field. 
 
 Where fought his fathers, who, with victory flush, 
 Not to Cawtantowit, but to Chepian kneeled, 
 
 And thanked his aid — They cowards ! and the blush, 
 That in their worship fear should seem revealed, 
 Was scantly by his tawny hue concealed. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 At last he said, " My brother doubtless knows — 
 He has a book which his Great Spirit wrote : 
 
 Brave were my fathers, yet did they repose 
 With hope in Chepian, and his aid besought 
 ^ When marched they forth to shed the blood of foes ; 
 But they, perhaps, like Waban, never thought 
 
 That they were cowards, when they fiercely prayed 
 
 Chepian to give the work of vengeance aid. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Waban will think, and should it seem like fear — 
 Waban ne'er shrunk when round him battle roared, 
 
 And at the stake when bound, his torturers near, 
 Among the clouds thy brother's spirit soared. 
 
 And scorned her foes — but should it seem like fear 
 To worship Chepian, whom his sires adored. 
 
 No more will he be that dread demon's slave ; 
 
 For ne'er will Waban fill a coward's grave." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Thus in communion grave they passed the day. 
 And night returning brought its slumbers sweet. 
 
 And on the following morn the sun's broad ray 
 Looked down serene on Waban's lone retreat. 
 
 Williams might now have journeyed on his way, 
 But doubt and darkness stayed the wanderer's feet ; 
 
 Therefore, with Waban still he did delay, 
 
 To scan the savage tribes that round him lay. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Hence may he secretly to Salem write, 
 
 And friends approving, still his plans arrange ; 
 
 For Waban soon will bear his peltry light 
 To Salem's mart, where he may interchange 
 
CANTO SECOND. 33 
 
 The mute epistles, meet for friendly sight, 
 
 But which may still prompt bigotry's revenge, 
 (If hut their rumor reach unfriendly ear,) 
 And point the persecutor's footsteps here. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Among the savage tribes around to go. 
 
 And sound the feelings of each different clan, 
 
 Had fitting seemed, but little did he know 
 
 How they might greet a pale-faced, outlawed man, 
 
 Friendless and homeless, wandering to and fro. 
 And flying from his own white chieftain's ban ; 
 
 They, for a price, might strike the fatal blow. 
 
 Or bear him captive to his ruthless foe. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Better it were, so deemed our Father well. 
 To approach and win the savage by degrees, 
 
 Since to his lot the dangerous duty fell, 
 
 (For such it seems were Heaven's all-wise decrees,) 
 
 To found a State, unarmed, where rung the yell 
 Of barbarous nations, on the midnight breeze ; 
 
 Against the scalping-knife with no defence. 
 
 Save in the heaven-wrought shield, his heart's benevolence, 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 This, this alone, his buckler and his brand — 
 This, yet unproved and doubted by the best, 
 
 In cheerless wilds, 'mid many a savage band. 
 
 Spurned from his home, by Christian men opprest, 
 
 Must glance the warrior's dart, unnerve his hand, 
 And give him conquest in his rugged breast. 
 
 The dreaded panther, by the feeble hare, 
 
 Must be approached and soothed in his own mountain lair. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 That night, returning from the accustomed pool, 
 Waban came laden with the beavers' spoils, 
 
 And joy seemed dancing in his very soul 
 As he displayed the fruits of his long toils ; 
 
 Much he rejoiced, and Williams heard the whole. 
 How long he'd watched, and of his frequent foils ; 
 
 Then how the cunning beasts were captured all, 
 
 As through the fractured ice they sought to crawl. 
 
 3 
 
34 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XL. 
 
 " Bravely," said Williams, " lias my brother done. 
 No more the cunning wights will mock his skill. 
 
 Waban is rich; will he not journey soon 
 To the pale wigwams, and his girdle fill 
 
 With the bright wampum ? — e'er to-morrow's sun 
 Shall hide behind the top of yonder hill, 
 
 Waban may gain the pale-faced stranger's town, 
 
 And in his brother's wigwam sit him down." 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " The hunter goes," said Waban in reply ; 
 
 Then fired his calumet and curled its smoke, 
 And silent sat in all the dignity 
 
 Which conscious worth can give the human look. 
 When ceased to mount the fragrant clouds on high, 
 
 He from the exhausted bowl the embers shook. 
 Then spread on earth the brown deer's rustling hide, 
 Expanding to the eye its naked side, 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And thus he spake : " My brother doth require 
 Waban to show where neighboring Sachems reign, 
 
 Doubtless he seeks to light his council fire 
 Within some valiant and good chiefs domain. 
 
 That he may shun the persecutor's ire. 
 
 And pray his God without the fear of men. 
 
 On Waban's words my brother may repose. 
 
 Whilst these far feet are printing distant snows." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Then from the hearth a quenched brand he took, 
 And on the skin traced many a curving line ; 
 
 Here rolled the river — there the winding brook — 
 Here rose the hills, and there the vales decline — 
 
 Here spreads the bay, and there the ocean broke 
 Along red Waban's map of rude design. 
 
 The work now finished, he to Williams spoke, 
 
 " Brother, here, on the red man's country look. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " Here's Waban's lodge, thou seest it smokes between 
 Dark rolling Seekonk and Cohannet's wave ;* 
 
 * The Indian name for the place where Taunton now is, was Cohannet, and is 
 here applied to the river. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 35 
 
 Both floods on-flowing through their borders green, 
 
 In Narraganset's basin find their grave. 
 O'er all the country 'twixt those waters sheen 
 
 Reigns Massasoit, Sachem good and brave ; 
 Yet he has subject Keenomps far and near, 
 Who bring him tribute of the slaughtered deer, 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " And bend his battle bow. — Strong is he now. 
 But has been stronger — ere dark pestilence 
 
 Devoured his warriors — laid its hundreds low, — 
 That Sachem's war-whoop roused to his defence 
 
 Three thousand bow-men ; and he still can show 
 A mighty force, whene'er the stirring sense 
 
 Of common wrong does in the bosom glow, 
 
 And prompts to battle with the oflfending foe. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 " His highest chief is Corbitant the stern — 
 He bears a fox's head and panther's heart, 
 
 He 'gainst Awanux does in secret turn, 
 
 Sharps his keen knife, and points his thirsty dart ; 
 
 His council fires in Mattapoiset* burn, 
 Of Pokanoket's woods, his licensed part. 
 
 Cruel is he, and terrible his train — 
 
 Light not your fires within that wolf's domain. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 " Here, tow'rd the winter, where the fountains feed 
 
 These rolling rivers, do the Nipnets dwell ; 
 They Massasoit bring the skin and bead, 
 
 And rush to war when rings his battle yell ; 
 Valiant are they, yet oft their children bleed. 
 
 When the far West sends down her Maquas fell ; 
 Warriors who hungry on their victims steal^ 
 And make of human fiesh a dreadful meal. 
 
 XLvni. 
 " Here lies Namasket tow'rd the rising sun — 
 
 There Massasoit spends his seasons cold — 
 The warriors there are led by Annawan, 
 
 Of open hand and of a bosom bold ; 
 Here farther down, Cohannet's banks upon. 
 
 Spreads broad Pocasset, strong Apannow's hol^ ; 
 
 ♦ Mattapoiset, now Swansey. 
 
36 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The bowmen there tread Massasoit's land. 
 E'en to Seconnet's billow-beaten strand. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " Still tow'rd the rising sun might Waban show, 
 
 And count each tribe, and each brave keenomp name — 
 
 But then his brother's footsteps do not go 
 Toward the pale-face and the fagot's flame ; 
 
 He looks toward the towahawk and bow, 
 
 And does the friendship of the red man claim : 
 
 Therefore will Waban, on the western shores, 
 
 Count Narraganset's men, and sagamores. 
 
 L. 
 
 " Two mighty chiefs — one cautious, wise and old, 
 One young and strong, and terrible in fight — 
 
 All Narraganset and Coweset hold ; 
 
 One lodge they build, one council fire they light ; 
 
 One sways in peace, and one in battle bold — 
 
 Five thousand warriors give their arrows flight — 
 
 This is Miantonomi, strong and brave, 
 
 And that Canonicus, his uncle grave.* 
 
 LI. 
 
 " Dark rolling Seekonk does their realm divide 
 
 From Pokanoket, Massasoit's reign. 
 Thence sweeping down the bay, their forests wide 
 
 Spread their dark foliage to the billowy main ; 
 Thence tow'rd the setting sun, by ocean's side. 
 
 Stretches their realm, to where the rebel train, 
 Ruled by grim Uncas, with their hatchets dyed 
 In brother's blood, on Pequot stream abide, f 
 
 LII. 
 
 " Canonicus is as the beaver wise. 
 
 And M'antonomi as the panther bold ; 
 But tow'rd the faces pale their watchful eyes 
 
 Are oft in awful thinking silence rolled ; 
 And often in their heaving bosoms rise 
 
 Thoughts that their lips have none save Keenomps told ; 
 They seem two buffalos the herds that lead. 
 Scenting the hunters gathering round their mead. 
 
 * See note. t See note. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 37 
 
 LIII. 
 
 " When first his fire Awanux kindled here, 
 
 Haup's* chief was weak, and broken was his heart ; 
 
 Disease had swept his warriors far and near, 
 And at his breast looked Narraganset's dart ; 
 
 Awanux gave him strength, and with strange fear 
 Did M'antonomi at the big guns start ; 
 
 He dropt his hatchet, but his hate remains. 
 
 And naught save counsel wise his wrath restrains. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " He sees the strangers spreading far around. 
 And earth turn pale as fast their numbers grow, 
 
 And fiercely would he to the battle bound, 
 And for his country strike the deadly blow ; 
 
 But at his back the Pequot's yells resound. 
 And on his left the Nipnet bends the bow — 
 
 And even thus his hatchet scarcely sleeps ; 
 
 It dreams of Haup, and in its slumber leaps. 
 
 LV. 
 
 " But, brother, still Miantonomi is 
 
 A Sachem valiant — yea, and generous too. 
 
 And gray Canonicus is just and wise. 
 
 His hands are ever to his tongue most true ; 
 
 If from their lands my brother's smoke should rise, 
 Whate'er those Sachems say, that will they do ; 
 
 But Waban still doth not his friend advise. 
 
 To cross the Seekonk where their country lies — > 
 
 LVI. 
 
 " Brother attend, and hear the reasons why — 
 There at Mooshausick dwells a dark pawaw, 
 
 Who hates Awanux, doth his God defy. 
 
 And worships Chepian with the deepest awe ; 
 
 He'll give my brother's town a cloudy sky. 
 And to his councils under-sachems draw ; 
 
 E'en now he whets the Narraganset knife. 
 
 Points at our clan, and thirsts for human life. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " Safer on Seekonk's hither border may 
 My brother build, and wake his council blaze ; 
 
 * Haup, or Mount Hope, the summer residence of Massasoit. 
 
38 WHA^T<3HEER* 
 
 Clear are the meads — ^the trees are swept away 
 By mighty burnings in our fathers' days. 
 
 There early verdure springs, and flow'rets gay, 
 Long grows the grass, and thrifty is the maize ; 
 
 And good old Massasoit's sheltering wing 
 
 Will shield thy weakness from each harmful thing." 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 "Brother, I thank thee," said our Founder here, 
 " Oft have I seen thy chief on Plymouth's shore ; 
 
 I will to-morrow seek those meadows clear, 
 And thy fair Seekonk's hither banks explore. 
 
 But will not Waban pass Namasket near, 
 Where oft that wise and good old Sagamore, 
 
 Brave Massasoit, spends the season drear ? " 
 
 " He will, my brother" — ^" Then let Waban hear : 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " Tell thou that Sachem, generous and wise, 
 That Williams lingers in thy cabin low, 
 
 That he his children and his country flies, 
 To shun the anger of a Christian foe ; 
 
 And that to him his pale friend lifts his eyes. 
 And asks protection. — Tell him that his wo 
 
 Springs from this thought, and from this thought alone, 
 
 God can be worshipped but as Grod is known." 
 
 LX. 
 
 A pause ensued, and Waban silent sate ; 
 
 Yet to himself his lips repeating were ; 
 At length he answering broke the pause sedate, 
 
 " Waban remembers, and the talk will bear." 
 Then he in silence fired his calumet. 
 
 And gave its vapors to the wigwam's air. 
 Whilst Williams wrote, with stationery rude, 
 His first epistle from the lonely wood. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 'Twas on the inner bark stript from the pine, 
 Our Father penciled this epistle rare ; 
 
 Two blazing pine-knots did his torches shine. 
 Two braided pallets formed his desk and chair ; 
 
 He wrote his spouse the brief familiar line. 
 How he had- journeyedj and his roof now where ; 
 
CANTO SECOND. $Q 
 
 And that poor Waban was his host benign, 
 And bade her cheer and give him blankets fine. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Then bade her send the Indian presents bought, 
 When first they suffered persecution's thrall — 
 
 The strings of -wampum, and the scarlet coat, 
 The tinseled belt and jeweled coronal ; 
 
 The pocket Bible, which his haste forgot, 
 For he had cheering hopes of Waban's soul ; 
 
 Then gave her solace, to the bad unknown. 
 
 That God o'errules and still protects his own. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 And, to the hunter, Williams now presents 
 The secret charge, with all directions meet ; 
 
 For Waban means to urge his journey hence 
 Ere dawns the day upon his lone retreat ; 
 
 And then again did slumber steel the sense. 
 
 And nought our Founder knew, till morn complete ; 
 
 Then roused, and found his generous host was gone. 
 
 The lodge all silent, and himself alone. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 His fast he broke with the accustomed prayer, 
 And trimmed him for his walk to Seekonk's side ; 
 
 Calm was the morn, and pure the winter's air, 
 As from the wigwam forth our Founder hied ; 
 
 Tall rose the pines — so thick the branches were, 
 
 That, through their screens, scarce were the heavens espied ; 
 
 But melting snows and dripping foliage prove 
 
 That the warm south sweeps boundless fields above. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Now from the swamp to upland woods he past. 
 Where leafless boughs branched thinner over head. 
 
 And saw the welkin not a cloud o'ercast, 
 And felt the settled snows give firmer tread. 
 
 Calm now was all, no wild and thundering blast 
 
 Mixed earth with heaven, as through the boughs it sped ; 
 
 And far as eye the boundless forest traced, 
 
 Griimmered the lifeless snows, and stretched the lonely waste. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Onward he sped, the magnet still his guide, 
 And westward straight his course through forest took ; 
 
40 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Across his path, with antlers branching wide, 
 The bounding deer oft from the thicket broke ; 
 
 The timid partridge, at his rapid stride. 
 
 On thundering wings the sheltering bush forsook, 
 
 And the wild turkey foot and pinion plied. 
 
 Or from her lofty boughs uncouthly cried. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 At last a sound like murmurs from the shore 
 
 Of far-off ocean, when the storm is bound, 
 Grows on his ear, and still increases more 
 
 As he advances, till the woods resound. 
 And seem to tremble with the constant roar 
 
 Of many waters. — Ay, the very ground 
 Begins to shake — ^when, 'neath the arching trees. 
 Bright glimmering, and fast gliding down, he sees 
 
 Lxvm. 
 Broad rushing waters — to their dizzy steep 
 
 Hither they come — thence, glimmering far as sight 
 Up 'twixt the groves can trace their coming, sweep — 
 
 Here, from the precipice all frothy white. 
 Uttering an earthquake in their headlong leap, 
 
 And flinging sunbows o'er their showery flight. 
 And bursting wild, down, down, all foam they go 
 To the dark gulf, and smoke and boil below. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Thence, hurrying onward through the narrow bound 
 Of banks precipitous, they murmuring go. 
 
 Till by the jutting cliffs half wheeling round. 
 They leave the view among the hills below. 
 
 There paused our Father, ravished with the sound 
 Of the wild waters, and their rapid flow. 
 
 And there, all lonely, joyed that he had found 
 
 Thy Falls, Pawtucket, and where Seekonk wound. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And as he dallied on its margin still. 
 
 His thoughts a space did on the future pause — 
 
 Here might his children drive the busy mill. 
 
 Here whirl the stones, here clash the riving saws ; 
 
 But little thought he that wild torrent's will 
 Would e'er so far comply with human laws, 
 
CANTO SECOND. 41 
 
 As from the maid the spindle to receive, 
 
 And learn to spin, and her fair garments weave. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Now, from the scene, reluctantly he past. 
 
 And wandering down the eastern hanks he sped, 
 
 Seeking for Waban's meads — ^yet oft he cast 
 The searching glance across the river's bed, 
 
 Where towered the giant groves of keel and mast, 
 That soon should cleave the stormy billow's head ; 
 
 Though now, as on creation's morn, they stand, 
 
 As if still listening to their Grod's command. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Still on the eastern bank our Founder sped — 
 
 Here stretched the thicket deep, there swampy fen — 
 
 Here sunk the vale, there rose the hillock's head — 
 
 Oaks crowned the mound, and cedars gloomed the glen, 
 
 Where'er he moved — at length his footsteps led 
 Where a bright fountain, sparkling like a gem. 
 
 Burst from the caverned cliff, and, glittering, wound 
 
 Its copious streamlet, with a murmuring sound, 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Far down the glade ; and groves of cedars green. 
 
 With woven branches on the winter side. 
 Repelled the northern storm, whilst clear and sheen, 
 
 Crisped by its pebbly bed, the glancing tide 
 Gleamed in the sun, or darkened where the screen 
 
 Of boughs o'erhung its music murmuring glide — 
 It laughed along, and its broad southern glade 
 Was compassed far by the dense forest shade. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Charmed with the scene, our sire explored the place. 
 
 And penetrated far the thickets round ; 
 At length his vision opened on a space 
 
 Level and broad, and stretching without bound 
 Far tow'rd the south ; nor rose o'er all its face 
 
 A tree, or shrub, or rock, or swelling mound ; 
 Yet, in large herds, far o'er the snows appear. 
 With antic gambols, the far bounding deer ; 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 And, further down, the Narraganset flood. 
 
 Ne'er ploughed by keel, outstretched its fretted blue, 
 
 6 
 
42 WHATCHEER. 
 
 With isles "begem'dj fringed by the hazy wood 
 Of far Coweset, meets our Founder's view ; 
 
 So long had he 'neath shady forests trod, 
 That when this prospect on his vision grew. 
 
 His soul as from a prison seemed to flee, 
 
 And on the wings of thought range an immensity. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Raptured he pasued — ^here then was Waban's mead ; 
 
 In yonder little glen, the fountain by, 
 He'd rear his shelter — ^here his flocks should feed. 
 
 And graze these meadows 'neath the summer sky ; 
 There by his cot he'd sow the foodful seed, 
 
 And round his garden raise a paling high ; 
 Here, by the dusky eve, should herds be seen, 
 Led by the tinkling bell from meadows green. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Ay, here, in fancy, did he almost see 
 
 A lovely hamlet in the future blest. 
 Where Christians all might in one thing agree. 
 
 To leave their God to judge the human breast ; 
 It seemed a refuge whither oft might flee 
 
 The hapless exile for his faith opprest. 
 And here to find his late bound conscience free, 
 And for the scourge and gibbet — charity. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 He thought he saw the various spires ascending 
 
 Of many churches, all of different kind. 
 And heard the Sabbath bells harmonious blending 
 
 Tones speaking creeds that moved the various mind ; 
 And saw the crowds still as harmonious wending 
 
 To several worships, as their faith inclined ; 
 And felt that Deity might bend the ear. 
 From human nature's various chords to hear 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Harmonious worship rise.* From thoughts like these 
 
 Our Founder past, to meditate the day 
 When o'er that plain, curled on the morning breeze, 
 
 The smoke should rise from many a cottage gay, 
 
 * This may not imply that all doctrines are equally true, but simply that there 
 may be a degree of truth in each. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 48 
 
 iJmlbosomed in its groves of cherry trees, 
 
 Where robins blithe should wake the roundelay ; 
 Whilst through the fields should grazing herds be seen, 
 And mowers whetting scythes in meadows green. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 But still a cloud across his mind there came — 
 A doubt that seemed like superstitious fear— - 
 
 No Indian throng was here with loud acclaim 
 To give the welcome of Whatcheer ! Whatcheer ! 
 
 Till then he should be tossed — so did proclaim 
 That nameless stranger — that mysterious seer ; 
 
 But from Haup's Sachem he a grant would gain — 
 
 Such were best welcome from his subject train. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Full of this thought, he turned at closing day, 
 And gained the humble lodge as night came down 
 
 And scarcely could he brook the short delay, 
 Till Waban, coming from the white man's town. 
 
 Brought from Namasket, where that Sachem lay, 
 The cheering welcome, or the blasting frown ; 
 
 For then, Soul-Liberty, thou wert so poor 
 
 As e'en to build thine hopes on that rude sagamore. 
 
CANTO THIRD. 
 
 [ScENBs. The Wigwam — Massasoit and other Chiefs — The Wilderness — A Night 
 in the Wilderness— The Narrag-anset or Coweset Country — Coweset Height.] 
 
 No pain is keener to the ardent mind, 
 
 Filled with sublime and glorious intents, 
 Than when stern judgment checks the impulse blind, 
 
 And bids to watch the pace of slow events, 
 To time the action — for it seems to bind 
 
 The etherial soul upon a fire intense. 
 Lit by herself within the kindling breast, 
 Prompting to action whilst she chains to rest. 
 
 II. 
 Two nights had passed, and Waban dallied still ; 
 
 "Williams began to doubt the red man's faith ; 
 Quick was his foot o'er forest, vale, and hill, 
 
 His changeless eye still governing his path. 
 Why does he tarry ? and the doubts instil 
 
 Unjust suspicions of awak'ning wrath 
 Against his purpose in the savage clan, 
 Whose fears e'en then on future dangers ran. 
 
 m. 
 But, on the following morn, whilst Williams mused, 
 
 Still questioning the hunter's long delay. 
 The hut's rude entrance, by the deer-skin closed, 
 
 Apruptly opened, and a warrior gay 
 Griided within. And to the sight unused. 
 
 Of Keenomp trimmed as for the battle fray, 
 Williams recoiled — and gazed, with fixed surprise. 
 On the fierce savage and his fearful guise. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The eagle's plumes waved round his hair of jet, 
 Whose crest-like lock played lightly o'er his head ; 
 
 On breast and face the war-paints harshly met — 
 Down from his shoulders hung his blanket red — 
 
CANTO THIRD. 45 
 
 With seeming blood his hatchet haft was wet — 
 
 Its edge of death was by his girdle stayed ; 
 Bright flashed his eyes, and, ready for the strife, 
 Gleamed in his hand the dreadful scalping-knife. 
 
 V. 
 
 He placed a packet, bound, in Williams' hands, 
 And fired his pipe, and sitting, curled its smoke ; 
 
 The whilst our Founder broke the hempen bands. 
 And through the contents sent the inquiring look. 
 
 There found he, answered, all his late commands 
 To Waban, ere the wigwam he forsook ; 
 
 And from his spous6 a brief epistle, too, 
 
 Which told her sorrows since their last adieu : 
 
 VI. 
 
 How came the messengers with armed men 
 
 To search her mansion for " the heretic ;" 
 How his escape awoke their wrath — and then 
 
 How they accused him for his feigning sick ; ' 
 But with the thought consoled themselves again, 
 
 That he had perished in the tempest thick ; 
 God's judgment just — their Israel now was free 
 From the vile license of his heresy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But, as he reads, the warrior starting cries, 
 
 " War ! war ! my brother " — Williams drops his hand, 
 
 And by the voice marks in this altered guise, 
 Till now unknown, the generous Waban stand. 
 
 Erect he rose, and fiercely flashed his eyes. 
 
 Whilst his grasp prest the hatchet in his band ; 
 
 " Brother, there's war !" — " With whom ?" our Founder said ; 
 
 " Have I not friends among my brothers red ?" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Haup's valiant Sachem is my brother's friend," 
 
 Replied red Waban, " and I come before 
 Him and the Keenomps bold, who hither wend 
 
 Attendant on our mightiest Sagamore ; 
 He comes to ask my brother aid to lend 
 
 'Gainst Narraganset's hatchet stained with gore ; 
 Miantonomi lifts it o'er his head, 
 Gives the loud battle yell, and names our valiant dead." 
 
46 WHATCHEER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 No space was there for Williams to reply ; 
 
 Ere near the lodge he heard a trampling soundj 
 And warriors entered, stained with every dye, 
 
 Crested and plumed, and to their girdles bound 
 The knife and hatchet ; whilst the battle cry 
 
 Burst from the crowds that did the lodge surround, 
 And seemed to light in every Keenomp's eye, 
 That stared within, a dreadful sympathy. 
 
 X. 
 
 Amid this train came Massasoit old, 
 
 But not too old for direst battle fray ; 
 Strong was his arm as was his bosom bold ; 
 
 His judgment, bettered by experience gray, 
 The wildest passions of his tribe controlled. 
 
 And checked their fury in its headlong way ; 
 Still with the strangers he his peace maintained. 
 The terror of whose aid his foes restrained. 
 
 XL 
 
 There too came Corbitant, so stern of mood. 
 And Annawan, who saw, in after times, 
 
 Brave Metacom, and all of kindred blood. 
 Slain, or enslaved and sold to foreign climes ; 
 
 And strong Apannow, of Pocasset's wood. 
 
 And other chiefs of names unmeet for rhymes ; 
 
 And round our Father, in the fearful trim 
 
 Of savage battle, thronged those warriors grim. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Each fired his pipe, and seat in silence took ; 
 
 Around the room a dreadful ring they made. 
 Their fierce eyes stared through wreaths of dusky smoke, 
 
 And 'mid its rising clouds their plumage played ; 
 And through the obscure their forms scarce earthly look ; 
 
 They seem like fiends in their infernal shade ; 
 Silent the vapors rose, and naught they spoke, 
 Till Massasoit thus the silence broke : 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " And is my brother here 1 What does he seek ? 
 
 Tow'rd Wamponand, upon the passing wing, 
 A singing bird there went ; its opening beak 
 
 Was by Namasket's wigwam heard to sing 
 
CANTO THIRD. 47 
 
 That thou art friendless, homeless, poor and weak, 
 
 Seeking protection from an Indian King. 
 Do the white Sagamores their vengeance wreak, 
 E'en as the red chiefs, on their brethren ? — Speak." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Sire Williams answered : " 'Twas no idle song 
 Sung by that bird which passed Namasket near ; 
 
 I am an exile these drear wilds among, 
 
 And hope for kindness from the red men here. 
 
 Oft had thy friendship to the pale-faced throng. 
 That first Patuxet* peopled, reached my ear, 
 
 And the tale whispered thou wouldst still be kind 
 
 To those who fly, and leave their all behind." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Then rose the tawny monarch of the wood 
 
 To speak his memory, as became a chief ; 
 And back he cast his crimson robes, and stood 
 
 With naked arm outstretched a moment brief ; 
 Commanding silence by that attitude, 
 
 And to his words attention and belief 
 Oft did he pause, his eyes on Williams fixed, 
 Whilst breathed his train applause his words betwixt. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Brother," he said, " full many a rolling year 
 Has cast its leaves and fruitage on the ground, 
 
 And many a Keenomp, to his country dear, 
 Has sate in death beneath his grassy mound, 
 
 Since first the pale Awanux kindled here 
 His council blaze, and so began to found 
 
 His tribes and villages, and far and near. 
 
 With thundering arms, to wake the red man's fear. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Brother, attend ! When first Awanux came. 
 He was a child, not higher than my knee ; 
 
 Hunger and cold consumed and pinched his frame ; 
 Houseless on yonder naked shore stood he ; 
 
 Waves roared between him and his corn and game, 
 Snows clad the wilds, and winter vexed the sea ; 
 
 His big canoe shrunk from the angry flood, 
 
 And death was on the barren strand he trod. 
 
 *Patuxet is the Indian name for Plymouth. 
 
48 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Brother, attend ! I gave the infant food ; 
 
 My lodge was open, and my fire was warm ; 
 He gathered strength, and felt his melting blood 
 
 Restoring vigor to his wasted arm ; 
 He grew — waxed strong — the trees began to bud — 
 
 He asked for lands a little town to form — 
 I gave him lands, and taught him how to plant. 
 To fish and hunt — for he was ignorant. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Brother, attend ! Still did Awanux grow — 
 Still did he ask for land — I gave him more — 
 
 And more — and more — till now his hatchet's blow 
 Is at Namasket heard, with crash and roar 
 
 Of falling oaks, and, like the whit'ning snow, 
 His growing numbers spread my borders o'er ; 
 
 Scarce do they leave a scant and narrow place 
 
 Where we may spread the blanket of our race." 
 
 XX. 
 
 Here paused the chief, as if to ask reply ; 
 
 He'd plained of thankless guests, and seemed to say, 
 That the white strangers grasped too eagerly. 
 
 Nor heeded aught their benefactor's sway ; 
 Ne'er to the Indian did our Sire deny 
 
 His share of Heaven's bequests, and to allay 
 The chiefs suspicions, thus he answered mild 
 The dusky king of Pokanoket's wild : 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Brother, I know that all these lands are thine — 
 These rolling rivers, and these waving trees — 
 
 From the Great Spirit came the gift divine ; 
 
 And who would trespass upon grants like these 1 
 
 Naught wouid I take, e'en if the power were mine, 
 Of all thy lands, lest it should Him displease ; 
 
 But for just meed should thou some part resign, 
 
 Would the Great Spirit blame the deed benign ?" 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " 'Tis not the peag," said the sagamore, 
 
 Nor knives, nor guns, nor garments red as blood. 
 
 That buy the lands I hold dominion o'er — 
 Lands that were fashioned by the red man's God ; 
 
CANTO THIRD. 4^ 
 
 But to my friend I give, and take no more 
 
 Than to his generons bosom may seem good ; 
 But still we pass the belt, and for the lands. 
 He strengthens mine, and strengthen I his hands." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Weak is my hand, brave chief," our Sire replied ; 
 
 " Aid do I need, but none can I bestow ; 
 Yet on that vacant space, by Seekonk's tide. 
 
 Fain would I build, and peaceful neighbors know ; 
 But if my brother has that boon denied. 
 
 Far tow'rds the setting sun will Williams go, 
 And on the lands of other chiefs abide, 
 Whose blankets are with ampler room supplied." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As thus our Founder spake, this murmur low 
 Past all that savage group of warriors round, 
 
 " The stranger will to Narraganset go ! " 
 
 " A hungry wolf shall in his path be found ! " 
 
 Rejoined stern Corbitant, whose eyes did glow 
 
 With kindling wrath, whilst from his belt unbound 
 
 His hatchet, following his dusky span 
 
 Beneath his blanket hid — man glanced on man. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Again Haup's Sachem broke the fearful pause : 
 " Brother, be wise — I gave thy brethren lands ; 
 
 They smoked my pipe, and they espoused my cause ; 
 They made me strong — and all the neighboring bands 
 
 Forsook the Narraganset Sachem's laws,* 
 
 And mine obeyed. — We weakened hostile hands ; 
 
 All dropt their arms and looked, but looked in vain, 
 
 For my white friends to measure back the main. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " This leaf, which budded of their hope, now dies ; 
 
 The Narraganset warriors crest their hair — 
 Their hatchets keen from troubled slumbers rise. 
 
 And through Coweset their thronged edges glare ; 
 Chiefs strike the war-post — blood is in their cries, 
 
 And their fierce yells cleave Pokanoket's air ; 
 They count already with revengeful eyes 
 The future scalps of vanquished enemies. 
 
 * See notes to Canto Fourth. 
 
50 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " War's clouds liang o'er us, and their thunders speak, 
 And spots of blood the skies of peace array ; 
 
 The dark-winged raven whets her hungry beak — 
 She scents the coming strife, and chides delay ; 
 
 Devouring wolves peer from their dens, to seek 
 The expected relics of the battle fray ; 
 
 Earth breathes of slaughter, and the grassy plain 
 
 Thirsts for the nurture of the sanguine stain. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " All do the blood of Wampanoag crave ; 
 
 On Seekonk's margin will the tempest burst ; 
 Lands there I might bestow, but then that wave 
 
 Will turn all red with human slaughter first. 
 But still my brother and his friends are brave ; 
 
 His bulwarks there, with guardian thunders pierce(i, 
 Might frown on harm — for surely he would fight, 
 Both for his own and for the giver's right. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " And when the Narraganset by our arms 
 Is driven from the Seekonk far away, 
 
 No longer troubled by the wild alarms 
 Of scalping knife and tomahawk afl"ray. 
 
 Together may we sit, free from all harms, 
 And smoke the calumet day after day. 
 
 And our descendents, ages yet to come, 
 
 Have but one fire — one undivided home." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 ^' Brother," said Williams, " these thou seest are 
 Hands that no mortal's blood e'er crimsoned yet — ^ 
 
 Oft do I lift them to the G-od of prayer — 
 Ah ! how unseemly if with slaughter wet ! 
 
 But to the hostile chiefs could Williams bear 
 The pipe of pe^^ce, thy snow-white calumet, 
 
 And quench the flames of strife, how better far. 
 
 Than win thy lands by all-devouring war ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " With Waban for my guide, in friendly guise. 
 Sachem, I would the arduous task essay 
 
 To soothe those ancient feuds by counsel wise. 
 And quell the wrath born ages far away ; 
 
CANTO THIRD. 51 
 
 Were this not better than the sacrifice 
 
 Of armies whole, slain in the bloody fray? 
 Then might I plant, and, in each neighboring clan, 
 Meet with a friend where'er I meet a man." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Ha ! Yengee," said the Sachem, " wouldst thou go 
 To soothe the hungry panther scenting blood ? 
 
 Say, canst thou bid Pawtucket's downward flow 
 Turn and run backward to Woonsocket's wood 1 
 
 The path to peace is shut — the eager foe 
 
 Sharpens his darts, and treads his measures rude, 
 
 And through the trembling groves the war-whoop trills 
 
 From bleak Manisses* to the Nipnet hills. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Yengee ! thou seest these Wampanoags brave — 
 They are my Keenomps in the battle fray ; 
 
 Would it become Haup's sagamore to crave 
 Inglorious rest for warriors strong as they ? 
 
 They shrink from naught, but from a dastard's grave : 
 Bound to the stake, upon their lips would play 
 
 The scornful smile — ^when would the saying cease, 
 
 ' The Wampanoag women sued for peace V " 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Williams to this — " The Spirit over all 
 
 Holds earth in thought, and moulds the hearts of men ; 
 At His command may torrents backward roll. 
 
 And the hare gambol in the panther's den ; 
 In Him I trust, and in his strength my soul 
 
 Is more than armies — ^let your brother then 
 Ask for himself, if not for thee or thine. 
 That on these lands the sky of peace may shine. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " How could your brother plant, where all around 
 
 War's tempest raged, and poured its showers of blood ? 
 
 Where from each thicket burst the war-whoop's sound, 
 And death in ambush couched in every wood ? 
 
 When would the footsteps of his friends be found, 
 Passing along the blood-stained solitude. 
 
 To bring their all — their dearer far than life. 
 
 Beneath the uplifted axe and scalping knife ?" 
 
 * Manisses— Block Island. 
 
52 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Upon our Father's words to meditate, 
 
 That wise old chief now paused him for a space ; 
 
 Thus far he had prolonged the shrewd debate, 
 And inly strove his bounties to retrace — 
 
 Not, as it seemd at first, from growing hate, 
 But to enlarge upon his present grace, 
 
 Until his gift should be right worthy thought 
 
 Of the much needed aid, which now he vainly sought. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " Keenomps !" at length exclaimed the Sagamore, 
 Shall our white brother, not for me or mine, 
 
 But for himself, seek Narraganset's shore. 
 
 Disperse the clouds, and give the sun to shine 
 
 From the blue sky of peace ? — Our wounds are sore, 
 But hatchets none too keen, and our design 
 
 Delay may favor, if the Yengee light 
 
 His council fire, and gathering friends invite. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " His bow is broken, and his knife now dull ; 
 
 But when his warriors shall around him throng, 
 Its sharpened edge will thirst to peel the skull 
 
 Of Narraganset foe — his arm, grown strong. 
 Will bend a mighty bow, and send the soul 
 
 Of many a hostile Sachem to prolong 
 The cry of vengeance from the tribes of ghosts 
 Who rove, unsheltered, round Sowaniu's coasts. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " On Seekonk's marge — our battle-stained frontier — 
 His town will rise, and valorous will he feel ; 
 
 The foe must pass him if he strikes us here ; 
 Our brother then will hang upon his heel. 
 
 And check his progress, and salute his ear 
 With the big thunders and the muskets' peal ; 
 
 Lo ! from the east the Tarrateen no more 
 
 Dare pass the Yengee by the ocean shore." 
 
 XL. 
 
 As ceased the chief, a fierce smile lit the eyes 
 And curled the muscles of those men of blood ; 
 
 They feared the number of their enemies ; 
 This hope was cheering, and all answered — good I 
 
CANTO THIRD. 53 
 
 All save stern Corbitant, whose visage is 
 
 Dark and portentous as a slumbering flood, 
 Whose silent bosom holds the imaged storm, 
 And seems the tempest that the skies deform. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Then rose each Keenomp, in his turn, and spake : 
 
 Each said his knife was sharp; his hands were strong ; 
 
 But still such counsel as his chief might take 
 He should deem wise, and so advise his throng. 
 
 At length stern Corbitant did silence break — 
 But first unsheathed he from his leathern thong 
 
 His scalping knife, and then a circle true, 
 
 "With its bare point upon the earth he drew. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " So move the hunters," the grim sachem said, 
 
 Then near the centre made of scores a few ; 
 " Here do the moose and deer the thickets thread 
 
 To the sure death from those whose feet pursue ; 
 Do not the Yengees thus around us spread ? 
 
 Are we not hunted thus our forests through ? 
 Will Haup's brave Sachem yield Awanux aid. 
 While weep the spirits of his kindred dead ? " 
 
 XLin. 
 " Gro ! thou dark Corbitant ! " the old chief cried, 
 
 " Unarmed the stranger seeks our vacant land ; 
 Far from his friends he'd plant, by Seekonk's tide, 
 
 His blood within the hollow of our hand ; 
 When to the stranger has a chief denied 
 
 Food, fire, and space his blanket to expand ? 
 Hunted by him ! — ^when come his friends he may. 
 If timid deer we are, turn off the beasts of prey. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " The white man goes, but for himself alone. 
 
 To ask that peace between the nations be. 
 And if the belt of Narraganset won 
 
 He bring to Haup, 'twill be received by me. 
 Now do I charge you, Keenomps, all as one. 
 
 That on his path no lurking wolf send ye ; 
 Who dares with purpose fell his way to haunt. 
 Dies by this hand — e'en if 'twere Corbitant. 
 
54 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " Bo thou, swift Waban, with the Yengee go, 
 And point the way to Narraganset's clan ; 
 
 If thou durst walk before the bended bow. 
 
 Bring back the talks, that we the words may scan ; 
 
 In all things else to him obedience show — 
 He is thy sachem — be thou Winiams'* man. 
 
 But it were safe that thou the pipe should bear 
 
 Without that painted face and plumed hair." 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Then "Williams passed his strings of wampum bright, 
 And to each Keenomp some slight present made ; 
 
 Each took his gift, and mimicking the white. 
 His tattbut] gave, and uncouth bow essayed ; 
 
 And e'en grim Corbitant showed pleasure slight, 
 For something like a smile his face arrayed, 
 
 As he beheld the wreath our Founder flung. 
 
 Where glittering on his breast the bauble hung. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 To Haup's old chief a girdle bright gave he — 
 
 Well graced his swarthy loins the tinsel wire — 
 And every warrior was in highest glee, 
 
 To see his chieftain in such brave attire ; 
 Then filing from the lodge in fit degree. 
 
 The groups did pass, and through the woods retire ; 
 The chief appointing Haup, where he might see 
 What issue hung on this strange embassy. 
 
 xLVin. 
 Waban alone with Williams tarried there, 
 
 And for the journey soon the comrades trim ; 
 The red man doft his plumes, and loosed his hair. 
 
 And cleansed his visage of its colors grim ; 
 Our Founder chose his Indian gifts to bear. 
 
 And pipe of peace, as well becoming him ; 
 And forth they sallied, as from central sky 
 The sun looked down between the branches high. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Before went Waban, and his nimble feet 
 
 Passed swift 'neath ancient grove — o'er woodland glade, 
 
 * The Wampanoag-s could not pronounce the letter Z, but used n in the place of it. 
 t Taubut — thanks. 
 
CANTO THIRD. 55 
 
 Behind, his long dark hair and scarlet sheet 
 
 Streamed on the breezes that his swiftness made ; 
 
 Oft did his glancing form from sight retreat 
 Behind the crags — behind the thicket's shade — 
 
 And then his voice, along the echoing wood, 
 
 Told when he paused, or where his way pursued. 
 
 L. 
 
 At length upon Pawtucket's marge they stood — 
 They heard the thunder of his falls below ; 
 
 Though narrow was the pass, yet deep the flood, 
 And frail the ice to bridge such dangerous flow ; 
 
 But on the bank a giant of the wood, 
 
 A towering hemlock waved its lofty bough — 
 
 Waban his hatchet to the trunk applied ; 
 
 It bowed — it fell, and bridged the sounding tide, 
 
 LI. 
 
 On this upstayed, from bank to bank they passed ; 
 
 And now they trod lands 'neath the hostile sway ; 
 And round the travelers night was gathering fast, 
 
 And dark and doubtful grew their devious way ; 
 Upon the ground their blankets now they cast, 
 
 And light the fire, and wait the coming day, 
 When safer they their journey may pursue. 
 And greet the hostile chiefs in season due. 
 
 Ln. 
 Williams that night lay on the snow-clad ground, 
 
 With naught above him but the starry blue ; 
 In the parched maize and fountain pure he found 
 
 A sweet repast, that woke devotion true ; 
 For whilst he saw the human soul still bound — 
 
 Her wings enthralled, though not her eagle view — 
 One pious prayer made every sufi"ering light, [flight. 
 
 That he might cleave her bonds, and speed her heavenward 
 
 LUI. 
 
 The red man smoked his pipe, or trimmed the fire. 
 
 And many a tale he to our Father told 
 Of barbarous battle, and of slaughter dire. 
 
 That on Pawtucket's marge there chanced of old ; 
 How still the son inherited from sire 
 
 The same fierce passions, in like bosom bold ; 
 
56 WHATCHEER. 
 
 And wondered how his pale-faced Sachem dare 
 Betwixt such angry chiefs the pipe to bear. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " Ten summers since, on yonder margin green," 
 
 He thus continued in a sadder tone, 
 " A strong old hunter — Keenomp he had been 
 
 Of many deeds — dwelt with his daughter lone : 
 She, like the bright-eyed fawn, whose beauteous mien 
 
 So charms the hunter that he stands like stone ; 
 He, like the brawny stag, with burning eye 
 And antlers broad, and sinews that defy 
 
 LV. 
 
 " The well-aimed shaft. Then Waban was a boy ; 
 
 And, lonely, loved to go, by moonlight dim 
 Or dewy morn, to see, all life and joy. 
 
 The Bright-Eyed Fawn. But ah ! it chanced to him 
 One morn to seek her at her home's employ — 
 
 And, O ! what havoc there ! — ^what horrors grim ! 
 The old man lay in gore ! — his daughter gone ! 
 His lodge in ashes ! But the dewy lawn 
 
 LVI. 
 
 " Showed prints of hostile feet. Waban is true — 
 He followed on the trail — a devious route ; 
 
 Far up the winding stream the morning dew 
 
 Betrayed their steps, and hers with theirs ; here out 
 
 They turned — leaping from rock to rock, they drew 
 Still onward far, until a thrilling shout. 
 
 From far Woonsocket, died on Waban's ears : 
 
 He paused — ^he listens — and again he hears— 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " The PeqitoVs yell ! My Sachem sure has seen 
 The well-drawn arrow leave the red man's bow ; 
 
 So Waban went — the steps he made between 
 Him and his foes no memory left — e'en now 
 
 Waban is there ; and, from behind a screen. 
 
 Formed by the leaf of bush and bending bough, 
 
 He saw the Bright-Eyed Fawn, bound to the stake — 
 
 The fagots heaped around — the flames awake ! 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 ^' Two warriors, standing, mock her cries, and four, 
 In the fire-water drenched, lie here and there 
 
CANTO THIRD. 57 
 
 In slumber deep, from wbicli tliey woke no more. 
 
 One arrow Waban sent — througli sboulder bare 
 Transfixed, one scoffer fell, and quenched in gore 
 
 His kindling brand. Then, springing from his lair, 
 As panther springs, with the bright glancing knife 
 Did Waban dart, and, hand to hand in strife, 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " Cleft down the second, who, with wild amaze, 
 
 But faintly fought — straight from the Bright-Eyed Fawn 
 
 The bands were cut, and from the rising blaze 
 
 She springs unscathed. The slumberers on the lawn 
 
 Were not forgot : they slept — they sleep — ^yet gaze ; 
 (If gaze that be which is all sightless ;) dawn, 
 
 Noon, and night, are one. Broad Antler's ghost 
 
 Wandered not long upon Sowaniu's coast ; 
 
 LX. 
 
 '• Fully avenged, he sought the spirit band 
 
 Of his brave fathers, whilst the daughter, won 
 
 By Waban from the cruel Pequot's hand. 
 Dwelt in his lodge, the mother of his son. 
 
 All now are gone — gone to the spirit land, 
 And Waban's left all desolate and lone." 
 
 Tales such as this that evening's hour beguiled. 
 
 Or breathless held, or with blank horror chilled. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 They slept at last, though piercing cold that night, 
 And round them howled the hungry beasts of prey ; 
 
 Nor broke their slumber, till the dawning light 
 
 Grleamed in the east — then they resumed their way. 
 
 Congealed to ice, and glancing far and bright. 
 The snows sent back the rising solar ray ; 
 
 Mooshausick's wave was bridged from shore to shore. 
 
 And safe they passed the solid waters o'er. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Westward till now his course did Waban draw — 
 He shunned Weybosset, the accustomed ford. 
 
 Where dwelt dark Chepian's priest, that grim pawaw. 
 Who well he knew the Yengee's faith abhorred. 
 
 And might, perchance, if he our Founder saw, 
 Bearing the pipe of peace, but ill accord 
 
 8 
 
68 WHATCHEER, 
 
 With such kind purpose, and on evil wing. 
 To Narraganset's throng strange omens bring. 
 
 Lxm. 
 Now down the western hank their course they speed, 
 
 They pass Pawtuxet in their onward way ; 
 And now does Indian town to town succeed, 
 
 Some large, some small, in populous array ; 
 And here and there was many an ample mead, 
 
 Where the green maize had grown in summer's ray 
 And forth was poured, where'er they passed along. 
 Of naked children many a gazing throng. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Their small sunk eyes, like sparks from burning coal. 
 On the white stranger stared ; but when they spied 
 
 The Wampanoag, they began to roll 
 With all the fury — mimicing the pride 
 
 Of their fierce fathers ; and the savage soul, 
 
 Nursed e'en in youth on thoughts in carnage dyed, 
 
 Instinctively, with simultaneous swell, 
 
 Sent from the lips their unfledged battle yell. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 t Their little bows they twanged with threat'ning mien. 
 
 Their little war-clubs shook to tell their ires ; 
 
 Their mimic scalping knives they brandished keen, 
 And acted o'er the stories of their sires ; 
 
 And had their fathers at this moment seen 
 (For they were gone to Potowomet's fires,) 
 
 Our Founder's guide, they might have caught the tone 
 
 Of their young urchins, and the hatchet thrown. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Still village after village smoked — the woods 
 All swarmed with life as onward still he fared ; 
 
 For numbers great, but for such multitudes. 
 By no conjecture, was his mind prepared ; 
 
 Was it for him to tamper with the moods 
 
 Of these fierce savages, whose arms were bared. 
 
 Whose souls already ripe, and bodies trim. 
 
 For the wild revelry of slaughter grim % 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 How could he hope a safe abiding place, 
 
 Far in these forests, and his friends so few — 
 
CANTO THIRD. 59 
 
 'Mid the blood-nurtured numbers of a race 
 Wbo naught of laws divine or human knew — 
 
 Their wars oft prompted by some wild caprice, 
 Their hearts hard as the tomahawk they threw ! — 
 
 Would his fond rashness be by Heaven carest ? 
 
 Would God nurse zephyrs on tKe whirlwind's breast ? 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Whilst musing thus, and moving onward still. 
 His soul o'ershadowed with suspicious fears. 
 
 He gained the summit of a towering hill. 
 
 And downward glanced. — Far stretched beneath appears 
 
 A woodland plain ; and murmurs harsh and shrill, 
 As from accordant voices, on his ears 
 
 Kise from the central groves, and o'er the trees. 
 
 Smokes from a hundred fires curl on the morning breeze. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Now to the sight, through leafless boughs revealed. 
 Now hid where thicker branches wove their screen, 
 
 Bounding and glancing, in swift circles wheeled 
 
 Men painted, plumed, and armed with weapons sheen. 
 
 Now flashing clear, by thickets now concealed ; * 
 
 Glimmering again and tost with threatening mein. 
 
 The lifted tomahawks and lances bright 
 
 Seemed to anticipate the joys of fight. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Mixed with the sound of voices and of feet, 
 Alternate slow and fast, the hollow drum 
 
 Its measured humdrum, or rolled numbers beat, 
 And ruled in various mood the general hum — 
 
 Now slow the sounds — now rapid their repeat- 
 Till at a sudden pause, did thrilling come 
 
 That tremulous, far undulating swell, 
 
 As from a thousand lips, the warrior's yell. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And Williams started — ^for that dreadful howl — 
 Whoop, shout, or yell, whate'er its fitting style — 
 
 As through the woods did its fierce echoes roll. 
 Filled every glade and valley, for a while. 
 
 With seeming demons — murderous as the soul 
 Of the red warrior leaping to despoil 
 
6(1 WHATCHEER. 
 
 (His knife bright glancing tliroiigli tlie shuddering ai' 
 The dying victim of his tuft of hair. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 An ashy hue came over Waban's face — 
 
 It dwelt a moment — vanished — and he said, 
 
 " The Naragansets there their war-dance trace, 
 
 They count our scalps, and name our kindred dead- 
 
 This heart grows big — it cannot ask for peace — 
 It rather rot upon a gory bed, 
 
 Than hear the spirits of its sires complain, 
 
 And call for blood — but ever call in vain." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 " Waban," said Williams, " dost thou fear to go ? 
 
 And wilt thou leave thy Yengee chief alone '? 
 How will thy Sagamore the speeches know, 
 
 If homeward, now, his messenger should run 1 
 Not thou, but I will ask the haughty foe 
 
 To quench his fires, and quell the dance begun ; 
 But for thy safety, thou the calumet 
 Shalt bear beside me, till the chiefs are met." 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 * " Waban," (replied he,) " never shook with fear, 
 
 Nor left his Sachem when he needed friends ; 
 
 It is the thought of many a by-gone year, 
 
 That kindles wrath within my breast, and sends 
 
 Through all this frame, my boiling blood on fire ! — 
 Waban still on his pale-faced chief attends. 
 
 But bears no pipe — the Wampanoag's pride 
 
 Prompts him to die, as have his fathers died." 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 " Waban, at least, will smoke the pipe awhile ? " 
 Said Williams gravely to his kindling guide, 
 
 " Its fragrant breath is as on billows oil ; 
 
 It calms the troubled waves of memory's tide." 
 
 The grateful ofi"er seemed to reconcile 
 
 The peaceful emblem to the warrior's pride : 
 
 He fills the bowl — he wakes the kindling fire — 
 
 And o'er his head the curling clouds aspire. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 And whilst he sits the sylvan muse will string 
 Her rustic harp, to we^ke, no gentle strain, 
 
CANTO THIRD. Q{ 
 
 Of barbarous camps, and savage chiefs who sino" 
 The song of vengeance to their raptured train ; 
 
 Of councils shrewd, and wizard priests that bring 
 Strange omens, dark dominion to maintain ; 
 
 Of incantations dire, and of that spell 
 
 By Sesek wrought — which seemed the feat of Hell. 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 [Scene. The Narrag-anset Camp at Potowomet.] 
 
 The twain have left tlie height, and sought the glade 
 
 Where the red warriors wheel the martial dance ; 
 The thick young cedars form'd a barricade 
 
 Which hid the travelers in their still advance ; 
 But penetrating through their denser shade, 
 
 Soon Father Williams sent his searching glance 
 O'er the rude camp ; and there on every side 
 He sees the dancers round the blazes glide ! 
 
 II. 
 Hundreds on hundreds swarm that glade, I ween, 
 
 With painted visages and plumed hair ; 
 There bristled darts, there glittered lances sheen, 
 
 And there the brandished knives cast thick on air 
 Wild fiery circles — whilst, with threatening mien, 
 
 Their dark locks streaming and their muscles bare, 
 The dancers circled o'er the thundering ground, 
 And leaping, breathed the hard, harsh, aspirated sound. 
 
 III. 
 But chiefly round the central pile the throngs 
 
 (Where plied the bravest chiefs their dances rude) 
 Stood listening to their Sachem's battle songs. 
 
 Or when they ceased, in leaps his lance pursued ; 
 The tumult swelling till their tortured lungs. 
 
 Wrung to the highest effort, filled the wood 
 With the wild war-whoop, tremulous and shrill — 
 Then pausing suddenly, the throngs were still, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Till from the groups another Sachem sprang, 
 To tell his deeds, and count his foe-men slain ; 
 
 Lancing the war-post as his numbers rang, 
 As if he slew his vanquished foe again ; 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 63 
 
 Whilst on his words the listening warriors hang, 
 And drink with greedy ears the bloody strain, 
 Cheering at times, with acclamations rude, 
 The butcheries counted in his song of blood. 
 
 V. 
 
 Amid the tumult of this boisterous rout, 
 
 Williams, unmarked, had gained the central glade, 
 
 When suddenly an unaccustomed shout 
 
 Passed through the groups around the fires arrayed, 
 
 And staring eyes, and pointing hands, about. 
 
 Announced the strangers to their view betrayed ; 
 
 Then died that hum, like the past whirlwind's roar, 
 
 When the dust rises on the distant shore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And hushed were all — glance past from man to man, 
 
 And wonder strange in every visage grew. 
 Till through the camp the sullen murmur ran, 
 
 " Pale-faced Awanux ! Wampanoag too !" 
 And at the words to grasp their arms began 
 
 The kindling warriors, all that gathering through. 
 When, lo ! they opened like a parting tide. 
 And suddenly again their murmurs died. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And Williams paused — for, from that opening crowd, 
 A chief approaching trod the breathing plain ; 
 
 Bold was his port — his bearing high and proud — 
 A lance of length did his right hand sustain ; 
 
 The glittering wampum did his crown enshroud. 
 His nodding plumage wore a crimson stain ; 
 
 His armlets gleamed — his belt, with figures traced, 
 
 Suspended skirts with purple peag laced. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 His naked limbs were stained a sable hue. 
 His naked chest and face a crimson red ; ' 
 
 Streamed backward from his brows two ribbons blue, 
 And with his long black hair wild dalliance made ; 
 
 Suspended from his belt, half sheathed from view, 
 His scalping knife and tomahawk were stayed ; 
 
 His sunken eyes, 'neath forehead lowering proud, 
 
 Griowed like two stars beneath a thunder cloud, 
 
64 '*#HATCHEER. 
 
 He, witli majestic stride and lofty gait, 
 
 Approached our Founder and his dusky guide, 
 
 Who, in half tone, could but ejaculate, 
 " Miantonomi !" and his Indian pride 
 
 Choked further utterance ; but, with form elate, 
 Grasping his axe, with nostrils spreading wide, 
 
 Self-poised he stood ; and seemed but to await 
 
 The approaching chief, who glanced disdainful hate. 
 
 X. 
 
 Our Founder chid his guide, an'd, o'er his head 
 He raised the calumet to speak, the while, 
 
 That a white hand o'er kindling warriors shed 
 The love of peace : well did the act beguile 
 
 The Sachem's wrath ; he deemed that Waban played 
 His nation's part, and, with a scornful smile, 
 
 Turned his fierce glance, and to our Founder said, 
 
 " Awanux ! has he come to hear the song ? 
 
 Our darts are thirsty, and our arms are strong !" — 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Sachem," said Williams, " 'tis the cause of Him — 
 That great Grood Spirit whom we all adore — 
 
 Who never smiles upon the contests grim 
 Of his red children in the field of gore — 
 
 That brings me hither, in unwarlike trim. 
 To crave thy friendship, and of thee implore, 
 
 That these dark clouds which spots of blood contain 
 
 Leave the blue sky, and peace shine forth again." 
 
 XII. 
 
 As thus he spake, the calumet of peace 
 
 Presented he that warlike Sagamore, 
 Who clenched his hands, and backward stept a pace, 
 
 " Nay ! Nay, Awanux ! Wampanoag gore 
 Will M'antonomi's feet in battle trace 
 
 Ere dies another moon — he hears no more — 
 'Tis not for him, amid these Keenomps bold. 
 To talk of peace — that suits his uncle old." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Williams to this : " Then the gray chief is wise ; 
 His glance is forward, and around him turns ; 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 65 
 
 But o'er the young chief clouds of anger rise, 
 He sees but backward, and his vengeance burns ; 
 
 Show me to him who looks with wisdom's eyes 
 Upon the nations, and most truly learns, 
 
 From the past toils and dangers of his life, 
 
 To prize the pipe above the scalping-knife." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 At this his bosom the young Sachem struck, 
 
 And braced his frame, and flashed his kindling eye — 
 
 " This breast is generous," thus he silence broke, 
 " Of like for like abundant its supply ; 
 
 Of good and bad it hath an ample stock ; 
 It cheers its friend, it blasts its enemy — 
 
 Ten favors does it for each favor done. 
 
 And ten darts sends for every hostile one. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Follow the war-chief — 'mid yon heavy cloud 
 Of warriors grim, in arms and martial dyes, 
 
 Sits the gray Sachem in his numbers proud. 
 But prouder still in counsels old and wise." 
 
 He spake, and strode toward the lowering crowd — 
 Williams to calmness did his guide advise ; 
 
 And both, with cautious and slow step, pursued 
 
 The Sachem tow'rd that fearful multitude. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Not more horrific gleams the glistering snake. 
 When coiled on glowing rocks he basking lies, 
 
 And at the approaching step his rattles shake, 
 And flies his forky tongue, and burn his eyes. 
 
 Than glared that crowd of warriors round the stake, 
 Arrayed in murderous arms, and martial guise ; 
 
 Their hollow murmurs kindling through the whole 
 
 The sympathetic wrath of one inspiring soul. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Close, circle within circle, deep they stood ; 
 
 Wild stared their eyes from faces stained for strife. 
 Their lances quivered like a steely wood, 
 
 And on the whetstone played the scalping knife ; 
 All looked — breathed — moved — as if the thought of bloo4 
 
 Had warmed grim statues into human life — 
 
 9 
 
66 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Whilst to the crowd surrounding masses rolled, 
 And groups still shift, and changeful hues unfold. 
 
 xvin. 
 When near the gathered crowd the Sachem trod. 
 
 He raised his hand, and, pausing, briefly spoke : 
 " Keenomps ! Awanux, prompted hy his God, 
 
 Brings back the pipe the Wampanoag broke. 
 Our fathers ever answered good with good. 
 
 Nor on the bearer of the pipe e'er shook 
 The storm of vengeance — ^listen to his talk — 
 He brings no message from the tomahawk." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 As thus he spake, the sullen murmurs died. 
 
 And, in deep silence hushed, the warriors stood ; 
 
 Again he moved — and at his onward stride 
 The deep mass parted, like a severing flood ; 
 
 Opening on either hand, the living tide 
 Rolled forth the space through which our Founder trod : 
 
 Their breath alone he heard — like the hoarse breeze 
 
 Foreboding tempests to the shuddering trees. 
 
 XX. 
 
 At last he came where the old Sachems sate. 
 Who formed the Narraganset senate grave ; 
 
 Renowned were they — once in the fierce debate 
 Of battle dire — as bravest of the brave ; 
 
 But now, as guardians of their little state, 
 To younger hands they prudent counsel gave. 
 
 Their youth was gone, but their experience sage 
 
 Gave thrice its value in a wise old age. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 On settles, raised around the mounting blaze. 
 Sate gray Wauontom, Keenomp, Sagamore ; 
 
 But chiefly strikes our Founder's searching gaze 
 The sage Canonicus, whose tresses hoar 
 
 Float on the passing breeze — whose brow displays 
 The care-worn soul in many a furrowed score ; 
 
 But the bright eyes, that 'neath those brows still glow. 
 
 Show what he was full sixty years ago. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Beside him lay the calumet of peace — 
 It was his sceptre 'mid the din of arms ; 
 
CANTO FOURTH. ^^ 
 
 No martial dyes did on his visage trace 
 
 The lines of wrath — for him they had no charms ; 
 The neyhom's * mantle did his shoulders grace. 
 
 Its ample folds repelled the winter's harms ; 
 At every movement, changing in the sun. 
 From plume to plume its gorgeous glories run. 
 
 xxm. 
 Mute were the chiefs — they seemed to meditate. 
 
 Nor turned their heads, nor threw a glance aside. 
 When on the offered mat our Founder sate. 
 
 And near behind him came his watchful guide ; 
 Then spread the warriors round in circle great, 
 
 And earth did 'neath their swarming numbers hide ; 
 They sit, kneel, stand, or climb the forest boughs. 
 Until one wall of life around the council grows. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 When ceased the crowd to stir, and died their hum, 
 Long on our Father did the old chief gaze ; 
 
 At length he said : " And has Awanux come ? 
 He's welcome to the red man's council blaze. 
 
 What news brings he from the pale stranger's home 1 
 Or from the dog that near his wigwam strays ? 
 
 Our young men see the pipe — what does it seek 1 
 
 Our ears are open — let Awanux speak." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Sire Williams rose — a thousand staring eyes 
 
 Were on him fixed — a thousand ears were spread 
 
 To catch his words, whilst all around him lies 
 That mass of life, hushed in a calmness dread, 
 
 Like that of dark Ontario, when the skies 
 Are mustering their tempests overhead ; 
 
 And the round moon looks through the gathering storm. 
 
 And, glassed 'mong tempest shapes, sees in the flood her form. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He paused a space — at last he thus began : 
 " Sachem of many moons, and wise as gray ! 
 
 Well knowest thou how short the life of man ; 
 These aged oaks have witnessed the decay 
 
 * The neyhom, or wild turkey. The fairest plumes of this bird, attached to skins, 
 were tised in manufacturing their richest apparel. See note. 
 
68 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Of many a generation of thy clan, 
 
 Which flourished like their leaves, and past away ; 
 Why war ye, then, upon a life so brief ! — 
 Why fill its little span with wretchedness and grief 1 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " But those who seek the pure unmingled goods, 
 Which last for aye, are to high duty true ; 
 
 And the soul's freedom, in her hallowed moods, 
 Is the first gift of the Great Manittoo — 
 
 For this I wander to these distant woods ; 
 For this from persecution's brands I flew, 
 
 And left my kindred, social fire and home, 
 
 Through stormy skies and snowy wilds to roam. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Some thoughts of mine, that the Great Spirit might 
 
 Rule his own kingdom better than frail men. 
 Awoke the anger of my brothers white. 
 
 And sent me forth to seek some distant glen. 
 Where I, unharmed, my council fire might light. 
 
 And give its freedom to my kindred — when. 
 Beneath the tree of peace, the red man should 
 Smoke the white pipe in friendly neighborhood. 
 
 x:xix. 
 " On Seekonk's marge I chose a lovely glade — 
 
 It forms the bank nearest tlie rising sun — 
 The Wampanoag would the grant have made. 
 
 But at that moment did the rumor run. 
 That all Coweset was in arms arrayed 
 
 Against that chief, and had the dance begun ; 
 Then paused your brother — for he would not bring 
 His friends to sit beneath the hatchet's swing. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Then did he take Haup's calumet, to crave 
 That peace between the warring nations be ; 
 
 Not that the Wampanoag warriors brave 
 Sought from the Narraganset storm to flee ; 
 
 But that no guilty stain, on Seekonk's wave. 
 Rebuke the Pokanoket Chief, or thee. 
 
 Drawn forth by darts, perchance from heedless bows, 
 
 Confounding pale-faced ftiends with warring foes. 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 69 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " My motives these ; now let the wise chief tell 
 What wrongs he suffers ; what redress he seeks. 
 
 Do not his buried kindred slumber well 1 
 
 What murdered victim's ghost for vengeance shrieks — 
 
 Sends through the hollow woods the warrior's yell. 
 And from its iron sleep the hatchet wakes ? 
 
 Or does some impious tongue his anger brave, 
 
 By speaking names made sacred by the grave ?" 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Then passed a murmur through that concourse wide, 
 
 And man on man cast the inquiring eye ; 
 At length the old chief laid his pipe aside. 
 
 And, musing, sate as pondering his reply ; 
 Then slowly rose, and drew the plumed hide 
 
 From his right shoulder, and, with stature high, 
 Stretched forth his long bare arm and shriveled hand, 
 And pointing round the sky-encircled land— 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " As far," he said, and solemn was his tone, 
 
 " As from Coweset's hill the hunter's sight 
 Goes tow'rd the Nipnet — tow'rd the rising sun — 
 
 And o'er the mighty billows, foaming bright, 
 Where bleak Manisses' shores they thunder on. 
 
 Moved Narraganset warriors — till the White 
 Came from the Orient, o'er the water's blue, 
 And brought his thunders in the big canoe : 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Yes, ere he came, Pocasset's martial band 
 
 Did at our bidding come to fight the foe. 
 And the tall warriors of the Nipnet land 
 
 Rushed with swift foot to bend our battle bow ; 
 And e'en the dog of Haup did cringing stand 
 
 Beside our wigwam, and his tribute show — 
 Then we were strong — ^we fought the Maquas fell. 
 And laughed to hear the bordering Pequot's yell. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " But, Yengee, hear : The pale-faced strangers came — 
 No runners told us that they trod our shores ; 
 
 Near the big waters rose their council flame, 
 And to it ran our eastern Sagamores ; 
 
70 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Haup's dog forgot the Narraganset name, 
 
 And ate tte offal cast from white men's doors, 
 Moved at their heels, and after him he drew 
 The strong Pocassets, and the Nipnets too. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Then the fierce Pequots on our borders broke. 
 We sent the belt to claim the accustomed aid ; 
 
 The rebel chiefs the angry hatchet shook — 
 
 They were the Yengee's men, not ours, they said ; 
 
 "We stood alone ; and, like a steadfast rock. 
 Turned back the torrent to its fountain head. 
 
 Which else had swept those sluggard tribes away, 
 
 That by Awanux's wigwam slumbering lay. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " These are our wrongs, and who can ever mend 
 The belt thus broken by the rebel train 1 
 
 The falling waters with earth's bosom blend, 
 And who shall hold them in his palm again ? 
 
 Against the common foe our warriors spend 
 
 Their blood like rivers — ^who can wake the slain 1 
 
 Heal up the wounds for other men endured — 
 
 Give back the blood which has their thankless truce secured?" 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 The Sachem ceased, and mingled murmurs ran 
 Through all that crowd — " He speaks a manittoo ! 
 
 Base Wampanoag ! we'll devour that clan. 
 And drive the Yengees back o'er ocean blue !" 
 
 And through the concourse motions mixed began, 
 With clash of arms, and twanging of the yew ; 
 
 But when they saw our Founder rise again, 
 
 Mute stillness hushed the murmurs of the train. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " Brother," said Williams, " thou art old and wise, 
 And know'st the pipe is better than the dart. 
 
 The barb can drink the blood of enemies ; 
 But the pipe's conquest is the foeman's heart ; 
 
 It gives to us his strength and energies. 
 
 And makes the Pequot from our path depart. 
 
 This, to the good, gives triumph long and just — 
 
 That, to the bad, a victory over dust. 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 301 
 
 XL. 
 
 " If, then, my brother can subdue Hs foes 
 
 By the white pipe, he will be very strong ! 
 The offending chiefs, once more, will bend his bows, 
 
 And shout around his fire their battle song ; 
 No more will Pequot harass his repose. 
 
 Or Maqua yells resound these hills among — 
 See not my brothers whence all this distrust ? — 
 The belt between them and the Yengees rust. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " Hearken a space — Deem not the Yengee weak ; 
 
 Betwixt him and Haup's chief the chain is bright ; 
 If thou on him a finger's vengeance wreak, 
 
 The conscious chain will vibrate to the White, 
 And, roused from slumber, will the big guns speak. 
 
 And flames will flash from every woodland height — 
 Pause, brother, pause — and to the pale-faced train 
 Extend thy friendship, and keep bright the chain. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " But hearken still — Thy brother knows no guile ; 
 
 His tongue speaks truly what his heart conceives; 
 Against the Pequots do your bosoms boil. 
 
 And for the Pequot deeds Awanux grieves ; 
 Their hands are laden with the white man's spoil. 
 
 And crimsoned with the stain that murder leaves ; 
 Soon will the big guns to their nation speak. 
 And, in their aid, may'st thou just vengeance wreak. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " Thou would'st compel the Wampanoag's aid 
 
 To guard thy borders, and chastise thy foes ; 
 But will my brothers give me to persuade 
 
 Them to win more than warriors armed with bows ? 
 Even Awanux, in his strength arrayed. 
 
 Whose thunder roars, and whose red lightning glows- 
 Make him thy friend, and victory follows sure. 
 And Narraganset rests in peace secure." 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The old chief downward glanced — the warriors round — 
 Some in stern silence sate of doubtful mood ; 
 
 Some grinned a scornful smile — some fiercely frowned, 
 And others toiled to sharp their darts for blood ; 
 
72 WHATCHEER. 
 
 At length the Sachem, raising from the ground 
 
 His piercing eyes, full in the visage viewed 
 Our anxious Founder — " Thou dost speak," he said, 
 " The words of wisdom, but these ears are dead — 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " Dead to a Yengee's voice. When did the tongue 
 Of the white stranger fail to speak most fair ? 
 
 When did his actions not his speeches wrong, 
 And lay the falsehood of his bosom bare? 
 
 Fain would I die in peace, and leave this throng 
 To send their glory down to ages far ; 
 
 But still I feel the stranger's grasping hand, 
 
 And still he soothes me with his accents bland. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 " If true he speak — that should his actions show — 
 May not his heart be darker than yon cloud, 
 
 And yet his words white as its falling snow ? 
 Still, if his speech were true, and not a shroud 
 
 To hide dark thought, then might these gray hairs go 
 Down to the grave in peace — and of my blood, 
 
 All, whilst the rivers roll, and rain descends, 
 
 Live with the Yengee kind and loving friends." 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 'Twas for our Founder now in turn to pause — 
 He felt his weakness at rebuff so stern ; 
 
 The kid had leaped beneath the lion's paws, 
 Whose fangs began to move, and eyes to burn ; 
 
 At length he said, " What bold encroachment draws 
 The Sachem's mind into this deep concern ? 
 
 How have the Yengees given thee offence ? 
 
 What deeds of theirs have marred thy confidence ? " 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 At this, the Sachem from his girdle took 
 
 His snow-white pipe, and snapt the stem in twain : 
 
 " They came intruders, and the pipe was broke," 
 Said the stern Sachem, and it snapt again ; 
 
 " Our subject chiefs their ruling chiefs forsook. 
 And they were sheltered by the stranger's train. 
 
 This fragment shows the serpent's skin they sent, 
 
 Filled with round thunders to our royal tent. 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 73 
 
 XLEK. 
 
 *' This shows, they raised their bulwarks high and proud, 
 And poised their big guns at our distant home. 
 
 This, when at Sowams* raged our battle loud. 
 How their round thunders made that battle dumb. 
 
 This, the fire-water how they have bestowed, 
 
 And with its madness have our youth o'ercome. ' 
 
 This, how amid the Pequot nation they 
 
 Build the square lodge, and whet him to the fray. 
 
 L. 
 
 " This, with the Maqua how a league they made, 
 And filled with arms his all-destroying hand. 
 
 This, how they claim right over quick and dead — 
 Our fathers' buried bones, their children's land. 
 
 This, how the earth grows pale, as fast they spread 
 From glade to glade, like snow from Wamponand, 
 
 When borne o'er ocean on the sounding gales. 
 
 It crowns the hills and whitens through the vales. 
 
 LI. 
 
 " Take thou the fragments— count their numbers well — 
 
 Ten times complains our violated right ; 
 They'll help thy memory, and perchance will tell. 
 
 Ten causes have we to distrust the White ; 
 Scarce can the grave our fathers' spirits quell — 
 
 They come complaining in the dreams of night ; 
 Ten times the pipe was by the strangers broke. 
 Ten times the hatchet from its slumbers woke." 
 
 LII. 
 
 Williams the fragments took, and, counting ten, 
 
 He promptly answered with this calm reply : 
 " Sachem, some charity is due to men 
 
 Who tread upon thy pipe unwittingly. 
 Long had the waters tossed those wanderers, when, 
 
 Hungry and cold, they came thy borders nigh ; 
 And, Sachem, they were ignorant of thy race. 
 They only sought a safe abiding place. 
 
 Lm. 
 " And this they found in that deserted strand. 
 
 Where slept the dead — ^where living men were not ; 
 
 *See note to stanza xxxiv. 
 
 10 
 
74 WHATCHEER, 
 
 They knew no wrong in this — a rightful hand 
 Came, and gave welcome to the vacant spot ; 
 
 Each Sachem seemed as sovereign of his band — - 
 They took his belt, for t'was a token brought 
 
 Of friendly greeting — ^who can this condemn ? 
 
 They aid the Whites, the Whites in turn aid them. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " Bound in the skin of the great sachem snake, 
 My brother sent his barbs — ^but to his foe, 
 
 Awanux took the challenge by mistake. 
 And let his bullets for an answer go ; 
 
 They deemed the Sachem angry, and did take 
 Some wise precaution 'gainst a secret blow ; 
 
 They raise their bulwarks, and their guns they poise ; 
 
 This was respect to sovereign brave and wise. 
 
 LV. 
 
 " No leagues have they with the fierce Maqua made. 
 Nor with the Pequot hostile is the race ; 
 
 But if my brothers, for the fight arrayed. 
 O'er Pokanoket's borders speed their pace, 
 
 I dare not say they would forego the aid 
 Of any tribe that would thy battle face ; 
 
 Mohegans, Pequots, Tarrateens would fly 
 
 To join their force, and swell their battle cry. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 " To these six fragments of the pipe I've spoke ; 
 
 Take them again, if I have answered well ; 
 But those which tell me that the stem was broke 
 
 By the fire-water, and of what befel 
 Thee upon Haup — of claims thou canst not brook, 
 
 Made by those strangers from the nations pale 
 To these broad forests as their own domain — 
 These will I ask Awanux to explain. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 ^' This fragment tells me that his numbers grow; 
 
 That they are spreading fast, from glade to glade ; 
 If the Great Spirit does increase bestow, 
 
 Will the wise Sachem that great Power upbraid ? 
 The lands they take, well does my brother know, 
 
 They fairly purchase of the nations red ; 
 
CANTO rOURTH* T6 
 
 E'en tlitis would I on Seekonk's marge abide, 
 If peaceful nations dwelt on either side. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " On Seekonk's bank, betwixt my brothers white 
 And the red nations I might friendly stand. 
 
 And help them still to understand aright 
 
 Whate'er was doubtful from each other's hand ; 
 
 The chain of friendship hold, and keep it bright, 
 And strengthen thus all Narraganset's band ; 
 
 Till 'gainst our common foes we all unite. 
 
 And conquer safety through resistless might. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " This question seeks the Sachem's plain reply : 
 
 Takes he the pipe — lays he the axe aside 1 
 Have I his peace, or does he peace deny. 
 
 Nor in my honest counsels aught confide ? 
 Still chooses he the doubtful strife to try. 
 
 And brave the Yengees with his foes allied ? 
 Say — can he listen to an exiled man. 
 Whose words and deeds might still befriend his clan ?" 
 
 LX. 
 
 "Brother," the Sachem said in milder tone, 
 " Six fragments of the pipe, as well explained, 
 
 My willing hand receives — I ponder on 
 
 The last in doubt — the three, thou hast retained, 
 
 Send to Awanux — may he answer soon, 
 And show our blindness has of them complained ; 
 
 Thy heart seems open, and its speech is brave ; 
 
 Queries of weight demand an answer grave. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 " Large is our regal lodge, and furnished well 
 
 With skins of beaver, bear, and buffalo ; 
 Nausamp and venison is its royal meal ; 
 
 And its warm fire is like the summer's glow: 
 tThere, with that Wampanoag shalt thou dwell, 
 
 And all our comforts in full safety know ; 
 The whilst, our old chiefs shall, in council great, 
 Upon thy questions gravely meditate." 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Here closed the long debate, and, from the ground. 
 Rose the thronged warriors, and hoarse murmur 
 
76 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Through all that concourse, like the hollow sound 
 Of Narraganset's waters, when the blast 
 
 Begins to roll the tumbling billows round 
 
 The rock-bound cape, which had so lately glassed 
 
 Its imaged self — ^its pendant crags and wood — ■ 
 
 In the calm bosom of the silent flood; 
 

 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 [Scenes. A Sequestered Dale— Open Glade and Graiid National Council— The 
 Summit of Haup.] 
 
 Deep in the dale's sequestered solitude, 
 
 Screened from the winter's storm and chilling blast 
 By branching cedars and thick underwood. 
 
 With their brown shadows ever overcast. 
 Old Narraganset's regal wigwam stood, 
 
 "Where dwelt her hoary chief, whilst still might last 
 The stern dominion of the freezing North 
 To chain his warriors from the work of wrath. 
 
 II. 
 And near it rose an ample council hall. 
 
 Where oft the Narraganset senate sate. 
 When came the wise men, at their Sachem's call, 
 
 On great emprises to deliberate ; 
 And still within the shade were shelters, all 
 
 His grave advisers to accommodate ; 
 And, with the savage as with men polite. 
 Such kind provisions did delays invite. 
 
 III. 
 Here Father Williams must a space remain. 
 
 And, with kind accents born of feelings mild, 
 Soothe the stern natures of that savage train, 
 
 His destined neighbors in that barbarous wild ; 
 Remove distrust and confidence obtain. 
 
 Until suspicion and grim wrath, despoiled 
 Of all their terrors, leave the vanquished mind 
 To generous friendship and full faith inclined. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Day after day he passed from man to man, 
 
 Whom e'er of note the mightier Sachems swayed, 
 
 And, to the chieftains of each martial clan. 
 In paints all grim — ^in horrid arms arrayed — 
 
78 WHATCHEER. 
 
 He talked of peace, tlien o'er the dangers ran. 
 
 Were war against the Wampanoag made ; 
 And then besought that they, with friendly eyes, 
 Might see his smoke from Seekonk's margin rise. 
 
 V. 
 
 Betwixt the tribes, on either side the stream, 
 
 Still he the belt would hold — the pipe would bear- 
 But never in his hand should lightning gleam 
 For either Sachem when he rushed to war ; 
 And with the Yengees still it might beseem 
 
 Him to promote an understanding fair, 
 Till wide the tree of peace its branches spread, 
 And white and red men smoke beneath its shade. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But chiefly he did this free converse hold 
 With M'Untonomi, Sachem young and brave, 
 
 And great Canonicus, so sage and old. 
 And in his speech deliberate and grave. 
 
 One eve they sate— ^the storm without was cold — 
 'Twas ere the council their decision gave — 
 
 And thus the converse past among the three. 
 
 The questions simple and the answers free. 
 
 VII. 
 MlANTONOMI. 
 
 Why will my brother dwell amid our foes. 
 Yet seek from us a peaceful neighborhood ? 
 
 May we not think he'll bend ther battle bows. 
 And thirst like them for Narraganset's blood ? 
 
 Why has he Seekonk's eastern border chose, 
 
 And not surveyed Mooshausick's winding flood ? 
 
 Its banks are green — its forests waving fair — 
 
 Its fountains cool — the deer abundant there. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Williams. 
 Ne'er will I dwell among my brother's foes — 
 
 To make them friends is now thy brother's toil ; 
 Too weak I am to bend their battle bows. 
 
 Had I the heart for such unseemly broil. 
 The forest fair that by Mooshausick gtows, 
 
 Would long withstand the hardy woodman's toil. 
 
CANTQ FIFTH. J^ 
 
 The Seekonk's marge will easy tillage yield, 
 And soon the spiry maize adorn its ample field, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Canonicus. 
 How could my brother's thoughts his friends offend ? 
 
 Why flies he to the red from faces pale ? 
 How can he still the nations red befriend ? 
 
 What can his speeches with his foes avail ? 
 No arms he bears — no Yengees him attend — 
 
 How dares his foot to print this distant vale ? 
 The path was shut between the nations red — 
 How dared my brother on that path to tread ? 
 
 X. 
 
 Williams. 
 The white man labors to enthrall the mind — 
 
 He will not let its thoughts of G-od be free ; 
 I come the soul's hard bondage to unbind, 
 
 And clear her passage to the Deity ; 
 The pale-faced foes, whom I have left behind. 
 
 Would still refuse no favor done by me. 
 J trusted Grod would guard his servant's head. 
 Open all paths and soothe my brothers red. 
 
 XL 
 
 Canonicus. 
 Thy generous confidence has on me won ; 
 
 That ope'd my ears, to other Yengees deaf 
 Brother, the spirit of my son is gone — 
 
 I burned my lodge to speak my mighty grief ; 
 If thou art true I am not left alone — 
 
 Some comfort is there for the gray-haired chief ; 
 If to thy words the fitting deeds be done, 
 I am thy father, thou shalt be my son. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The kindest reader would fatigued complain, 
 
 Should I recount each question and reply. 
 Which passed between our Father and that train 
 
 Of barbarous warriors and their Sachems high ; 
 But though he languished on my humble strain. 
 
 Till patience left, or dullness closed his eye. 
 Yet to Sire Williams 'twas no idle song--T 
 The dull reality did days prolong. 
 
80 WHATCHEER. 
 
 xni. 
 They had their Corbitants of surly mood, 
 
 Who scarce would yield obedience to their lord ; 
 Alike they thirsted for the Yengees' blood, 
 
 And Wampanoag's, and alike abhorred. 
 By gaudy presents he their wrath subdued. 
 
 Or won their kindness by his soothing word ; 
 But there was one who spurned all proffers kind — 
 Whose demon hate was to all goodness blind — 
 
 xrv. 
 It was the grim Pawaw. — He came in ire. 
 
 From his proud dwelling by Mooshausick's stream ; 
 He spoke the voice of gods and omens dire, 
 
 And loudly chanted his prophetic dream ; 
 " The white man's gods had set the woods on fire. 
 
 And Chepian vanished in its fearful gleam ; 
 Their fathers' ghosts came from their hunting ground — 
 Their children sought, and only ashes found." 
 
 XV. 
 
 With grave attention did the council hear 
 That crafty priest his awful omens sing. 
 
 The warriors, ruled by superstitious fear. 
 Half credence gave, and overawed the king. 
 
 In groups they thronged the forest, far and near, 
 With gathered brows and speech dark muttering ; 
 
 Whilst moved the prophet through the kindling crowds. 
 
 Like a dire comet through night's lowering clouds. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And as he passed, the varying rumors flew 
 
 Of secret plans sprung from the Yengees' hate ; 
 
 And still their fears and doubts and wonder grew, 
 Whilst on that dream the chiefs prolonged debate ; 
 
 For priest was he and politician too. 
 
 And oft he meddled with affairs of state. 
 
 Wrought on the fears of superstitions' crew, 
 
 And the best counsels of the wise o'erthrew. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thus, when the senate dared resist his sway. 
 He still gained triumph with the multitude. 
 
 Till now the chiefs, half yielding to dismay, 
 Yet vexed and goaded by his rebel mood. 
 
CANTO FIFTH. 8Jt 
 
 3ade that the clans assemble on a day, 
 
 And Williams meet the prophet of the wood, 
 And in their wondering presence overthrow 
 His strange dominion, or each hope forego. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I will not say that devils did enlist 
 
 To do the bidding of this grim pawaw ; 
 He may have been a wild ventriloquist, 
 
 Formed by rude nature ; but the age which saw 
 The marvels that he wrought, would aye insist 
 
 His spells surpassed material nature's law ; 
 And that the monarch of the infernal shade 
 Mustered his legions to the wizard's aid. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Gi-reat was his fame ; for wide the rumor went 
 The demons dark were all at his command. 
 
 And fiends, in rocks, and dens, and caverns pent, 
 Came at the beck of his black waving hand ; 
 
 The boldest Keenomps, on such purpose bent. 
 Could not the terrors of his charms withstand ; 
 
 Still would they shrink and shudder at the sound, 
 
 When spoke his viewless fiends in anger round. 
 
 XX. 
 
 It too was rumored that he daily held 
 
 Communion strange with monsters of the wood — 
 
 Heard their rude voices, and their meanings spelled, 
 And muttered answers which they understood ; 
 
 That he had filled with wisdom unexcelled, 
 A cherished serpent of the sesek's brood — 
 
 Had taught his forky tongue to modulate 
 
 The voice of man, and speak impending fate. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 At length the morn of this stern trial rose — 
 
 The mustering towns poured forth their eager trains — 
 From where wild Pawcatuck's dark water flows. 
 
 To where Pawtucket cleaves the sounding plains ; 
 From where Aquidney's blooming bosom throws 
 
 The ocean back, e'en to the far domains 
 Of the rude Nipnet, Narraganset's wood 
 
 Poured forth in eager throngs the dusky multitude. 
 
 n 
 
82 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Swarm upon swarnij far dark'ning all the ground, 
 The countless clans moved Potowomet's plain, 
 
 The dusky rabble filled the borders round, 
 But near the centre stood the warrior train ; 
 
 Wild dance their plumes — fierce glance their eyes around, 
 And hoarse they mutter like the murmuring main ; 
 
 These accents only o'er the hum prevail, 
 
 " The priest of Chepian grim ! — Awanux weak and pale ! " 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The council formed upon the open glade, 
 
 The Sachems sate around the mounting blaze ; 
 
 Five thousand warriors round that senate made 
 A dreadful ring, and stared with fixed amaze ; 
 
 Within the senate, (so the chieftains bade,) 
 Apart sate Williams to their open gaze ; 
 
 Confronting him, a little space before. 
 
 Rose the black wizard in dread garniture. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 From crown to heel stained black as night he rose. 
 All naked save his waist and heaving chest ; 
 
 The sable fox-hide did his loins enclose. 
 
 The sable fox-tail formed his nodding crest, 
 
 Bent o'er his locks which hung, and dangling loose, 
 Half veiled his cheeks, and lengthened to his breast ; 
 
 Around that breast the same black fox's hair 
 
 Moved as he breathed, and seemed as growing there. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Tall was his form, and in his dexter hand 
 He bore a barb with deadly venom fraught ; 
 
 Whilst on his left, supported by a band. 
 He held a casket, where the rabble thought 
 
 A manittoo, awaiting his command. 
 
 Coiled in a serpent's folds ; and there was nought 
 
 That in brave warriors could awake affright. 
 
 Save his dire glance and fascinating might. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 For, strange to tell ! e'en on the human kind. 
 That serpent ventured with mysterious charm. 
 
 And there were those who thought the subtle mind 
 Of Chepian's self inspired his winding form ; 
 
CANTO FIFTH. 85 
 
 All sought his omens. — He was aye enshrined, 
 
 Through winter's cold, 'mong furs, to keep him warm ; 
 And ne'er was issued to the open light. 
 Till famine rouse his rage, and prey provoked his might. 
 
 xxvn. 
 Thus, in strange terrors armed, the wizard stood, 
 
 And on the casket riveted his eyes. 
 And whispered for a space in ghastly mood, 
 
 Until responses from it seemed to rise 
 Faintly distinct ; at which the vulgar blood 
 
 Stayed its career, and e'en the Sachems wise 
 Heard with a thrill — for these dread accents rose : 
 
 " Count ye the sands — ^ye count your pale-faced foes." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The prophet glanced around, the throngs to scan ; 
 
 And well he noted by the silence dread 
 The moment of effect, and then began, 
 
 (Beseeching first his fearful demon's aid ;) 
 " Chepian, thou power of evil ! dread of man ! 
 
 God of destruction ! pouring on the head 
 Of thy opposers, ruins, plagues, and pest. 
 Let all thy might thy serpent form invest." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 He said ; then turning to the throngs he spoke : 
 " Brothers ! dark tempests overshade our sky ; 
 
 The characters upon Cohannet's rock 
 
 Set bounds in vain — the stranger doth defy 
 
 And break our spells — dread Chepian feels the shock ; 
 In wrath he sees the approaching deity 
 
 Of the pale man — and, in his coming stride, 
 
 Feels scathe and death to his dominion wide. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Now hearken, brothers — twas a dismal night, 
 
 And in his cave sat Tatoban alone : 
 The fading embers shed a dreary light. 
 
 And the big owl sent forth a hollow moan ; 
 The god of tempests sped his rapid flight, 
 
 And 'neath his footsteps did the forest groan ; 
 And whilst he sate, out from the deepest gloom. 
 Did the dread form of awful Chepian come. 
 
84 WHATCHEER* 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Like two red comets did his eye-balls blaze, 
 His form seemed of substantial darkness made ; 
 
 Naked he stood, yet, hidden from the gaze, 
 
 Where round his feet the living shadows played ; 
 
 His lifted arm a lance of fire displays. 
 
 And, robed in terrors, forward bends his head ; 
 
 His long black locks shed sparks of living fire. 
 
 Stood up, self-moved, and curled instinct with ire. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Sleeps Tatoban !" the awful demon said, 
 
 " Sleeps Tatoban ! my Priest, my Prophet sleep ! 
 Does not a pale man my dominion tread ? 
 
 With hostile gods has he not crossed the deep ? 
 Prophet ! the spirits of your kindred dead 
 
 Already o'er their children's ashes weep — 
 Arise ! go forth, and by thy serpent quell 
 
 The daring stranger, and his gods expel ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Hast thou forgot, when, by Cohannet's stream, 
 To curse the strangers every charm was tried ? 
 
 How, at your mutterings, the pale moon's beam 
 
 Retired from Heaven, and backward rushed the tide ? 
 
 How I appeared, and, by the embers' gleam. 
 To the hard rock my lance's point applied, 
 
 And scored my mandate — saying to the foe. 
 
 Thus far thy gods shall come — no further go 1 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Rouse, Prophet, rouse ! behold, a stranger dare 
 Pass the charmed limits, and our peace invade !" — 
 
 He said, " and, resting on the casket there, 
 Melted from sight into the sombre shade : 
 
 " He chose my serpent for his earthly lair ; 
 
 Swelled his huge volumes, and inspired his head. 
 
 And taught his tongue to speak the future well, 
 
 And charms most wise that can the bravest quell. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " And durst thou, stranger, brave his glance of fire ? 
 
 Durst thou confront the terror of his charms ? 
 Confront grim Chepian in the dread attire 
 
 Of the great Sesek, whose unearthly arms 
 
CANTO FIFTH. SB 
 
 Wakes fear in Sachems? 0, thou fool ! retire — 
 Bear off thy gods ; for robed in all their harms 
 Thou art unsafe. — No power we yield to thee. 
 Or to thy gods ; for Chepian rules by me." 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Williams replied, " Thou Priest of Beelzebub ! 
 
 Chepian, I mean, if that's his better name — 
 I come not hither to assume thy robe 
 
 Pontifical, or emulate thy fame ; 
 Or yet to trouble, with the warrior's club. 
 
 Such saints as thou and thy dark demon claim — 
 Be thou but peaceful, and thou mayest still 
 Worship thy manit dark, as suits thy stubborn will. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " But here I sit, to prove thee to thy face 
 A foul impostor, and thy charms a cheat — 
 
 To ope the eyes of a deluded race, 
 
 Strangely misled by thine infernal feat. 
 
 That in thy foe they confidence may place. 
 And him, in friendship, as a neighbor greet ; 
 
 So try thy spells, thine utmost powers essay. 
 
 And if I blench, be thine the victor's day." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Die, then !" he said, and down with fury cast 
 
 The magic casket, and wide open flew 
 Its fur-lined cavern. Forth his volumes vast. 
 
 In many a glistening fold, the serpent drew ; 
 Glanced on his burnished scales, the sunbeams past 
 
 Along his winding spires in many a hue ; 
 Proud of his freedom, o'er the glade he rolled. 
 And mocked the rain-bow in the hues of gold. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Now to the sun his glittering breast he rears. 
 His head high swimming in the wanton gales ; 
 
 Now coiled in folds, his giant orb appears ; 
 
 Now stretched recumbent, o'er the plain he trails. 
 
 The crowds beheld him, and, with mighty cheers. 
 Hailed their dread demon in his robe of scales. 
 
 The monster paused — ^his eyes on Williams fell, 
 
 And shot dire influence, like a light from hell. 
 
86 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Higli towered his head — in many an ample fold 
 He coiled his volumes, spire o'er spire ascending ; 
 
 Still lessening as they rose and inward rolled, 
 
 His rustling scales, their thousand colors blending, 
 
 Surpassed the hues of diamond and of gold ; 
 Till, from the pyramidal top extending. 
 
 Swam forth on crooked neck his eyes of flame, 
 
 Rang his sharp buzz, and on he slowly came. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Shouted the crowds, as they beheld him rise, 
 " The manittoo ! The manittoo !" they cried. 
 
 In sooth, their demon, from his burning eyes. 
 Seemed looking forth, and his unlabored glide 
 
 Scarce seemed of earthly sort — ^his glistering dyes, 
 In mingling brilliance, changed and multiplied ; 
 
 The curves that move him scarce their curls untwist ; 
 
 But o'er them floating, like a globe of mist, 
 
 XLII. 
 
 His quivering rattles buzz. "With curious eyes, 
 Williams beheld him on his spires advance ; 
 
 Then grasped a wand — then paused with fixed surprise, 
 To see the radiance of each motion glance 
 
 The hues of Heaven — alternate sink and rise 
 His bending spires, and still the colors dance — 
 
 At every change of that deep thrilling hum 
 
 The motions change — the colors go and come. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 An odor, strange but not offensive, spread. 
 As he advanced and nearer Williams drew ; 
 
 But penetrating, keen, it filled the head. 
 
 Involved his brain, and passed his senses through ; 
 
 Then tranced he sate, and all around him played 
 Celestial hues, and music strange and new — 
 
 The heavens, the earth, to various radiance turned, 
 
 And mingling rain-bows all around him burned. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The baneful serpent vanished from his sight ; 
 
 No foreign object did his trance confuse ; 
 So rung the hum — so danced the colors bright, 
 
 The hues seemed music, and the music hues ; 
 
CANTO FIFTH. 8t 
 
 Still swelled the sounds — still livelier flashed the light ; 
 
 His limbs obedience to his will refuse ; 
 He strove to rise — he yielded to affright ; 
 For all seemed spell-bound, as in dreams of night. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " Whence this dread power that steals my strength away ? 
 
 This creeping torpor — and this chilling dew? 
 Whence this strange rapture mingling with dismay ? 
 
 Ye dangerous beauties ! vanish from my view — 
 Are ye from hell — and come ye to betray ? 
 
 One more sad victim seek ye to subdue ? 
 Are ye the Tempter's, whose infernal spell 
 Bore death to Eden, and gave joy to hell? 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " And shall my labors thus inglorious end ? 
 
 And shall my fate give hell a triumph new ?" 
 This thought was fire, and did new vigor lend — 
 
 Back rushed his soul through every avenue. 
 A seeming cloud did from his brain ascend. 
 
 The magic colors vanished from his view, 
 And at his feet, in many an ample sweep. 
 The odious reptile coiled him for the leap. 
 
 XLvn. 
 Swift darts the tongue — the horrid jaws unfold — 
 
 Williams beheld — struck — cleft the head away. 
 In many an ample coil the body rolled. 
 
 And then relaxed, and all extended lay 
 A headless reptile — all its hues of gold 
 
 And diamond vanished with its life's decay ; 
 Whilst the foiled wizard looked upon the slain, 
 And choked and yelled, then choked with rage again. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 The crowds looked on 'twixt terror and surprise — 
 They gazed — they gaped with fixed astonishment ; 
 
 Their serpent manit braved — ay, slaughtered lies ! 
 Is it Awanux that is prevalent ? 
 
 But when they gave full credence to their eyes. 
 Wild wondering clamors through the masses went, 
 
 Which closed in shouts that through the forest rolled, 
 
 " The wizard conquered by the Yengee bold ! " 
 
88 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Ill could that juggler a white victor brook, 
 
 And Hell's dark passions boiled through all his blood 
 
 Uis eyes shot fire, and from his belt he took 
 His deadly dart — and in stern silence viewed 
 
 Its poisoned barb, whose short and horrid crook 
 The jaws of seseks armed — ^jaws all imbued 
 
 With the keen venom gathered from the fangs 
 
 Of such as died by self-inflicted pangs. 
 
 L. 
 
 Nothing he spake — but, with a hideous yell, 
 He raised the dart — and backward as he bent 
 
 His starting eye-balls shot the light of Hell ; 
 
 At Williams' breast their vengeful glance was sent- 
 
 Eut as his muscles did the barb impel. 
 
 Bed Waban's grasp obstructed their descent — 
 
 On earth the weapon falls and pants for blood ; 
 
 The lifted arm still threatening vengeance stood. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Miantonomi, who the scene surveyed. 
 
 Too long had now his rising wrath concealed ; 
 
 A mighty lance his better hand displayed, 
 And well he knew its haft of length to wield ; 
 
 Backward its hilt the angry Sachem swayed. 
 
 And 'neath its stroke the staggering wizard reeled ; 
 
 Till from a storm of blows he cringing fled, 
 
 And madly howling through the forest sped. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " Gro, Priest of Chepian, go ! " the Sachem said, 
 " Thy dreams are false — thy charms are all a cheat ; 
 
 Gro to thy manit — tell him that his aid 
 
 Has failed thee once, and thou art sorely beat. 
 
 Thy prophecies have us too long betrayed, 
 And in the council vacant is thy seat. 
 
 When aid we need, to him will we apply 
 
 Who conquers thee, and slays thy deity." 
 
 LIII. 
 
 A space the throngs sate as in deep amaze — 
 
 A space 'twere doubtful what might be their mood ; 
 
 At length wild shoutings they began to raise ] — 
 One transport filled the total multitude ; 
 
CANTO FIFTH. 89 
 
 Their Sachem's boldness cheerly did they praise ; 
 
 For long had they with dread the wizard viewed ; 
 Nor less admired our Founder's courage true, 
 Which did that juggler and his charms subdue. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Then rose Canonicus, that shrewd old chief; 
 
 " Brother ! " he said, " much glory hast thou won ; 
 Thy deeds this day will scantly gain belief 
 
 With warriors red, 'twixt rise and set of sun : 
 Great Chepian's priest, within a moment brief, 
 
 Has by thy firmnes been quite overdone ; 
 And thou art greater than his manits are. 
 For they are vanquished in the contest fair. 
 
 LV. 
 
 " Brother ! we take thy calumet of peace, 
 
 And throw the hatchet into quiet shade ; 
 The Wampanoag's terrors may surcease. 
 
 And thou may'st plant on Seekonk's eastern glade; 
 But hearken, brother ! — better far would please 
 
 Thy council fire if by Mooshausick made — 
 But pass we that ; for well our brother knows 
 
 To live our friend surrounded by our foes. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 " Brother ! thou wilt our belt of friendship take, 
 And for us win the kindness of the White, 
 
 That when we war against the Pequot make, 
 His hands may aid us, and his counsels light ; 
 
 His thunders speak, and all the forests shake. 
 His lightnings flash, and spread a wild affright 
 
 Through town and fortress, wheresoe'er we go, 
 
 Till not a Pequot lives to tell his nation's wo. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " Brother ! we grant thee quiet neighborhood — 
 The tree of peace o'ershadows thee and me ; 
 
 Thou mayest hunt in Narraganset's woodj 
 And catch the fish that in our waters be ; 
 
 But thou must still promote the red man's good. 
 His belt keep bright, and make thy counsels free 
 
 When danger shades us ; and if this be done, 
 
 I am thy father, thou shalt be my son." 
 
 12 
 
90 ' WHATCHEER. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Scarce need I say, Sire Williams cheerly gave 
 The pipe he bore and took the friendly belt ; 
 
 That thanks he tendered to the Sachems brave ; 
 That what he uttered was as deeply felt ; 
 
 That he repeated each assurance grave 
 
 Of friendly favors, whilst he near them dwelt ; 
 
 Nor pause I, now, the customs to describe. 
 
 By which the truce was honored by the tribe. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 He took the Sachem's friendly calumet, 
 Then scattered wampum 'mong the warriors all ; 
 
 On M'antonomi's lofty brow he set. 
 Round waving plumes, the jeweled coronal ; 
 
 The scarlet coat the elder potentate 
 
 Most trimly graced, and gave delight withal ; 
 
 Then ribbons gave he, various their hue. 
 
 To counsellors and Keenomps, bold and true. 
 
 LX. 
 
 His mission finished, Father Williams sped. 
 With Waban guiding, through the forest lone ; 
 
 Nor cold nor hunger did he longer dread. 
 Or bore them cheerly now, his object won ; 
 
 Quickly to Haup did he the thickets thread — 
 To Haup, so well to Pilgrim Father known — * 
 
 And found that Sachem, 'mid his warriors stern, 
 
 Alarmed, but hoping still his safe return. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Grladly he heard from Waban's faithful tongue 
 Sire Williams' speeches and the answers given, 
 
 And wildly shouted all that warrior throng, 
 To learn the dire enchanter's spell was riven ; 
 
 And wilder shouts the echoing vales prolong, 
 
 To hear that priest was from the council driven ; 
 
 " The tree," they cried, " of peace will bloom again, 
 
 The wizard's banished, and his manit slain." 
 
 ♦ All New England has an equal rig-ht to look back to a common Protestant 
 pilgrim ancestry. Roger Williams' protest against the intolerance of his breth 
 yen, worked no corruption of blood ; but, on the contrary, purified it, and gave 
 Rhode-Island precedence in the cause of religious liberty, to which none of 
 her elders have any particular pretensions. The pilgrims of Plymouth and Massa- 
 chusetts were pilgrims for a ci^wrc/i-liberty — the Rhode-Island pilgrims were pil- 
 grims for a soitZ-liberty. 
 
CANTO FIFTH. 91 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Then to the elder chief our Father gave 
 
 The Narraganset friendly calumet ; 
 And it was pleasant to behold that grave 
 
 And stern old Sachem, whilst his eyes were wet 
 With tears of gratitude — he could outbrave 
 
 The stake's grim tortures; and could smiling sit 
 Amid surrounding foes ; yet kindness could 
 Melt into tears this " stoic of the wood." 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 He clasped our Father by the hand, and led, 
 In speechless silence, to the mountain's crown ; 
 
 And, from the snow-white clift that capped its head, 
 They glanced o'er bay and isle, and forest brown. 
 
 It seemed a summer's eve in winter bred ; 
 The sun in ruddy gold was going down, 
 
 And calm and far the expanded waters lay, 
 
 Robed in the glory of the setting ray. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 There stretched Aquidnay far tow'rd ocean blue, 
 
 In virgin wildness still of isles the queen ; 
 Her branchy forest caught the western hue, 
 
 Her vales and banks were decked with cedars green. 
 Far tow'rd the south, her swelling bosom drew 
 
 Its forests, lessening in the distant scene, 
 Till, in the vast extent, the following view 
 Lost them in mists breathed from the briny dew. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Beneath his feet, Aquidnay's north extreme 
 Embraced a cove begemmed with islets gay ; 
 
 Its silvery bosom glanced the setting beam, 
 
 "Where the tall hemlocks gave the radiance way. 
 
 Young nature there, tranced in her earliest dream, 
 Did all her whims in vital forms array ; 
 
 Her feathered tribes round isle and headland glide, 
 
 Her scaly broods leap from the glassy tide. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Here from Aquidnay tow'rd the setting sun, 
 
 Spread the calm waters like a sea of gold 
 Begemmed with isles, till Narraganset dun 
 
 Fringed the far west — there cape and headland bold, 
 
92 WHATCHEER. 
 
 With forest shagged, east tlieir liuge shadows down, 
 And glassed them in the flood ; where silence old 
 Recalled her reign, save that hy times might rise. 
 On Williams' ears, the sea-bird's jangling cries. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Or, he might see borne in the light canoe, 
 Round jutting point, the lonely fowler glide, 
 
 Who paused to watch, with never-ceasing view. 
 Where the long-diving loon might break the tide ; 
 
 Or cautious near the feathered myriads drew, 
 And vexed beheld them cleave, with clangor, widie 
 
 Up from the foamy flood, and, mounting high, 
 
 Darken the day, and seek a distant &ky. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Then glancing north, from far could he behold. 
 
 Bright bursting from his source through forests dun, 
 
 Like liquid silver broad Cohannet rolled 
 
 Towr'd parent ocean — there his currents run 
 
 Embrowned by fringing woods — here moulten gold, 
 Gleaming and glittering in the setting sun. 
 
 They glance by Haup — there, downward as they pour, 
 
 They cleave Aquidnay from Pocasset's shore. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 That rude Pocasset — which, when Williams saw 
 From towering Haup, did one broad forest shew ; 
 
 Here, steep o'er steep, there, leaving Nature's law, 
 Hill, dale, and swamp in wild confusion threw 
 
 The wildered gaze, where, if the hunter draw 
 The sounding bow, and but a space pursue 
 
 The wounded deer, he finds his guidance fail. 
 
 And, lost, halloos through many a winding vale. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Yet the rude wigwams smoked from many a glade. 
 Where by the flood the oaks were branching wide. 
 
 Where future gardens might invite the spade. 
 And the glad swain the fertile glebe divide ; 
 
 Still onward south the hills retiring made 
 More ample meadows by the glassy tide : 
 
 Till far Seconnet shewed her strength of rock, 
 
 Where the loud ocean's rolling mountains broke. 
 
CANTO FIFTH. 93r 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 But on Aquidnay dwelt our Founder's gaze, 
 
 With rapture high. " "Would Seekonk's mead compare 
 
 With yon wild Eden ? " Whilst he thus delays, 
 The old chief's hand does on his bosom hear 
 
 As thus he speaks : " Another sachem sways 
 The isle of peace. All Haup's dominions are 
 
 Stretched tow'rd the God of frost — ^look there and choose — 
 
 All hast thou won, and well a part may use." 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Turned by the hand, and voice that wakes his ears, 
 
 Beneath his feet one boundless forest lay ; 
 The mossy giants of a thousand years, 
 
 O'er hill and plain their mighty arms display ; 
 Mound after mound, far lessening north, appears. 
 
 Till in blue haze the branches melt away ; 
 Here Seekonk wedded with Mooshausick beamed, 
 And there Cohannet's liquid silver gleamed. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Here Kikimuet left his woodland height, 
 
 Shined 'twixt the hills, or wandered 'neath the shade ; 
 
 There Sowams gleamed, if names the muse aright, 
 Till far in forest brown his glories fade ; 
 
 And, here and there, curled on our Founder's sight 
 Smokes from the village of each sheltered glade ; 
 
 Whilst 'neath his feet, just at the mountain's base, 
 
 Kose the chief town of Pokanoket's race. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Embosomed in thick shades the village stood ; 
 
 Its frequent voices, up the silent steep, 
 Came on our Founder's ear ; in cheerful mood, 
 
 The tones of childhood shrill, and manhood deep, 
 Now told what sports and now what toils pursued 
 
 The happy throngs — then would the echoes sweep 
 Of girlhood's voice, warbling the plaintive strain, 
 Half chant, half music, to the woodland plain. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Ah ! how more lovely than the silence hushed, 
 That lists in horror for the foeman's tread ! 
 
 A tender joy our Father's bosom flushed — 
 
 His were the toils that had these blessings spread ; 
 
94 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The storm, that else had o'er the nation rushed, . 
 
 Had by his sufferings and his toils been stayed ; fl 
 
 And as he mused, his hand the Sachem pressed, 
 For like emotions swelled his rugged breast. 
 
 Lixvi. 
 " And oh !" he cried, " what can the Sachem do? 
 
 How can he give to Winiams recompense ? 
 Our foes were many, and our warriors few. 
 
 But Winiams came, and he was our defence ; 
 Gro, brother, plant — go, plant our forest through — 
 
 All hast thou won by thy benevolence ; 
 All hast thou saved from ruthless enemies. 
 Take what thou wilt, and take what best may please." 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Our Father answered — " give me bounds and deeds — 
 
 No lands I take but such as parchment names ; 
 To future ages will I leave no seeds 
 
 To yield a harvest of discordant claims ; 
 If name I must, I name fair Seekonk's meads — 
 
 What first I craved still satisfies my aims ; 
 These and the friendship of my neighbors are 
 Reward too generous for my toil and care." 
 
 Lxxvni. 
 " My brother gives with palm expanded wide," 
 
 The Sachem said, " but with a closing hand 
 Our gifts are half received and half denied ; 
 
 Ha ! was he born in the white stranger's land 1 
 My brother's corn shall wave by Seekonk's tide — 
 
 My brother's town shall on its margin stand ; 
 And on the deer-skin, tested by my bow, 
 My painted voice shall talk, and to far ages go." 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Whilst thus they spake, the sun declining low. 
 
 In Narraganset's shades, half veiled his light ; 
 On rapid pinions did the dark winged crow 
 
 And broad plumed eagle speed their homeward flight ; 
 Warned by the signs, the twain, descending slow. 
 
 In converse grave, passed down the wooded height ; 
 And, in the Sachem's sylvan palace, share 
 Respite from hunger, toil, and present care. 
 
CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 [Scene, Seekonk's Mead, or Place of the First Settlement.] 
 
 The winds of March o'er Narraganset's bay 
 
 Move in their strength — the waves with foam are white, 
 O'er Seekonk's tide the waving branches play. 
 
 The woods roar o'er resounding plain and height ; 
 'Twixt sailing clouds, the sun's inconstant ray 
 
 But glances on the scene — then fades from sight ; 
 The frequent showers dash from the passing clouds ; 
 The hills are peeping through their wintry shrouds. 
 
 II. 
 Dissolving snows each downward channel fill, 
 
 Each swollen brook a foaming torrent brawls, 
 Old Seekonk murmurs, and, from every hill. 
 
 Answer aloud the coming waterfalls ; 
 Deep-voiced Pawtucket thunders louder still ; 
 
 To dark Mooshausick joyously he calls, 
 Who breaks his bondage, and, through forests brown, 
 Murmurs the hoarse response, and rolls his tribute down. 
 
 III. 
 From that far morn, dim in the distant past. 
 
 When first she woke the murmur of her song, 
 She has been free, and freely to the blast 
 
 Sung her lone ditty as she passed along ; 
 And gliding slow, or onward hurrying fast, 
 
 Has laved her banks, or dashed her current strong 
 From headlong steep. Sun, moon, and starry night 
 Came and beheld her wanton in her might. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But hark ! that sound, above the cataracts 
 
 And hollow winds, in this wild solitude. 
 Seems passing strange. — Who, with the laboring axe, 
 
 On Seekonk's eastern marge, invades the wood ? 
 
96 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Stroke follows stroke — some sturdy hind attacks 
 
 Yon ancient groves, wHcli from their birth have stood 
 Unmarred by steel — and, startled at the sound, 
 The wild deer snuffs the gales — then, with a bound, 
 
 V. 
 
 Vaults o'er the thickets, and, down yonder glen, 
 His antlers vanish — on yon shaggy height 
 
 Sits the lone wolf, half-peering from his den. 
 And howls, regardless of the morning light — 
 
 Unwonted sounds and a strange denizen 
 
 Vex his repose — then, cowering with affright. 
 
 He shrinks away — for, with a crackling sound, 
 
 Yon lofty hemlock bows, and thunders to the ground. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Who on the prostrate trunk has risen now, 
 And does with cleaving steel the blows renew ? 
 
 Broad is the beaver on his manly brow, 
 His mantle gray, his hosen azure blue ; 
 
 His feet are dripping with dissolving snow ; 
 His garments sated with the morning dew ; 
 
 His nerves seem strengthened with the labor past, 
 
 His visage hardened by the winter's blast. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Though changed by sufferings, 'tis our Founder yet ; 
 
 There does he hope, and labor, but in vain. 
 On free opinion's base to build a State, 
 
 Where reason aye shall spurn the tyrant's chain : 
 But, ah ! unhappy man ! the bigot's hate 
 
 Will still, I fear, thy lofty soul restrain — 
 Will rob thee even of an exile's home, 
 And leave thee still in savage wilds to roam. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Hard by yon little fountain, clear and sheen, 
 
 Whose swollen streamlet murmurs down the glade, 
 
 Where groves of hemlock and of cedars green 
 Stand 'gainst the northern storm a barricade, 
 
 Springs the first mansion of his rude demesne, 
 A slender wigwam by red Waban made : 
 
 Such is Sire Williams' shelter from the blast, 
 
 And there his rest, when daily toils are past. 
 
CANTO SIXTH. ^7 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yet seldom from the storm he shrinks away, 
 
 With his own hands he's laboring to rear 
 A mansion, where his wife and children may, 
 
 In happier days, partake the social cheer ; 
 Where no stern bigot may in wrath essay 
 
 To make the free-born spirit quail with fear 
 At threat of scourge, of banishement and death, 
 For the free thought — the soul's sustaining breath. 
 
 X. 
 
 Day after day does he his toil renew ; 
 
 The echoing woods still to the axe resound. 
 The falling cedars do the valley strew, 
 
 Or cumber with their trunks the littered ground ; 
 The solid beams and rafters does he hew, 
 
 Or labors hard to roll their masses round ; 
 Or squares their sides, or moulds their joints by rule. 
 To fit their fellows, and sustain the whole. 
 
 XI, 
 
 Long did this task Sire Williams' cares engage, 
 'Twas labor strange to hands like his, I ween, 
 
 That had far oftener turned the sacred page 
 
 Than hewed the trunk or delved the grassy green ; 
 
 But toils like these gave honors to the sage ; 
 The axe and spade in no one's hands are mean, 
 
 And least of all in thine, that toiled to clear 
 
 The mind's free march — Illustrious Pioneer ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Boast of your swordg. ye blood-stained conquerors — boast 
 The free-born millions ye have made your slaves • 
 
 Exult o'er fields where liberty was lost. 
 
 And patriots fell — ^where, lingering o'er their graves 
 
 A nation's memory, like a vengeful ghost, 
 Broods never slumbering, and forever raves 
 
 Of crimes unanswered — till the gathered wrath 
 
 Of ages bursts on your ensanguined path — 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And — where are ye ? Some remnant left behind, 
 Some sculptured marble, or decaying fane, 
 
 May shew where once ye triumphed, mad and blind 
 
 Shew but for genius ye had fought in vain ; 
 
 13 
 
98 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Then look to him whose quiet toils unbind 
 
 The bonds which bigots gave you to enchain 
 Man's angel spirit to some demon's will, 
 And at your guilty deeds, blush and be still. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The dawn beheld him as he issued forth — 
 Beneath his arm his well-edged hatchet borne ; 
 
 Maugre the fury of the stormy north, 
 His toils resumed anticipate the morn ; 
 
 The tempest pours, and in the whirlwind's wrath. 
 Full many a branch is from the forest torn ; 
 
 Yet still his axe resounds — the wearied sun 
 
 Goes down to rest and leaves him toiling on. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The beams now hewn, he frames the building square- 
 Each joint adjusting to its counter-part — 
 
 Tier above tier with labor does he bear — 
 Timber on timber closes every part — 
 
 Save where the door and lattice breathe the air ; 
 And now the rafters from the wallings start. 
 
 And matted o'er is every space between, 
 
 And closed against the storm with rushes green. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 •His cot now finished, he begins to rear 
 A paling rude around that verdant glade ; 
 
 His field and garden soon would flourish there. 
 And wild marauders might their fruits invade ; 
 
 His maize might yield a banquet to the bear. 
 And herds of deer might on his herbage tread ; 
 
 But little thought he that intruders worse 
 
 Than such invaders would his labors curse. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Now milder spring begins its April showers, 
 And up fair Seekonk woos the southern breeze ; 
 
 The birds are singing in their woodland bowers. 
 Green grows the glade and budding are the trees 
 
 The purple violet's, and wild strawberry's flowers, 
 Invite the wandering of the murmuring bees ; 
 
 And down the glade the twittering swallow slips. 
 
 And in the stream her nimble pinions dips. 
 
CANTO SIXTH. 99 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And now our Founder, with redoubled haste, 
 
 Delves with strong hand to plant the foodful maize ; 
 
 He turns the glebe, does nature's rankness waste. 
 The boscage burn, and noxious brambles raze ; 
 
 Then o'er the seed, on earth's brown bosom placed, 
 The fertile mould with cautious hand he lays ; 
 
 Nor this contents— yet for a space he toils 
 
 To dress that wild glade with a garden's smiles. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He in the forest carved the deep alcove. 
 
 And led the climbing vines from tree to tree ; 
 
 Still near the cottage rose the birchen grove. 
 Its tassels waving in the breezes free ; 
 
 And o'er the stream their boughs the cedars wove, 
 Where wound a walk adown the murmuring lea ; 
 
 Luxurious vines the little fount embowers, 
 
 And gay beneath them blooms a bank of flowers. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The axe ne'er touched the overhanging bough, 
 Where the blithe robin built her wonted nest ; 
 
 Still round the borders did the wild rose grow. 
 
 For there the brown thrush with her brood might rest ; 
 
 Nor would he banish from her dwelling low 
 
 The long-eared rabbit — but her young caressed ; 
 
 Fed from his hand they gambolled through the grove. 
 
 Caressed our Sire in turn, and practised human love. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And these long toils had faithful Waban's aid ; 
 
 His twanging bow announced the early dawn ; 
 Boldly he pushed into the deepest shade. 
 
 Or scanned the tracks upon the dewey lawn ; 
 His lusty arms oft grappled on the glade 
 
 The growling bear, or caught the bounding fawn. 
 Or his sure arrow, from the sounding bow. 
 Brought down the turkey from her lofty bough. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Sometimes would he the river's bed explore. 
 
 When with sure grasp the slippery eels he caught ; 
 
 Sometimes he delved along the sandy shore, 
 And to the lodge the shelly tribute brought ; 
 
100 WHATCHEER. ' 
 
 And ever shared he with his sagamore, 1 
 
 (For so to style our Founder was he taught,) 
 The fruits of all his toils — 'twas aye his care 
 To parch the maize, and spread the frugal fare. 
 
 XXIII- 
 
 Thus for a space the twain in quietude. 
 
 With hopes propitious, urged the task along ; 
 Not but Sire Williams oft would inly brood 
 
 On the seer's token of a cheering throng. 
 To mark the spot ordained for his abode. 
 
 Where never tyrant laws should conscience wrong ; 
 This yet was wanting. Haply 'twas a vain 
 And wayward fancy of a troubled brain. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But omens dark began to frown at last — 
 
 The grim Pawaw had seen his mansion rise — 
 
 Had from Mooshausick's heights full often cast 
 On their advancing toils his watchful eyes ; 
 
 Williams had hoped, (although the passing blast 
 Oft smote his ears charged with his warning cries,) 
 
 That M'antonomi's spear had quelled his pride — 
 
 That with his serpent had his courage died. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But vain these hopes, as vain his labors were — 
 
 For the dark priest had not forgot his hate ; 
 A grinding vengeance prompted him to dare 
 
 The sure destruction of the rising State ; 
 Or it perchance was salutary care 
 
 For Chepian's weal, that could not tolerate 
 A State where man, with conscience unconfined. 
 Reasoned-— then worshipped as his faith inclined. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Scarce had our Founder made his close secure. 
 Ere Seekonk's western marge was blazing bright, 
 
 And decked with horns and furs, and paints impure, 
 The savage prophet danced and howled all night 
 
 Around the flame, not failing to adjure 
 
 His Manittoo, that most abhorred the light. 
 
 To lend him aid, and, or by force or fraud, 
 
 Expel the intruder from his new abode. 
 
CANTO SIXTH. IgtJ 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 He had a comrade by the blaze was seen, 
 
 And Waban thought that Chepian's self was there ; 
 
 But then he said, that on Mooshausick's green, 
 The prophet had his slaves and dwelling fair ; 
 
 And when he uttered charms with ghastly mien. 
 And when his hideous yells trilled on the air. 
 
 The twain could note his ireful gestures well, 
 
 And kindling Waban could their import spell. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 War ! War ! he threatened. And, when morning came, 
 The flame was quenched ; but on the margin he, 
 
 All trim for strife, bent his gigantic frame 
 Over the Seekonk, and toward the lea, 
 
 Shook his ensanguined barb, and smote the stream, 
 And muttered curses numbering three times three ; 
 
 Then bent his bow, and sent, across the flood, 
 
 Darts armed with serpents' fangs, and red with blood* 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And brandishing his blade, he jeering said. 
 That vengeance gave it eyes and appetite. 
 
 It soon would eat, but eat in silence dread ; 
 That if the red men were all turning white. 
 
 He'd seek the white men that were turning red ; 
 The path was open, and his foot was light ; 
 
 The Shawmut* hunters would with greedy ear 
 
 Hear in what covert couched their stricken deer. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Then, with a hideous yell that rent the skies, 
 He sternly turned, and tow'rd Mooshausic flew. 
 
 Waban beheld the scene with kindling eyes. 
 And answered with a shout of valor true. 
 
 Williams might harm from threats like these surmise ; 
 But then he deemed the wily wizard knew 
 
 The weight of M'antonomi's angry spear. 
 
 And when he listed might be taught to fear. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Waban in sooth might many a peril know. 
 For him the Sachem would too coldly feel ; 
 
 * Shawmut — Indian name for Boston. 
 
102 WHATCHEER* 
 
 Yet if the wizard could a secret blow, 
 Near Maqua path in lonely forests, deal, 
 
 And fain some vestige of marauding foe. 
 To shift suspicion and his guilt conceal, 
 
 Williams ne'er doubted that the blood of both 
 
 Would flow alike to quench his boundless wrath. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 But scarce, from this portentous morn, a sun 
 
 Looked on that glade, but brought some fresh alarm ; 
 
 If Waban delved the winding shores upon. 
 
 Darts showered around him from some hidden arm ; 
 
 His snares were plundered ere the morning shown ; 
 
 Clubs smeared with blood and threatening deadly harm 
 
 Lay in his path, and voices strangely broke 
 
 From viewless forms on shrub, or tree, or rock. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Oft came from vacant air the bitter jeer. 
 In gibberish strange — oft times from under ground 
 
 The hellish mockery smote the hunter's ear ; 
 Then would he start — but if he glanced around 
 
 And Williams saw, he banished every fear ; 
 For well he knew his Sachem could confound 
 
 Such airy phantoms — he who lately slew. 
 
 In Potowomet's glade, that serpent manittoo. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then courage taking would he seek the brake. 
 Cull the straight haft, and arm it with the bone 
 
 Or tooth of beaver, and the plumage take 
 From Neyhom wild to guide it truly on 
 . Its destined course, or with nice caution make 
 Of sinewy deer the bowstring tough — or hone 
 
 His glittering scalping-knife, and grimly feel 
 
 How sharp its point, how keen its edge of steel. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 At length, disdainful longer of disguise. 
 Upon the opposing bank the wizard stood. 
 
 With meet compeer — both armed — their battle cries 
 And challenge bold fired martial Waban's blood ; 
 
 Scorning all counsel, to the marge he flies. 
 
 And showers his arrows o'er the severing flood ; 
 
CANTO SIXTH. 103 
 
 To taunts and jeers his bow alone replies. 
 And hostile darts begin to span the skies. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 From tree to tree the furious champions flew. 
 
 Driving or driven from the sheltering screen, 
 Each change, each movement, yielding to the view 
 
 Their swarthy members through the foliage green ; 
 Then would their bows the hostile showers renew, 
 
 And hideous yells fill every pause between ; 
 Now down the stream — now at the tumbling falls. 
 The petty battle raves, and wrath to vengeance calls. 
 
 xxxvii. 
 Hour after hour thus raged the doubtful fight, 
 
 Until the combatants their arrows spent ; 
 Then to the river's marge, in peaceful plight, 
 
 Bearing the pipe with fumes all redolent, 
 The fraudful wizard came, as to invite 
 
 Across the stream to cheer quite innocent 
 And friendly league, a neighbor and a friend ; 
 " Come, let the pipe," he said, " the battle end, 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Waban is brave, and Tatoban is brave ; 
 
 Hereafter may we live as neighbors kind, 
 So let thy arrows sleep — no more shall rave 
 
 This knife and hatchet — Tatoban was blind !" 
 " Go !" Waban cried, " thou and thy dastard slave ! 
 
 Go trap the Neyhom, or the foolish hind ; 
 But thinkest thou into thy open snare 
 To lure the cunning fox, and slay him there ?" 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Thus closed that day the strife — another came. 
 
 And all was peace — another sun, and still 
 Another sun, rose and still brought the same 
 
 Unbroken peace — no threatening sign of ill — 
 Quite undisturbed red Waban trapped his game 
 
 Or delved the shore — no foe appeared — until 
 Williams, beguiled, deemed he might safely bless 
 His weary hours with all earth's happiness. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Waban, his only counsellor and friend, 
 Warrior and subject in this lone domain, 
 
104 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Did now the summons of his chief attend, 
 And to each question gave the answer plain. 
 
 " Waban," said Williams, " do our battles end ? 
 Is the war over — ^have we peace again ? 
 
 No more the prophet on yon margin stands — 
 
 No more he wings his darts, or whirls his blazing brands." 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Waban replied, " Did ever noon-day light 
 
 On midnight darkness break ? — or tempest shed, 
 
 Just as it gathered, radiance mild and bright ? 
 Heard not my Sachem what the prophet said — 
 
 That if the red men were all turning white. 
 He'd seek such white men as were turning red? 
 
 Perchance he goes, and Waban has a fear 
 
 That to his cunning speech they'll lend a listening ear." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " Waban, fear not ; my pale-faced brethren are 
 
 All Christians, or at least would so be thought ; 
 And think'st thou Beelzebub, however fair 
 
 His speech may be, could move their feelings aught 
 Against their brother ? It is better far. 
 
 If the grim savage hath such vengeance sought, 
 Than lurking be among the bushes here. 
 To fill our days with care, our nights with fear. 
 
 xLin. 
 " But, Waban, I have now a task for thee — 
 
 Think not of him, be thy attention here ; 
 Whilst the snows covered earth, and ice the sea, 
 
 I left my consort and my children dear ; 
 'Twas stormy night — the hunter sheltered me, 
 
 And in his lodge he gave abundant cheer ; 
 Then to the rising sun he cheerly sped. 
 And saw 'mong faces pale the wanderer's shed. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " There too he saw his little children play, 
 
 And the white hand which gave the blanket red ; 
 
 But now far distant seems that gloomy day. 
 
 When from their presence thy white sachem fled ; 
 
 The lodge is built — the garden smiling gay — 
 Will the swift foot once more the forest thread, 
 
CANTO SIXTH. 10$ 
 
 And guide the children and the snow-white hand 
 Along the howling wilds to this far distant land ? " 
 
 XLV. 
 
 "Waban replied : " The nimble-foot will go — 
 But a gaunt wolf may l^aunt the hunter's way .; 
 
 And he will sharp his darts, and string his bow, 
 And gird his loins as for the battle fray ; 
 
 The Priest of Chepian ne'er forgets a foe — 
 His vengeance lasts until a bloody day 
 
 Shall feed the crows, or still a bloodier night 
 
 Give the gaunt wolf a banquet ere 'tis light." 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 " God is our trust ! " our pious Founder said, 
 " Arm, and go forth confiding in his might ; 
 
 Far as a banished exile's foot dare tread. 
 On ground forbidden, will thy sachem white 
 
 Journey to meet thee. When the sun has shed 
 Five times from orient skies his flaming light, 
 
 Williams will meet his spouse and children dear. 
 
 Hid in brown shades forbidden Salem near." 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Our Founder then the brief epistle traced ; 
 
 Entreating first that some kind Salem friend. 
 To aid his little Israel through the waste. 
 
 Would for a space two well-trained palfreys lend ; 
 Then to his spouse, with kind expression graced. 
 
 Did meet directions for her guidance send ; 
 Called her from Egypt — bade her cheerly dare 
 The desert pass, and find her Canaan there. 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 The next morn dawned, and Waban stood prepared — 
 His knife well sharpened and his bow well strung — 
 
 He waited only till his chief declared 
 
 His purpose full — then on his mantle flung — 
 
 Girded his loins — his brawny arms embared — 
 
 Then with a plunge through rattling thickets sprung — 
 
 And soon the thunderings of the partridge tell 
 
 Where bounds his distant foot from dell to dell. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Ne'er from himself had Father Williams hid. 
 That his own strength had on that journey tired ; 
 
 14 
 
106 WHATCHEER. 
 
 But his hard lot all tenderness forbid, 
 
 And hearts scarce feminine in all required ; 
 
 But whilst he mused new apprehensions chid 
 Each softer thought, and dire alarms inspired ; 
 
 Still Waban's words would on his mind intrude : 
 
 " That Prophet's wrath was quenched alone by blood." 
 
f 
 
 CANTO SEVENTH. 
 
 [Scenes. Seekonk's Mead— The Wilderness— Salem— The Wilderness— The Night 
 at the Cavern — The New Home.] 
 
 Much Williams dreaded tliat dark priest, I ween, 
 
 Albeit lie hid his fears from Waban's eyes ; 
 His threat'ning arrows and his savage mien 
 
 Would often now in midnight dreams arise ; 
 And, rising, bring of blood a woful scene — 
 
 His Mary pale — his children's wailing cries — 
 Then would he start, and marvel how a dream, 
 Delirium's thought, should so substantial seem. 
 
 II. 
 If in the lonely wilds, by evening dim. 
 
 That vengeful savage should the path waylay 
 Of all the riches earth contained for him. 
 
 Those jewels of the heart, what power could stay 
 His thirst for blood — his fury wild and grim 
 
 As is the tiger's bounding on his prey — 
 Oft came obtrusive this appalling thought — 
 He shook it off — still it returned unsought. 
 
 III. 
 Not long he brooks this torturing delay. 
 
 But soon tow'rd Salem through lone forest goes ; 
 Nor will the Muse now linger on his way. 
 
 And sing in horrid shades each night's repose, 
 Until she shuddering mingle with her lay. 
 
 And seem herself to bear her hero's woes ; 
 Let it suffice, that he in forests brown. 
 Upon the third day's dawn, saw that forbidden town. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He saw the cottage he must tread no more. 
 
 And sighed that man should be so stern tO man ; 
 
 Two harnessed palfreys stood beside the door, 
 x\nd, by the windows busy movement ran ; 
 
108 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Then did his eyes the village downs explore ; 
 
 The hardy throngs not yet their toils began — 
 All there was sleep, save where the watch-dog bayed, 
 Or lowed the grazing herds along the dewy glade. 
 
 V, 
 
 And many a field new traces of the plough, 
 And many a roof its recent structure showed, 
 
 And, in the harbor, many a sable prow. 
 On the dark billows, at her anchor rode ; 
 
 And, ah ! he saw (to him no temple now) 
 
 That roof where erst in solemn prayer he bowed, 
 
 And strove to lead his little flock to Heaven — 
 
 That flock now torn with strife, their shepherd from them riven. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Again his eyes turned to that dearer spot — 
 The palfreys laden with their burdens stood ; 
 
 Such furniture they bore as Mary thought 
 The tender exiles now to thread the wood 
 
 Could ill dispense withal — nor was forgot 
 
 Aught that might comfort most their far abode, 
 
 And homely garnitures of housedhold were 
 
 A cumbrous burden for a journey far. 
 
 VII. 
 
 At length red Waban took each palfrey's rein, 
 And slowly strode the burdened beasts before ; 
 
 Then saw he Mary, with her little train 
 Of blooming children, issue from the door ; 
 
 Some loving neighbors seemed them to detain 
 A space, of Heaven a blessing to implore. 
 
 Then broke the farewell hymn, a pensive strain, 
 
 From mingled voices, as they trod the plain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And it was pleasant, and was mournful too. 
 
 To see the matron leading by the hand. 
 From all their joys to toils and dangers new 
 
 In the drear wilderness, that infant band ; 
 Hand clasped in hand did they their way pursue, 
 
 All blithe and innocent, to that far land — 
 Full as unconscious of the ills that wait. 
 As that their labors were to found a State. 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. 109 
 
 IX. 
 
 But Father Williams' patriarchal eyes 
 
 Saw in that infant group a people's germ ; 
 The nursery of ages, whence should rise, 
 
 For thee, Soul-Liberty ! defenders firm ; 
 And felt that Grod, o'er their young destinies. 
 
 With smiles benign would stretch a sheltering arm ; 
 Yet when he thought what trials they must know, 
 The Father's bosom hove, and tears began to flow. 
 
 X. 
 
 Now Waban passed him where concealed he stood, 
 
 And slowly led the burdened beasts along, 
 And then his Mary glided 'neath the wood, 
 
 Still guiding by the hand the prattling throng ; 
 No more in secret he the angels viewed, 
 
 But in a rapture from the thicket sprung — 
 " 0, Father ! Father !" the loved infants cried, 
 And Mary clasped his hand, and glancing heavenward sighed. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Spare ! spare my numbers ! for to whom belongs 
 
 To sing of wo-attempered joy like this? 
 Or if to any, what but angel tongues 
 
 Could fitly speak a glance of Heaven's own bliss, 
 Shed on pure hearts still struggling with the wrongs 
 
 Of persecution — lighting the abyss 
 Of sufferings else uncheered' — 'twas like the ray 
 Which paints the bow upon the tempest spray. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Short is the transport — soon must they resume 
 The weary march, and from the dawning gray 
 
 Hour after hour, to pensive evening's gloom, 
 
 Through the lone forest urge their devious way; 
 
 O'er river, vale, and steep, through brake and broom. 
 And rough ravine, their tender feet did stray ; 
 
 The father's arms oft bore the lovely weight. 
 
 Or on the palfrey's back the weariest wanderer sate. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And thus they past o'er many a rapid flow, 
 
 Climb'd many a hill — through many a valley wound, 
 
 Whilst wary Waban moved before them slow. 
 And for their path the smoothest passage found ; 
 
110 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The river deep — the miry fen and low, 
 
 The floods had swollen to their utmost bound ; 
 Unbridged by frost, no passage now they show, 
 And by a devious route the anxious wanderers go- 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The sun from middle skies his course now bent, 
 And they a space paused on a rising ground ; 
 
 And, as they respite took, their glance they sent 
 O'er the vast sea of forest that embrowned 
 
 Hill, dale and plain ; the vaulted firmament — 
 
 And that brown waste clipped by the azure round. 
 
 And yon bright sun — yon eagle soaring high — 
 
 And yon fair wigwam's smoke, are all that cheer the eye, 
 
 XV. 
 
 At times the eagle's scream trills from on high — 
 At times the pecker taps the mouldering bough, 
 
 Or the far raven wakes her boding cry — 
 
 All else is hushed the boundless prospect through : 
 
 And, ah ! they feel in this immensity, 
 
 "Whilst thus they scan it from this lofty brow, 
 
 As feel in ocean's mid some ship-wrecked crew, 
 
 Wandering the shoreless vast borne in the frail canoe. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Here sate the little group our Founder nigh. 
 
 There stretched the waste they were to journey through, 
 
 Embosomed in its drear immensity, 
 
 The land of hope, far, far beyond their view, 
 
 That dusky man, whose quickly glancing eye 
 Might doubt and peril to their course foreshew, 
 
 Theit Only pilot through the dark profound — 
 
 Their only earthly aid when death and danger frowned. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And something was there, in that red man's mien, 
 
 Which through the morn had drawn our Founder's view ; 
 
 For he moved speechless, and was often seen 
 To bend his ear, or start at object new ; 
 
 And now he stood behind the thicket's screen, 
 And, o'er the vast, far-searching glances threw, 
 
 Then paused — nor started till a distant howl 
 
 Did, with long echoes, through the forest roll. 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. HI 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 It seemed a wolf's — but Waban's practised ear 
 Could well the language of the forest spell — 
 
 Again he paused — until from distance drear, 
 A faint response in dying cadence fell ; 
 
 Then came in haste — " Does not my sachem hear 
 The voice of vengeance in the breezes swell ? 
 
 Come ! Let us hasten to some friendly town, 
 
 For murder tracks us through the forest brown ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Comrade to comrade calls ! — The demon's priest 
 Is on our trail ! " — No more the red man spoke — 
 
 And this, in Narraganset's tongue addressed. 
 Nought to the matron told — save that the look 
 
 And earnest gesture might inspire her breast 
 With apprehensions vague — she soon mistook 
 
 These for the savage in his wonted mood, 
 
 And seemed confirmed as she our Founder viewed ; 
 
 XX. 
 
 Who, in like speech, thus to his faithful guide, 
 " Waban, be calm ! wake not in bosoms frail 
 
 A groundless fear — the tokens may have lied — 
 Some other wolf may be upon our trail." 
 
 " Waban was hunted," quickly he replied, 
 
 " Far tow'rd the white man's town through yonder vah 
 
 When there the priest oft in his pathway stept. 
 
 And watched the wigwam where the white hand slept." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Sire Williams shuddered thus to realize 
 
 What he had hoped was but his fancy's fear, 
 
 But quelled he yet each symptom of surprise, 
 And thus to Waban : " Brother, be your ear 
 
 Quick as the beaver's, and your searching eyes 
 Like to the eagle's, and, the foeman near, 
 
 Be your heart bolder than the panther's when 
 
 He slays the growling bear, and drags him to his den." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 They left the steep, and, o'er the woodland plain, 
 Passed with all speed the tender group could make ; 
 
 They ford the rivers, and their course maintain 
 
 Through ancient groves, where, bare of broom and brake, 
 
112 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The lurking foe might scant concealment gain ; 
 
 Waban still moved before, and nothing spake ; 
 His rapid glance scanned every thicket near, 
 And when he paused he bent the listening ear. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Hour after hour, thus did the hunter go, 
 
 His eyes still roving and his ears still spread ; 
 
 His was a spectre's glide — ^but toiling slow, 
 
 The lagging group pursued with faltering tread. 
 
 At last he paused beneath a birchen bough. 
 Where alders dense seemed a safe barricade. 
 
 Waiting the group's advance. — With anxious breast 
 
 Willams approached, and thus his guide address'd : 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Sees not my brother that the shadows grow 
 Fast tow'rd the east, and that the forest brown 
 
 Soon hides the sun ? — then whither does he go 
 To rest in safety till the morrow's dawn ?" 
 
 Waban replied, " O'er yon far distant brow, 
 Smokes in the vale Neponset's peopled town ; 
 
 Thy red friends there will thee in safety keep, 
 
 There may the white hand and the children sleep." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 As thus he spake, across their pathway sped 
 The startled partridge on the whirring wings ; 
 
 An arrow glanced — it grazed the hunter's head, 
 And the shrill forest with the bowstring rings ; 
 
 Flashed Waban's eyes, and all the warrior red 
 
 Flames through his blood, and every muscle strings ; 
 
 He stooped to mark where twanged that hostile bow, 
 
 Then sprang from tree to tree, to reach the assailing foe. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But ere he gained the destined point, or viewed 
 The fell assassin, the dry fagots' crash. 
 
 The waving coppice, and re-echoing wood. 
 
 And sounding foot-falls, down the lawns that dash, 
 
 Told him how vainly he his foe pursued. 
 Or that pursuit were dangerously rash ; 
 
 Then turning slowly he retraced his track, 
 
 As his foiled leap the lion measures back. 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. 113 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The matron trembled, at the scene dismayed, 
 
 For she had marked that hostile arrow's flight, 
 And Williams' glance, and Waban's mien betrayed 
 
 That pressing perils did their fears excite ; 
 No frantic shrieks the mother's acts degrade ; 
 
 A mother's cares did every thought invite ; 
 And o'er the little fountains of our blood, 
 She stretched her arms' frail shield, and trembling stood. 
 
 xxvm. 
 Though with more calmness, yet with equal dread, 
 
 The anxious father viewed the threatening harm ; 
 And, under God, what was there now to aid. 
 
 Save his own firmness and red Waban's arm ? 
 Behind — before — a dreary forest spread — 
 
 Far off Neponset — here the dire alarm 
 Of lurking savage — whilst the gathering night 
 Still added horror to a doubtful flight. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 He paused one moment, and his means forlorn 
 To guard his onward march, he thus arrayed : 
 
 The palfreys shielded by the burdens borne, 
 Each side the moving group, were slowly led ; 
 
 This reined by him, that by his eldest born, 
 
 Whilst nimble Waban scoured the threatening shade — 
 
 On every side the watchful hunter ran ; 
 
 Now fenced their flanks — now pioneered their van. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 As when the eagle, from her airy rest, 
 
 Watching her callow young with anxious eye, 
 
 Sees the dark thickets moved, by footsteps press'd, 
 Close in the precincts of her nursery high, 
 
 With outstretched pinions round her fostered nest, 
 She wildly wheels, then darts into the sky — 
 
 Then sweeps o'er thickets — gathering every sound, 
 
 She soars through fields of air, or sails along the ground ; 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 So Waban watched and ran — whilst moving slow, 
 
 The anxious father aids the group along ; 
 In dreadful silence sleeps the forest now — 
 
 Hushed is the prattling of each infant's tongue — 
 
 15 
 
114 WHATCHEER. 
 
 No sound is there, save that of footsteps low, 
 
 Or of the breeze that sighs the leaves among, 
 Or palfrey's tramp — ^whose hoofs, with iron shod, 
 Now clink on rocks, now deaden on the sod. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The sun at last sunk in the western shade. 
 And the thick forest cast a darker frown, 
 
 And now they paused, amid an open glade, 
 
 More than a bow-shot from the thickets brown ; 
 
 Then Father Williams to the hunter said, 
 " Where ! where ! Waban, is Neponset's town ? " 
 
 And Waban answered, " Full one half a sleep 
 
 This lagging march requires to bring us to its steep." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Then here we rest, to take whate'er may come," 
 Our Founder said, " and do you all prepare 
 
 To tread those realms which lie beyond the tomb ; 
 There are no foes or persecutors there, 
 
 To drive the guiltless forth, and bid them roam 
 In savage wilds — yet do not quite despair ; 
 
 When comes the foe — and come he doubtless will — 
 
 Brother ! we must be firm — if needful, we must kill ! " 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Waban is firm," the hunter said, and smote 
 His naked breast, and raised his stature high — 
 
 " Yet hear the red man still — not far remote 
 Is Waban's rock, where he is wont to lie 
 
 When the far-striding moose has tired his foot, 
 
 And night comes down, and tempests rule the sky — 
 
 There may we rest ; the foe's approach is hard 
 
 But by one pass, and that will Waban guard." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 This place they sought, through a deep rocky dell. 
 Where scarce the palfreys found a footing sure — 
 
 Where deeper darkness from the forest fell. 
 And thicker boscage did the pass immure — 
 
 At last, before them, like a citadel, 
 
 Rose a tall rock : its frowning frontals lower 
 
 O'er a green lawn, whose sides, with brambles dense, 
 
 Stretched to the rock's steep base inpenatrable fence. 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. 115 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Here," said the red man, (as he raised a mass 
 Of vines that clustered down the rock's descent,) 
 
 " Here's Waban's cavern — here is ample space 
 For thee and thine — in this rude tenement, 
 
 Ten hunters oft have found their biding place ; 
 Nor by its limits were too closely pent ; 
 
 Waban will now far down the opening raise. 
 
 In yon dry fagot's heap, the mounting blaze." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " Stay ! stay ! " said Williams, " wouldst thou lure the foe ? 
 
 Wouldst wake the flame to tell him where we sleep ? " 
 The hunter smiled : " My Sachem does not know 
 
 How true the foe will to our footsteps keep ; 
 He hears, perchance e'en now, our accents low. 
 
 Or marks us from some tree on yonder steep ; 
 Waban will wake the fire — 'twill serve to show 
 His posture, numbers, and will aid our blow." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Williams assented — and whilst Waban fired 
 
 The arid fagots, he the burdens took 
 From off the palfreys, that o'erwrought and tired, 
 
 Now stretched their toil-worn members forth and shook 
 Their liberated frames — the ample breath respired, 
 
 And quiet grazed the lawn. Then to the rock 
 The father hastened with a blazing brand — 
 His spouse and children linking hand in hand, 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Pursued his steps. It was a cavern rude, 
 
 Its floor a level rock — its vaulted roof 
 Of granite masses formed — ^whose arches stood 
 
 More firmly for the weight they propped aloof — 
 And here and there upon the floor were strewed 
 
 Extinguished brands — these and like signs gave proof 
 Men there had dwelt — then, through the screening vines 
 Sire Williams glances out and marks where shines, 
 
 XL. 
 
 Full upon Waban's face, the mounting blaze — 
 Though half a bow-shot from the cavern, he 
 
 Stands at the fire, yet its bright gleam displays 
 His hue and shape, and then could Williams see 
 
IIG WHATCHEER. 
 
 How well the hunter judged thus far to raise 
 
 The burning pyre — no passage could there be 
 For hostile foot, save by that glittering flame, 
 Which well would light the arrow's certain aim. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Such furniture, as for their strongest need 
 The wretched exiles had themselves supplied, 
 
 Was now brought to the cave, with bread to feed 
 The little children clustering at the side 
 
 Of their fond parents. — Then did thanks succeed 
 To God who deigned such comforts to provide, 
 
 And earnest prayers that His protecting might 
 
 Would shield them through the dangers of the night. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 With trembling haste a slight repast they took, 
 Then to their several places they repaired ; 
 
 The mother sate deep in the rocky nook 
 
 Beside her children, and their pallet shared ; 
 
 Red Waban sate upon a jutting rock, 
 
 Hard by the cavern's mouth, the pass to guard ; 
 
 Whilst at its entrance, Williams listening stood, 
 
 Screened by the vines, and every passage viewed. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Deep night came down o'er forest, vale and hill — 
 The dismal hootings of the darkling owl. 
 
 The melancholy notes of Whip-poor-will, 
 
 And the far distant lone wolf's long-drawn howl, 
 
 Answered at times by panther screaming shrill. 
 Such hideous echoes through the forest roll. 
 
 That Mary shudders, and, from transient sleep. 
 
 The infants starting up, for terror weep. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 But Williams listened with accustomed ear. 
 The dread of man alone disturbed his breast, 
 
 Plour after hour, unmarked by danger near, 
 He watched the passage for the savage priest : 
 
 With eyes toward the flame still does he hear 
 Whatever steps the rustling leaves molest ; 
 
 And oft he thought o'er thickets brown he saw 
 
 Wave the black fox-tail of the grim Pawaw. 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. 117 
 
 XLV. 
 
 At last within the hollow forest rose 
 
 Sounds that seemed quite unmeaning to his ear, 
 
 'Twas as if human hands were breaking boughs 
 All green with verdure of the new-born year ; 
 
 Crash follows crash. — " Are these approaching foes ? 
 Do one or more their march thus pioneer ? " 
 
 Nought answered Waban, but he seemed to shrink 
 
 More closely 'mong the vines that clad the rock's dark brink. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 A moment passed, when bounding o'er the hedge, 
 A monster trotted tow'rd the mounting flame ; 
 
 Then turned and bayed — 'twere doubtful to allege 
 Dog, fox, or wolf, his aspect best became ; 
 
 Still did he howl, with still increasing rage ; 
 And Waban rose, and gave his arrow aim. 
 
 But ere its flight, a whistled signal rang — > 
 
 The hybrid turned, and to the forest sprang. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 " The fell Pawaw ! his dog ! " red Waban cried. 
 
 In tone suppressed, and hid himself again ; 
 And Williams feared he had too much relied 
 
 Upon the courage of that dusky man ; 
 He took the hatchet from the hunter's side, 
 
 And dropp'd the feebler bludgeon from his span ; 
 " Thy sachem," said he, " will himself essay 
 To aid his warrior in the approaching fray." 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 " 'Tis good !" said Waban, " so red sachems do — 
 
 But there ! behold ! behold ! They come ! They come !" 
 
 And Williams glanced, and, peering thickets through. 
 Half in the light — ^half in the changeful gloom— 
 
 The forest boughs seemed moving out to view. 
 
 Branch heaped on branch, a weight most cumbersome 
 
 For human feet, yet human feet, he knew, 
 
 That burden bore, and with it dangers new. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Straight to the blaze they moved, and, dashing down 
 The branches green upon the mounting flame. 
 
 Put out the light, and smoke and shadow brown, 
 In one dense rolling night, the glade o'ercame ; 
 
118 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The mother shrieked — the father, with a groan, 
 
 Heard the wild cry, and stayed her sinking frame ; 
 And both now felt that with that glancing ray 
 The last faint trembling hope had died away. 
 
 L. 
 
 A fearful growl, close to the cavern's vent. 
 First broke the thrall of horror and surprise ; 
 
 And, by the gleam the mouldering embers sent, 
 That canine hybrid, shooting from his eyes 
 
 A baleful glance, crouched, seemingly intent 
 On the scared infants as his famine's prize ; 
 
 The father drove the hatchet to his brains. 
 
 One horrid yell he gave, and writhed in dying pains. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Seeking the cavern's mouth along the rock. 
 
 Some groping hand the vine's thick foliage stirred — 
 
 " Where art thou "Waban !" and the war-whoop broke — 
 Palsied with fear the trembling mother heard — 
 
 " Where art thou, Waban !" and, with horrid look, 
 A giant savage through the foliage stared ; 
 
 But, at that moment, from his rocky mound, 
 
 Red Waban's bow twanged with its sharpest sound. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Back reeled the savage with a dismal howl, 
 And on the earth like stricken bullock fell ; 
 
 But still new terrors filled the father's soul ; 
 He heard another and more fearful yell ; 
 
 Across the glade a new assailant stole ; 
 
 The blaze reviving showed his movements well ; 
 
 And Williams sprang his warrior to sustain, 
 
 Just as he strained the yielding bow again. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 But as he drew the arrow to the head. 
 
 The cord snapp'd short — he dashed the weapon down, 
 And leaping from the rock upon the glade. 
 
 With glittering scalping-knife and haughty frown, 
 Before the assailant stood — who paused — surveyed — 
 
 Measuring the hunter's height from heel to crown — 
 Then, swift as thought, the vengeful hatchet sent — 
 At Waban's head the well-aimed weapon went. 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. 119 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But well the wary hunter knew his foe ; 
 
 He'd scanned his purpose in his glancing eye — 
 He marked the coming steel, and, bending low, 
 
 The whirling hatchet cleft the air on high ; 
 The clift behind rings with the shivering blow, 
 
 And o'er the glade its scattered atoms fly. 
 Then with wild yells they wave the scalping-knife. 
 Together rush, and thrust and strike for life. 
 
 LV. 
 
 ! 'twas a fearful scene — a moment dire ; 
 
 For on the issue of that contest lay 
 The lives of infants, mother, and of sJfe, 
 
 And the fair fame, which crowns a distant day ; 
 Soon closed the champions by the glimmering fire, 
 
 Limbs locked in limbs in terrible aff'ray — 
 They writhe — they wrench — they stagger to and fro — 
 Hands grasping hands that aim the fatal blow. 
 
 LVI, 
 
 Now struggling by the flames they pass'd from sight ; 
 
 For Williams lingered yet to guard the cave, 
 And there, enveloped in a deeper night. 
 
 Still with more fury did the contest rave — 
 The blow — the wrench — the pantings of the fight — 
 
 The crash of fagots and of thickets, gave 
 A dreadful signal of each efl'ort made. 
 Where life for life strove in that shuddering shade. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Now darting high above the deeper glooms. 
 
 Hands clinched in hands, their naked arms they strain ; 
 Now toss'd o'er thickets brown, heads, crests, and plumes 
 
 Confusedly shake — stoop — rise — and stoop again — 
 At every efl'ort each fierce champion dooms 
 
 His foeman's blood to redden all the plain ; 
 And as they storm and tempest o'er the glade. 
 Earth thunders under their resounding tread. 
 
 Lvm. 
 Beside the father sunk the mother pale, 
 
 Infantile sympathy her fears partook ; 
 At times the children raised the fearful wail — 
 
 At times all breathless with grim terror shook — 
 
120 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Now Williams glanced along tlie kindling vale ; 
 
 No signs of other foe his fears awoke ; 
 Then, with a word that quick return presaged, 
 He rushed tow'rd where the doubtful contest raged. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 As he advanced, the tumult seemed to swell, 
 
 And rapidly approach its awful close ; 
 On every side the crashing thickets fell. 
 
 As here and there still strove the panting foes ; 
 From flaming breasts oft burst the maddening yell, 
 
 And thick and fast resounded blows on blows ; 
 Still undistinguished struggle they in night — 
 Earth shakes — the thickets rend, and wilder storms the fight. 
 
 LX. 
 
 He pass'd the flame and paused — for on his ear 
 There came, with louder crash, a heavy sound — 
 
 He listens still — and silence — sudden, drear — 
 
 Reigns o'er the glade, and through the gloom's profound. 
 
 Who is the victim 1 and ill-boding fear 
 
 Tells him that Waban gasps upon the ground ; 
 
 One bubbling groan, as if the life-blood gushed — 
 
 A shuddering struggle then — and all was hushed. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 In dire suspense the anxious father stood, 
 
 Yet did he still unmanly terrors quell ; 
 His hand, yet guiltless of a mortal's blood, 
 
 Now grasped the axe to meet the victor fell ; 
 When, 'neath the arches of the dreary wood. 
 
 Trilled the far-trembling, death-announcing yell. 
 So like a demon's, issuing from his pit — 
 Who but that savage could the sound emit ? 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Then slowly issuing from the gloomy wood — 
 Doubtful and darkling for the ghostly shade — 
 
 A form approached, and as it onward trod. 
 It came distinct along the open glade ; 
 
 'Twas Waban !— Waban bathed in hostile blood— 
 And by the lock he held a trunkless head. 
 
 He stooped beside the mounting blaze to shew. 
 
 Still more distinct, the trophy to his view. 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. 121 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 With lips still quivering, and with eyes unglazed. 
 The reeking fragment seemed as living still ; 
 
 Fierce on the horrid thing the victor gazed ; 
 The battle's wrath still did his bosom fill ; 
 
 His eyes looked fire — another yell he raised — 
 Re-bellowing forests shrieked from hill to hill — 
 
 Then, by the long dark lock swung from the ground, 
 
 He whirled on high the ghastly ball around. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Around — around — still gathering force it went — 
 Still on his sinews strained the whirling head, 
 
 Till cleaving from the scull the scalp was rent, 
 And through the air the ponderous body sped ; 
 
 Deep in the hollow woods its force was spent — 
 
 Thrice bounding from the ground — then falling dead ; 
 
 He turned and spoke : " No more the babes shall weep ! 
 
 The grim Pawaw now sleeps ! and Waban now can sleep." 
 
 LXV. 
 
 They passed the turf, as they the cavern sought. 
 
 Where fell the body of the earliest slain. 
 And Waban said, as paused he o'er the spot, 
 
 " The black Priest's comrade never wakes again;" 
 Then did he seize the body by the foot. 
 
 And dragged the bleeding corpse along the plain, 
 And o'er the rocky steep the burden dashed ; 
 It dropped in night — re-echoing thickets crashed. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Then the rude victor washed the stains away, 
 
 Cast him on earth, and soon deep slumber shewed 
 
 How lightly in his rugged bosom lay 
 
 The horrid memory of that scene of blood ; 
 
 But Williams watched until the dawning gray. 
 And Mary's fitful sleep the scenes renewed, 
 
 Whilst the young dreamers, in her circling arms. 
 
 Oft shrieked and sobbed in slumber's vain alarms. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 The morning dawns, and they their march resume. 
 
 No perils now annoy their toilsome way ; 
 The night came down, and with its sober gloom 
 
 Brought quiet sleep until the morning's r9.y ; 
 
 16 
 
12S WHATCHEER. 
 
 Again they rose, and gained their joyous home 
 
 On Seekonk's marge, just at the close of day ; 
 And Him they blessed, who had in safety led 
 Them through dire perils, to their humble shed. 
 
 j^ 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 
 
 [Scene. The New Home iri Seekonk's Mead.] 
 
 Through Seekonk's groves the morning sun once more 
 Flames in his glory. Waving verdant gold, 
 
 The boundless forest stands. Wild songsters pour, 
 From every dewy glade and tufted wold, 
 
 The melody of joy. From shore to shore 
 
 The tranquil waters dream, and soul-like hold 
 
 An imaged world within, of softest hue. 
 
 And its far downward bending vault of blue. 
 
 II; 
 
 And Williams issued from his humble cot— 
 
 Not as of late in solitary mood, 
 With cheerless heart and ill-foreboding thought — 
 
 But with light step, and breast of quietude, 
 Attended by the partner of his lot. 
 
 And their young hopes ; who with blithe interlude 
 Of prattling speech, softened the graver talk 
 Of their fond parents in the morning's walk. 
 
 ni. 
 In sooth, the buoyance of his spirits spread 
 
 O'er all his labors their own cheerful flush ; 
 Ne'er was the grass so verdant on the glade. 
 
 Ne'er did the fountains sparkle with such gush ; 
 Ne'er had the stream such lovely music made, 
 
 Ne'er sung so blithe the robin on the bush ; 
 The woodland flowers far brighter hues displayed. 
 More sunny smiled the lawn, and deeper frowned the shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They walked and talked — ^he told his trials o'er ; 
 
 And oft his Mary brushed aside the tear. 
 And oft they joined to thank kind Heaven once more, 
 
 That thus his suff'erings were rewarded here ; 
 
124 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Then would they sit beneath the fountain's Ibower, 
 
 And woo the breeze, or smiling bend the ear 
 To infant mirth, which, in its silver tone, 
 Soothed those rude wilds with music erst unknown. 
 
 V. 
 
 All, all was happy — ^was security 
 
 In blest seclusion. — The rude storm seemed past ; 
 The bow of promise arched life's future sky, 
 
 No threatening cloud their journey overcast ; 
 Bliss was around them — Heaven, with gracious eye, 
 
 Looked down with smiles, and blest their toils at last. 
 Their Salem friends will soon a journey try — 
 They are not here is all that wakes a sigh. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus for a space did they anticipate 
 
 The bliss which Heaven for pilgrims has in store, 
 
 When their freed souls shall view their former state. 
 And their past pains enhance their joys the more ; 
 
 But yet one fear of darkly frowning fate. 
 
 Our Founder's bosom slightly brooded o'er — 
 
 No Indian throng, as spake that wondrous seer. 
 
 Them yet had welcomed with Whatcheer ! Whatcheer ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But this were idle — 'twas perchance a dream ; 
 
 His thoughts seemed wandering, or disturbed at best, 
 When stood, or seemed to stand, in doubtful gleam, 
 
 That form scarce earthly, and his ears addressed ; 
 So let it pass — for it would ill beseem 
 
 One staid and grave to be at all unblest, 
 Whilst Heaven is showering mercies on his head, 
 For visionary fears and superstitious dread. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Waban," he said, " a generous feast prepare. 
 We can be cheerful without being mad ; 
 
 The good man's smiles may be a godly prayer ; 
 The wicked only should be very sad. 
 
 Mary, Grod feeds the tenants of the air — 
 
 Mark how they thank Him with their voices glad — 
 
 The heart of man should nearer kindred own, 
 
 Joy in his smiles, and sorrow in his frown." 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 125 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then forth fared Waban to the winding shore, 
 
 And laid the tribute of its bosom bare ; 
 Nor failed he next the dingles to explore, 
 
 And trap the partridge or the nimble hare ; 
 Soon 'neath a beech, hard by the cottage door, 
 
 On marshalled stones the fagots blazing are ; 
 And when with hissing heat the furnace glows, 
 Waban the tribute gives, and shuts the vapors close. 
 
 X. 
 
 The whilst our Founder passed from place to place, 
 And did each plan of village grandeur name ; 
 
 This rising mound the future church should grace. 
 Yon little dell the village school should claim ; 
 
 That sloping lawn the council hall should base. 
 Where freemen's voices should the law proclaim. 
 
 And ne'er to bigot yield the civil rod. 
 
 But save the Church by leaving her to God. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thus passed their hours— at last, from middle skies, 
 
 The sun began his course of glory down ; 
 From Waban's ready feast the vapors rise ; 
 
 The group is seated 'neath the beech's frown ; 
 " Thou kind and generous man," our Founder cries, 
 
 " Our brave defender ! thy complexion brown 
 Bars not thy presence — sit thou at the board, 
 Grod made thy kind of these bright lands the lord. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " My valiant warrior like a Keenomp fought, 
 
 And Chepian's priest before his valor fell ! 
 But his white Sachem in the battle wrought 
 
 Too little for a chief he loves so well." 
 " The dog — the dog ! that had the children caught," 
 
 Exclaimed the red man, " does his valor tell — 
 A manit-dog was he — for well he knew 
 Whate'er the priest of Chepian bade him do. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " The priest of Chepian and his comrade came 
 To fight the white man and his warrior brave ; 
 
 The fox-eared demon sought for other game, 
 And went to filch it from the rocky cave ; 
 
126 WHATCHEER. 
 
 My Sachem white a manittoo o'ercame, 
 
 To demon dark a fatal wound he gave ; 
 Brave is my Sachem ! for he nobly slew 
 What Waban dreaded most — that fearful manittoo ! " 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Brother," said Williams, " under Power Divine, 
 That shields the just man in dark peril's hour, 
 
 Thine was the victory — and the glory thine. 
 To quell ApoUyon's priest — a demon's power ! 
 
 Henceforth the demon must his lands resign. 
 And thou must be Mooshausick's Sagamore, 
 
 The right of conquest will do very well, 
 
 When Hell assails us, and we conquer Hell. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " But might the choice of either blameless go, 
 Mary ! these fruits of sufferings and of toils, 
 
 And racking cares through fourteen weeks of wo, 
 I'd prize far higher than the reeking spoils 
 
 Of all the nations laid by Caesar low. 
 
 When he victorious o'er Eome's civil broils. 
 
 Sate, like the Jove he worshipped, o'er a world 
 
 Whose crowns were offered, and whose incense curled. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " And there is cause, I trow. — Who cannot see 
 
 That a dark cloud o'er our New England lowers? 
 The tender conscience struggles to be free — 
 
 The tyrant struggles, and retains his powers. 
 0, whither shall the hapless victims flee — 
 
 Where be their shelter when the tempest roars? 
 May it be here — may it be Heaven's decree. 
 
 To make its builder of a worm like me." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Whilst thus he spake, the neighboring thickets shook^ 
 And issued from them one of mien austere ; 
 
 And Williams knew a Plymouth elder's look, 
 In doctrines stern — in practice most severe ; 
 
 His gait was slow, his brows could scantly brook 
 Such signs of comfort and of earthly cheer ; 
 
 And up he came, scarce could they reason why. 
 
 Like a dark cloud along a cheerful sky. 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 127 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The glooms that gathered o'er our Father's breast, 
 
 With heavy efforts strove he to dispel ; 
 " Elder !" he said, " thou art an honored guest ; 
 
 To see our ancient friends should please us well ; 
 Thy journey long must give the banquet zest ; 
 
 Come, take thou freely of our sylvan meal, 
 And speak the whilst what tidings thou may'st bear 
 From Plymouth's rulers and our brethren there." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Williams," he said, " I need no food of thine — 
 I ne'er thread wilds without a store my own ; 
 
 But 'neath that roof, there, I would fain recline, 
 And rest my limbs until the morning shown ; 
 
 And through the eve some reasoning, I opine, 
 (For all may err,) a weighty theme upon. 
 
 May not be deemed amiss. — Perchance some light 
 
 May on thy darkness break, and set thy footsteps right." 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Elder, whatever themes " (our Founder said) 
 
 " My scant attainments fit me to essay. 
 Shall not avoided be from any dread 
 
 That thy strict logic may my faults betray ; 
 That all may err, means that our friends have strayed, 
 
 Not that ourselves have wandered from the way ; 
 It is a maxim to perversion grown. 
 And points to others' faults to hide our own. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " But even as my Plymouth friend requests. 
 
 We'll seek that cottage — I have called it mine — 
 
 These hands have built it — but all friendly guests 
 May call it theirs, and. Elder, it is thine 
 
 Whilst thou sojournest here. Whoever rests 
 Beneath its roof, may not expect a fine, 
 
 A dungeon, scourge, or even banishment. 
 
 For heresy avowed, or doubted sentiment." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 They sought the cottage — its apartments rude, 
 
 But still a shelter from the cold and heat, 
 A cheerful fire and fur-clad settles shewed. 
 
 And other comforts, simple, plain, and neat. 
 
128 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The Elder paused, and all the mansion viewed. 
 
 Then, with a long-drawn sigh, he took his seat, 
 And briefly added — " Thou hast labored, friend, 
 Hard — very hard ! I hope for worthy end." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He paused again, then solemnly began 
 
 A sad relation of the Church's state ; 
 O'er many a schism and false doctrine ran. 
 
 That had obtruded on their peace of late ; 
 But most alarming was our Founder's plan. 
 
 To leave things sacred to the free debate ; 
 To make faith bow to erring reason's shrine. 
 And mortal man a judge of creeds divine. 
 
 xxrv. 
 " This simple truth no Christian man denies," 
 
 He thus continued, " that the natural mind 
 Is prone to evil as the sparks to rise. 
 
 And to all good is obstinately blind ; 
 Who then sees not, that looks with wisdom's eyes. 
 
 That Grod's elect should rule the human kind ? 
 The good should govern, and the bad submit. 
 That saints alone are for dominion fit ?" 
 
 Our Founder answered, " Art thou from the pit ? 
 
 Get thee behind me, if such thoughts be thine ; 
 Did Christ his gospel to the world commit. 
 
 That his meek followers might in purple shine ? 
 He spurned the foul temptation, it is writ, 
 
 And the Great Tempter felt his power divine ; 
 Art thou far wiser than thy Master grown. 
 And spurn'st a heavenly for an earthly crown ?" 
 
 xxvi. 
 " Nay — nay, friend Williams !" the grave elder cried, 
 
 " It is that crown of glory to secure 
 That the True Church should for her saints provide 
 
 The shield of law 'gainst heresy impure ; 
 Quell every schism — crush the towering pride 
 
 Of the dark Tempter, ere his reign is sure ; 
 For finds he many who are servants meet 
 To sow the noxious tares among the wheat. 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 129 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 " Men ever busy — searching for the new — 
 Scanning our creed as if it doubtful were — 
 
 Such would we chain down to our doctrines true, 
 And the vain labor of conversion spare ; 
 
 God may in time create their souls anew, 
 And of his grace give a redeeming share ; 
 
 The whilst our Church their wanderings may restrain, 
 
 And to her creed their erring minds enchain." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " A mortal thou !" our Founder here replied, 
 
 " Yet judge of conscience — searcher of the heart ! 
 
 Thou art the elect ! — but if that be denied. 
 How wilt thou prove it, or its proofs impart ? 
 
 God gave to man that bright angelic guide, 
 A reasoning soul, his being's better part — 
 
 He gave her freedom ; but thou wouldst confine. 
 
 And cramp her action to that creed of thine. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Who binds the soul extends the reign of hell ; 
 
 She's formed to err, but, erring, truth to find ; 
 Pity her wanderings, but, never quell 
 
 The bold aspirings of this angel blind ! 
 God is her strength within, and bids her spell, 
 
 By outward promptings, the eternal Mind : 
 Long may she wander, still in quest of light, 
 But day will dawn at last upon a polar night." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " A dangerous tenet that !" the Elder said ; 
 
 '• A fallen angel doubtless she may be ; 
 If truth she find by natural reason's aid, 
 
 It ever leads her to some heresy ; 
 Indeed, the truth too often is betrayed 
 
 To minds ill-fitted for inquiry free ; 
 From bad to worse, from worse to worst we go, 
 And end our being in eternal wo. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Nature's own truths do oft the mind mislead ; 
 
 From partial glimpses men will judge the whole ; 
 And it were better if our Church's creed 
 
 Were learning's object and its utmost goal : 
 
 17 
 
130 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Reason would then no higher purpose need, 
 
 Than, by it, point the yet erratic soul 
 To her high hope and everlasting rest !" 
 Williams this heard, and spake with kindling breast — - 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Grod gave man reason, that his soul might be 
 
 Free as his glance that spans the universe ; 
 All things around him prompt inquiry free, 
 
 All do his reason to research coerce ; 
 The Heavens — the Earth — the many breeding sea — 
 
 All have their shapes and qualities to nurse 
 The soul's aspirings, and, from blooming youth. 
 To ripe old age, provoke the quest of truth. 
 
 xxxm. 
 " Truth ! I would know thee were thou e'er so bad — 
 
 Bad as thy persecutors deem or fear — 
 Were thou in more than Grorgon terrors clad — 
 
 Thy glance a death to every feeling dear — 
 Taught thou that God a demon's passions had — 
 
 That Earth was Hell, and that the damn'd dwelt here, 
 And death the end of all — still would I know 
 The total Curse — the sum of being's wo. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 " Yet fear not this, for each new truth reveals 
 
 Of Grod a nearer and a brighter view ; 
 Anticipation lags behind, and feels 
 
 How mean her thought at each discovery new ; 
 Her stars were stones fired in revolving wheels — 
 
 Truth ! thine are worlds self-moved the boundless through ; 
 Who checks man's Keason in her heavenward flight. 
 Would shroud, God ! thy glorious works in night ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Whence didst thou learn that the Almighty's plan 
 Required thy wisdom to protect and save — 
 
 That when he sent his Gospel down to man. 
 Thou to defend it must the soul enslave — 
 
 Enthrone deceit, and place beneath its ban 
 
 The honest heart, that dares its sentence brave ? 
 
 Full well I trow the Prince of Darkness fits 
 
 The blood of martyrs shed by hypocrites. 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 131 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Hearken for once ; just as the conscience pure 
 Is here God's presence to my wayward will — 
 
 Not to constrain, but kindly it to lure 
 On duty's path, away from every ill ; 
 
 So to the State the Christian Church, secure 
 From human thrall, should be a conscience, still 
 
 Ne'er to constrain, save by that heavenly light 
 
 Which layeth bare the Wrong, and maketh plain the Right." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " No more, friend Williams," said the Elder here, 
 " No more will we on this grave theme delay ; 
 
 My hopes were high, and 'twas an object dear 
 To shed some light on thy benighted way ; 
 
 But still wilt thou with sinful purpose steer. 
 Thy little bark against the tempest's sway ; 
 
 On may'st thou go — I cannot say Grod speed ! 
 
 But would thy object were some better deed. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Couldst thou renounce thy purpose here to base 
 
 A State where heretics may refuge find, 
 I do not doubt that to some little grace 
 
 The Plymouth rulers would be well inclined ; 
 But as it is, perhaps some other place. 
 
 Still more remote, may better suit thy mind — 
 But till the morn as may a guest befit. 
 My message hither do I pretermit." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Our Founder pondered on the Elder's word ; 
 
 What could this dark portentous message be. 
 That its strange birth were to the morn deferred. 
 
 Lest it should mar night's hospitality. 
 The wrath of Plymouth he had not incurred. 
 
 He with her Winslow was in amity ; 
 Then what strange message had the Elder borne, 
 That utterance sought, and yet was hushed till morn ! 
 
 XL. 
 
 This cause, mysterious, darkling, undefined, 
 Did by degrees each cheerful thought efface, 
 
 And poured portentious glooms along his mind. 
 That seemed reflected by each friendly face ; 
 
132 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The matron siglied, and childhood, disinclined 
 
 To mirth or sport, sought slumber's soft embrace, 
 And soon the gathered night did all dispose, 
 To shun their boding thoughts in dull repose. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Again 'tis morn — the inmates of the cot 
 
 Rise from scant slumber, and their guest they greet ; 
 " Williams," he said, " it is my thankless lot, 
 
 Thee with no pleasant message now to greet ; 
 Nor hath our Winslow in his charge forgot 
 
 (For his behest I bear and words repeat) 
 His former friendship — but right loth is he 
 
 To vex his neighbors by obliging thee. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " In short, thou art on Plymouth's own domain ; 
 
 Beyond the Seekonk is the forest free— 
 This must thou leave — but there may'st thou maintain 
 
 Thy State unharmed, and still our neighbor be ; 
 Fain had I spared thee this deep searching pain, 
 
 By shewing thee thy dangerous heresy ; 
 This may not be — hence, therefore, must thou speed — 
 The Narragansets may protect thy creed." 
 
 XIJII. 
 
 *Io breathless statues turned the listeners stood — 
 As marble silent and as cold and pale — 
 
 With vacant gaze our Sire the Elder viewed, 
 O'erwhelmed, confounded by this sudden bale — 
 
 As when some swain, deep in the sheltering wood, 
 Ere he has seen the tempest on the gale, 
 
 Marks the bright flash — the smitten senses reel — 
 
 He stands confounded ere he learns to feel. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 At length reviving from the stunning shock, 
 His thoughts returning in a broken train 
 
 Across his mind, he thus the silence broke : 
 " I to my ancient friend may yet explain — 
 
 Just is my title here — the lands I took 
 Are part of Massasoit's wide domain, 
 
 And fairly purchased — mine they dearly are — 
 
 Make this to Plymouth known, and Plymouth must forbear. 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 133 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " And didst thou think," the Elder criedj " to win 
 
 Of Pagan chief a title here secure ? 
 Why not derive it from that man of sin 
 
 At papal Kome — the Antichrist impure ? 
 Our Church of Truth, against the Heathens thin, 
 
 Asserts her Canaan, and will make it sure. 
 By the black Prophet was to Dudley shown 
 Thy purchase feigned — by him to us made known." 
 
 XL VI, 
 
 " My purchase feigned !" our Founder quickly cried — 
 " Grod made that Pagan, and to him He gave 
 
 Breath of this air, drink from yon crystal tide. 
 Food from these forest lawns and yonder wave ; 
 
 Yea, He ordained this region, far and wide, 
 To be his home in life — in death his grave-— 
 
 Is thy claim better ? Canst thou trace thy right 
 
 From one superior to the Grod of might ?" 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 The Elder answered ; " Thinkest thou this land 
 For demons foul and their red votaries made ? 
 
 Did not Jehovah, with his own right hand. 
 Tempest for Israel when the Heathen fled ? 
 
 Does Plymouth's Church less in his favor stand ? 
 Or spares he devils for the savage red ? 
 
 As to our title, then, we trace it thus : 
 
 God gave James Stuart this, and James gave us." 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 " Grod gave James Stuart this !" our Founder cried, 
 
 Up-starting from his seat as he began, 
 " God gave James Stuart this !" — a choking tide 
 
 Of kindling feeling through his bosom ran — 
 His better part the angry speech denied ; 
 
 For all the Christian strove against the man, 
 And strove not all in vain — ^yet, bursting forth, 
 His soul came big with grief, that stifled half her wrath, 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " God gave James Stuart this ! — I marvel when ! 
 
 Fain would I see the deed Omniscience wrote ; 
 Elder ! there are commandments counting ten. 
 
 Which Great Jehovah upon Sinai taught — 
 
134 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Has He of late exempted Plymoutli's men — 
 
 Reversed Ms justice and made sin no fault ? 
 Taught them to covet of their neighbor's store, 
 And licensed robbery of the weak and poor ? 
 
 L. 
 
 " Behold these hands, which labor has made hard — 
 Look at this weather-beaten brow and face — 
 
 And ask yourself if to be thus debarred 
 
 And hunted from their fruits like beast of chase, 
 
 Demands not meekness more than Grod has spared 
 To human heart in his abundant grace ? 
 
 Followed e'en here ! — Again compelled to flee ! 
 
 As if this desert were too good for me ! 
 
 LI. 
 
 " But I can go. — Aye, I can e'en submit — 
 Grod in his mercy will give shelter still ; 
 
 Go — tell your Dudley in the book 'tis writ 
 That the oppressor shall hereafter feel ; 
 
 Yet, gracious Lord, grant that repentance fit 
 Him to receive the everlasting seal 
 
 Of thy salvation — that his lost estate 
 
 Be yet revealed, ere it is all too late ! 
 
 LII. 
 
 " Grieve not, my Mary ! — Children, do not weep ! 
 
 Though yonder verdant lawns, and opening flowers. 
 And groves whose shades the murmuring streamlets sweep, 
 
 Now perish all to us — ^yet on far shores. 
 Perchance by yonder bay or rolling deep. 
 
 Far from white brethren, 'mid barbarian powers, 
 Your father's hands another glade may form. 
 And rear another roof to shield you from the storm," 
 
 LIII. 
 
 As here he ceased, in all the agony 
 
 Of mental pain he paced the cottage floor ; 
 
 Absorbed within his woes, scarce did he see 
 The Elder pass, and leave his humble door ; 
 
 His toils — cares — hopes — all lost — and poverty — 
 
 Sudden — gaunt — naked — spread its glooms once more • 
 
 A clashing sound first broke this mental strife — 
 
 'Twas Waban, edging sharp his scalping knife. 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 135 
 
 LIV. 
 
 And such an ireful look — (his eyes so bright — 
 So played his muscles and so gnashed his teeth) — 
 
 Ne'er did red warrior show, save when in fight ; 
 His weapon makes the hostile heart a sheath, 
 
 And forces out the soul. — He looked a sprite 
 Kindling a hell within ! — Recoiling 'neath 
 
 The horrid feelings that the image woke, 
 
 Our Founder backward shrunk, and thus the form bespoke : 
 
 LV. 
 
 " What fiend, O Waban ! thus inflames thy breast ?" 
 
 The spell of frenzy at the accents broke ; 
 The red man paused — his hand the bosom pressed — 
 
 His eyes still flashing fire — and thus he spoke : 
 " My chief is angry with his pale-faced guest — 
 
 My heart has of my sachem's ire partook — 
 I can pursue — for viewless pinions lift 
 My nimble feet to speed thy vengeance swift." 
 
 LVI. 
 
 A freezing horror crept through every vein, 
 As Williams heard the son of Nature speak, 
 
 Yet stood he humbled — ^for that ire profane 
 Was but his own that did new semblance take 
 
 In that wild man — there stood the ancient Cain 
 And here the modern, better skilled to check 
 
 The wayward passions — and how dark soe'er 
 
 The mirror there might be, the real form was here. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " Waban !" at length he said, " I grieve to see 
 
 That all I sowed fell on a barren rock ; 
 How could my brother hope to gladden me 
 
 By such a deed — thou dost thy sachem shock ! 
 O ! from thy savage nature try to flee — 
 
 Lay down thy murderous knife and tomahawk, 
 And dwell on better themes — new toils invite, 
 And high rewards my brother shall requite. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " Oft have I heard my hunter name with pride 
 His long, deep, hollow, arrow-winged canoe ; 
 
 Now drag her from the fern to Seekonk's tide. 
 And bid her skim once more the waters blue ; 
 
136 WHATCHEER. 
 
 She loves to rove, and we must far and wide 
 
 Seek other forests for a dwelling new ; 
 Our toils here end — a cloud from Wamponand 
 Hangs o'er our glade, and blackens all the land." 
 
 LIX. 
 
 A fickle race the red man's kindred were — 
 Free as the elk that roved their native wood — 
 
 Here did they dwell to-day, to-morrow there, 
 As want or pleasure ruled their changeful mood ; 
 
 And Waban loved adventures bold and rare, 
 Nor heard with sorrow of a new abode ; 
 
 And forth he goes to seek his long canoe, 
 
 And trim her breast to skim the waters blue. 
 
 LX. 
 
 The whilst the infant group, from noon to night, 
 
 Pass'd here and there through all that cultured glade ; 
 
 And sighed and wept, by turns, or sobbed outright, 
 As to its charms their last farewell they bade ; 
 
 " Here father labored — here he slept till light 
 Renewed his toils," they often thought or said ; 
 
 And still the springing tears suffused their eyes, 
 
 They dash them off — but still their sorrows rise. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 They plucked the blossom from the blushing bush — 
 They quaff'd the waters from the purling rill — 
 
 Their bread they scattered to the gentle thrush, 
 That seemed half-conscious of the coming ill ; 
 
 The rabbit eyed them from his covert brush — 
 Their crumbs supplied the little sparrow's bill ; 
 
 And sadly then they sighed their last adieu, 
 
 " Our little friends, farewell ! we sport no more with 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Meantime the parents in the cottage sate — 
 
 Their bosoms heaving and their thoughts in gloom — 
 
 " ! what," cried Mary, " is our coming fate — 
 And where, my husband, is our future home ? 
 
 Will not dire famine on our footsteps wait, 
 And perils meet us wheresoe'er we roam ? 
 
 Our harvest gone — ^who now can food supply ? 
 
 Forced from this roof—where shall our children lie ?" 
 
CAnM '- EIGHTH. i^f'^ 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 " Trust we in God !" our pious Founder said ; 
 
 " Doubt not tlie bounty of His providence, 
 Who Israel's children through the desert led, 
 
 And in all perils was there sure defence ; 
 He bade us not this distant forest tread, 
 
 To leave us here in want and ipenitence. 
 Warnings, my Mary, from strange source were given, 
 Such as I sometimes deem were sent from Heaven ! 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 " Well can thy mind that stormy night recall-^ 
 
 The last in Salem that I dare abide — 
 In fleecy torrents did the tempest fall. 
 
 Our little dwelling reeled from side to side ; 
 The fading brands just glimmered on the wall. 
 
 Lonely I sate, my heart with anguish tried, 
 When lo ! a summons at the door I heard — 
 Deemed it a wretch distressed — the pass unbarred. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " And straight appeared a venerable seer, 
 
 Such as on earth none ever saw before ; 
 His temples spake at least their hundreth year, 
 
 In many a long and deeply furrowed score ; 
 But, Oh ! his eyes, in youthful glory clear. 
 
 Did in bright streams celestial radiance pour ; 
 And then that face scarce seemed to veil the rays, 
 (Too bright for mortal !) of an angel's blaze. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " And when he spake, methought the music clear 
 Of tongue seraphic, filled his heavenly tone ; 
 
 It came so full, yet gently, on my ear. 
 
 It well might serenade the Almighty's throne ; 
 
 ' Williams ! ' it said, ' I come on message here, 
 Of moment great, to this blind age unknown ; 
 
 Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear. 
 
 But fly by morn into the forest drear. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " ' Thou art to voyage an unexplored flood. 
 
 No chart is there thy lonely bark to steer, 
 Beneath her rocks, around her tempests rude, 
 
 And persecution's billows in her rear, 
 18 
 
138 WHATCHEER. 
 
 Shall shake thy soul till it is near subdued ; 
 
 But when the welcome of WhatcJieer ! WJiatcheer ! 
 Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude, 
 Cast thou the Anchor there, and trust in God.' 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 " He passed away, nor could I him detain 
 From the drear forest and the stormy night ; 
 
 He only said he should he seen again 
 
 Where faith in freedom should my rest invite. 
 
 Oft have I dwelt on that prophetic strain, 
 Recalled the voice — ^yet can I but recite 
 
 The words it spake. — Oh ! had I heeded more 
 
 Its import high, and shunned this tyrant shore ! 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 • " Deem not, my Mary, it a sinful thought. 
 
 That Heaven should give her counsels to restore 
 
 The soul to freedom. — Lo ! what wonders wrought 
 The God of Christians for the Church of yore ; 
 
 With heathen darkness was the conscience fraught, 
 And tyrants chained it to a barbarous lore ; 
 
 To break like thraldom in a Christian land, 
 
 Angels may speak, and God reveal his hand. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " This spot I rashly chose — no Indian train 
 Gave the glad welcome to my raptured ear. 
 
 And that mysterious form comes not again. 
 Inspiring courage — therefore hence we steer — 
 
 Nor land nor dwelling augur we to gain 
 
 Until the greeting of Whatcheer ! Whatcheer ! 
 
 Our journey stay — there, there is our abode ; 
 
 Our Anchor there — our Hope, Almighty God !" 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Thus spake our Founder — and with ready hand. 
 Her spirits cheered, did Mary now prepare 
 
 For their drear journey to another land — 
 
 Alas ! they knew not how, and knew not where. 
 
 At eventide, red Waban from the strand. 
 
 The children from the glade, with cheerless air. 
 
 Revisited the cot. — One more sad night, 
 
 And hence they journey at the rising light. 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 139 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Upon the cottage roof the Whip-poor-will 
 
 That night sang mournful to the conscious glade ; 
 
 The lonely owl forsook her valley still, 
 And perched and hooted in the neighboring shade ; 
 
 The wolf returned, and lapped the purling rill, 
 Sate on its marge, and at the cottage bayed ; 
 
 From all his howling depths the desert came, 
 
 And seemed his lost dominion to reclaim. 
 
CANTO NINTH. 
 
 [Scenes. Seekonk's Stream and Banks— Whatcheer Cove and Shore— Mooshau-' 
 sick's Vale, or Site of Providence.] 
 
 'Tis early morn — Pawtucket's torrent roar, 
 
 A solemn bass to Nature's anthem bold. 
 Alone wakes Williams' ear — its currents pour 
 
 Along with foaming haste, where they have rolled 
 Ages on ages — fretting, here from shore, 
 
 The basin broad, and there 'twixt hill and wold. 
 Furrowing their channel deep — ^far hastening on — 
 Now lost in shades — now glimmering in the sun. 
 
 II. 
 No thraldom had they known, save winter's frost ; 
 
 No exile yet had their free bosom borne ; 
 Deep in that glade, (now to our Founder lost,) 
 
 Their wave eternal had a basin worn ; 
 Oft thence their flow had borne the stealthy host, 
 
 In light canoes, before the dusk of morn. 
 Darkling to strike the foe — but now no more. 
 They blush to bear the freight of men that thirst for gore. 
 
 m. 
 Early that morn, beside the tranquil flood, 
 
 Where ready trimmed rode Waban's frail canoe. 
 The banished man, his spouse and children, stood. 
 
 And bade their lately blooming hopes adieu. 
 As yet the mother had but half subdued 
 
 Despondent sorrow, and the briny dew 
 Stole frequent down her cheeks — ^her's was the smart — 
 The searching anguish of the softer heart. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And as she viewed the illimitable shade. 
 
 The haunt of savage men and beasts of prey. 
 
 Thought of her children, and what fears arrayed, 
 Their, haply, long uncomfortable way ; 
 
CANTO NINTH. 141 
 
 " Ye houseless babes !" slie in her anguish said, 
 
 " What crimes were yours, what dire offences, say, 
 That even ye should share this cruel doom. 
 Beg of barbarians bread, and savage deserts roam ?" 
 
 V. 
 
 But Father Williams, to his lot resigned, 
 
 Now cherished feelings of a loftier tone ; 
 Heaven to vigor had restored his mind. 
 
 And firmly armed it for the task unknown ; 
 He scantly glanced upon his toils behind ; 
 
 His soul inspired did bolder visions own. 
 And from his breast dispelled each cheerless gloom. 
 And winged him onward to his destined home. 
 
 VI. 
 
 As the bold bird that builds her mansion high, 
 On some tall crag, or hemlock's lofty bough. 
 
 Deep in the desert, far from human eye, 
 And deems herself secure from every foe. 
 
 Does, in a pine's o'ershadowing branch, descry 
 The threatening eye-balls of the wild cat glow — 
 
 She spurns her eyry with a heavenward flight, 
 
 And builds upon some ash that crests the moutain's height : 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thus his vain toils he coldly now surveyed ; 
 
 He'd sunk, but 'twas a bolder wing to try ; 
 He snatched the weepers from the hated glade. 
 
 And bore them lightly to the shallop nigh ; 
 Then sprang himself into the stern, and bade 
 
 The dusky pilot now his paddle ply ; 
 Shoved from the bank the settling skiff descends 
 Low in the flood, and 'neath the burden bends. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now, with a giddy whirl, the wheeling prow. 
 Veering around, looks on the downward tide ; 
 
 Then Waban's paddle pierced the glassy flow ; 
 The mimic whirlpools pass'd on either side ; 
 
 The surface cleaves — the waters boil below — 
 The cot — the glade — the forests backward glide ; 
 
 Until the shadows, moving as they flew, 
 
 Closed round the green, and shut the roof from view. 
 
142 WHATCHEER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Pawtucket's murmurs die upon their ears, 
 
 As cleaves the expanded sheet the swift canoe ; 
 
 And now the river's straitened pass appears, 
 And jutting mounds their lofty forests shew ; 
 
 Each giant trunk a navy's timber rears — 
 
 Their mighty shadows o'er the flood they threw. 
 
 Shut out the heavens, and scarce could glimmering day 
 
 The long, dark, hollow, winding path display. 
 
 X. 
 
 Stern silence reigned o'er all the sable tide, 
 
 Broke only by the swarthy pilot's oar ; 
 Beneath the arching boughs the wanderers glide, 
 
 And the dark riplings curl from shore to shore : 
 The startled wood-ducks 'neath the waters hide, 
 
 Or on fleet pinions through the branches soar ; 
 Whilst overhead the rattling boughs, at times. 
 Speak where the streak' d racoon or furious wild cat climbs. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oft, on the lofty banks, from jutting rocks, 
 The buck looked down wild on the swift canoe ; 
 
 Oft o'er the bramble leaped the wary fox, 
 With bushy tail, and fur of ruddy hue ; 
 
 Or wheeling high, and gathering still in flocks, 
 The dark-winged ravens, by their clamors shew 
 
 Where the lone owl, perched on his moss-grown seat. 
 
 Insists, unvanquished yet, upon his drear retreat. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Far down the winding pass at length they spy. 
 
 Where wider currents, bright as liquid gold. 
 Spread glimmering in the sun — and to the eye 
 
 Still further down, broad Narraganset rolled 
 His host of waters blue — blue as the sky ; 
 
 For breezes from the hoary ocean cooled 
 His heaving breast, and joying in their glance. 
 From shore to shore, the wanton waters dance. 
 
 xin. 
 And now did Williams in his mind debate. 
 
 Should he that night cleave Narraganset's flood. 
 Or on the Seekonk's bank till morning wait, 
 
 And scour the whilst Mooshausick's gloomy wood 1 
 
CANTO NINTH. 143 
 
 " Would that kind Heaven might there predestinate, 
 
 On earth, Soul-Liberty ! thy first abode," 
 (He often thought) " or where, in ocean's arms, 
 Smiles wild Aquidnay, robed in virgin charms." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Whilst thus he ponders, down the stream he sees, 
 Where from the invading cove the wood retires, 
 
 Dark wreaths of smoke curl o'er the lofty trees. 
 And deems that there some village wakes its fires. 
 
 " Waban,' ' he says, " seest thou yon dusky breeze ? 
 Say, from what town yon curling smoke aspires? 
 
 What valiant sachem holds dominion there ? 
 
 What dreadful numbers leads he forth to war ?" 
 
 XV. 
 
 " No town — the feast of peace !" — the red man cried. 
 
 As still his swarthy arm impelled the oar ; 
 " The clans from Narraganset far and wide. 
 
 And every tribe from Pokanoket's shore. 
 There smoke the pipe, and lay the axe aside, 
 
 The pipe my chief to Potowomet bore ; 
 Much they rejoice — their ancient hate forego, 
 And deem the White Chief a good Manittoo." 
 
 xvi. 
 A secret joy o'er Father Williams' breast. 
 
 Stole like the fragrance of the balmy morn. 
 That breathes on sleep with fearful dreams oppressed, 
 
 And wakes to its delights the wretch forlorn ; 
 His toils and wanderings were not all unblessed. 
 
 Some joys to others had his suff"erings borne ; 
 But promised good brings doubt to the distressed, 
 And thus still dubious he his guide addressed : 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " What singing bird has, on the wandering wing, 
 Borne these strange tidings to my hunter's ear 7 
 
 Where, on her pinions poised, thus did she sing, 
 And with her faithless song his bosom cheer ? " 
 
 Waban replied, whilst he was journeying 
 
 Toward the white man's town, through forests drear, 
 
 He on Cohannet's banks his brethren met, 
 
 Bound to the banquet of the calumet. 
 
144 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Now murmurs hoarse came on our Founder's ear. 
 That rose behind a cape from crowds unseen, 
 
 Then by the eastern marge they swiftly steer, 
 Till showed a tufted isle its welcome screen ; 
 
 Veering to this, they found a prospect near 
 
 Of the red hosts that thronged the opposing green ; 
 
 Hundreds on hundreds did their fires surround, 
 
 Ran on the shores, or verdant banks embrowned. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Along the strand their speed the racers try, 
 
 With flying feet they scarcely touch the ground ; 
 
 From goal to goal the nimble hunters fly ; 
 
 Crowds shout above them, and the woods resound ; 
 
 Here their lithe, swarthy limbs the wrestlers ply ; 
 
 They tug, they writhe, they sweat, crowds shout around; 
 
 And there the circles watch the doubtful game, 
 
 Or greet the victor with a loud acclaim. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then Williams saw, beneath a shady bower, 
 Miantonomi, Sachem young and brave. 
 
 And Massasoit, Haup's kind Sagamore, 
 And old Canonicus, so wise and grave, 
 
 Known by his peaceful pipe and tresses hoar, 
 And by the scarlet coat our Founder gave ; 
 
 Round them their captains intermingled stood. 
 
 All mild and peaceful now, though lately fierce for blood. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 From chief to chief the calumet they passed ; 
 
 In solemn silence sate the council bound ; 
 Each thrice inhaled, thrice forth the vapors cast — 
 
 First to the power that bids the thunder sound, 
 Then to the gods that ride the angry blast. 
 
 Then to the fiends that dwell beneath the ground ; 
 These made propitious, they the hatchet gave, 
 The bloody hatchet, to a peaceful grave. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Waban," said Williams, " we may venture now. 
 But pause ye short of the sure arrow's flight ;" 
 
 Instant the red man drove the foaming prow 
 Along the cleaving flood, and, at the sight 
 
CANTO NINTH. 145 
 
 Of the red multitudes, the rose's glow 
 
 Fading, at once, left Mary's cheek all white ; 
 And sudden fears her children's breasts surprise. 
 And, with their littl<3 hands, they trembling veil their eyes. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Full in the front of that vast multitude, 
 
 Within an arrow's flight their skiff they stayed ; 
 
 A sudden silence hushed the listening wood ; 
 
 The crowds all paused, and with wild eyes surveyed 
 
 The pale-faced group — which in like stillness viewed 
 The wondering throngs. — At length the woodland glade 
 
 Moves with their numbers — down the banks they pour, 
 
 Swarming and gathering on the dark'ning shore. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As when some urchin, with a heedless blow, 
 
 The insect nations of the hive alarms, 
 Down from their cells the watchful myriads flow, 
 
 And earth and air rolls black with murmuring swarms ; 
 So from the woods the wondering warriors go, 
 
 So o'er the dark'ning strand their number forms ; 
 None save their haughty chiefs remain behind. 
 And they the lofty banks and forest margin lined. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Then silence reigned again — but still they stared — 
 
 Some clasped their knives, and some their arrows drew ; 
 Then from his seat his form our Founder reared, 
 
 Beneath him rocking rolled the frail canoe ; 
 His hand he raised, and manly forehead bared, 
 
 And straight their former friend the Sachems knew ; 
 " Netop, Whatcheer ! " broke on the listening ear ; 
 
 " Whatcheer ! Whatcheer ! " was echoed here and there. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And straight the kindling words burst on his ear. 
 Their shouts embodied sought the joyous sky ; 
 
 With open arms, and greeting of " Whatcheer," 
 Lived all the shores, and banks, and summits high : 
 
 " Whatcheer ! Whatcheer ! " resounded far and near, 
 " Whatcheer ! Whatcheer ! " the hollow woods reply ; 
 
 " Whatcheer ! Whatcheer ! " swells the exulting gales. 
 
 Sweeps o'er the laughing hills, and trembles through the vales. 
 
 19 
 
146 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Mooshausick, quick with future glories, hears, 
 Rolls up a brighter wave and downward pours, 
 
 To Narraganset's bay the shout he rears, 
 The bay resounds it to rejoicing shores ; 
 
 Coweset's wilds repeat the echoing cheers, 
 Pocasset answers from her mountain bowers ; 
 
 Wild o'er the joyous isles the rapture roves, 
 
 And fair Aquidnay smiles, and waves her blooming groves. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Speed ! Waban, speed ! " with haste our Founder cried, 
 
 Soon as the hollow murmurs died afar ; 
 With lusty arm the hunter clove the tide. 
 
 The swift canoe seemed moving through the air ; 
 One instant more, and Williams, from her side, 
 
 Sprang on a rock, (thence giving it to share 
 His deathless fame,) and straight around him stood, 
 In cheerful throngs, the Indian multitude. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Miantonomi, stepping from the crowd, 
 
 Stretched forth his brawny hand, and cried " Whatcheer ! 
 Welcome, my brother ! say, what lowering cloud, 
 
 O'er Seekonk's eastern marge, impels thee here ? 
 Be it the Pequot in his numbers proud, 
 
 I hold his greeting in this glittering spear ; 
 But, oh ! perchance my brother seeks this place. 
 To share with us the sacred rites of peace ? " 
 
 " Not so, brave chief — it is to seek a home. 
 
 By seer announced, by Heaven to me assigned ; 
 
 Yonder abode lies wrapt in sable gloom. 
 
 Sprung not from Pequot, but the Plymouth kind ; 
 
 My promised harvest blighted in the bloom. 
 My voiceless roof — all, all have I resigned. 
 
 And hither come to seek Mooshausick's plain, 
 
 And beg the gift once proffered me in vain." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Good Massasoit, who did these accents hear. 
 
 Would now our Founder greet — and with a face, 
 
 That spake a sorrow deep, and most sincere, 
 
 " Long have I strove," he gravely said, " to guess 
 
CANTO NINTH. 147 
 
 What Manit most my Plymouth friends revere ; 
 
 For aye their deeds their better words efface — 
 Their tongues much speak of Spirit good and great — 
 Their hands much do the work of Chepian's hate." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Here grave Canonicus came from the throng — 
 
 " Welcome, my son !" exclaimed the aged chief, 
 " Bear thou the inflictions of thy kindred's wrong 
 
 Like a brave man, not with a woman's grief ; 
 The lands thou seest shall all to thee belong ; 
 
 And for thy comforts lost, a moment brief 
 Shall e'en their loss repair — o'er yonder height 
 Is the domain where Chepian ruled of late. 
 
 xxxiir. 
 " There all abandoned by his Priest it lies — 
 
 Abandoned by his slaves, for slaves had he, 
 Who tilled his field and made his mansion rise, 
 
 Adorned with mats and colors fair to see ; 
 The Priest is gone — how, nothing care the wise ; 
 
 His timid followers from their labors flee — 
 All fear to dwell within the fiend's control — 
 For who but Chepian's Priest can Chepian rule ?" 
 
 xxxiv. 
 Thus spake Canonicus, the wise and old ; 
 
 With shouts the warriors their accordance shewed, 
 Then turned and sought the late forsaken hold ; 
 
 Our Sire, the matron, and her charge pursued ; 
 The following nations far behind them rolled — 
 
 In march triumphal moved the multitude, 
 Cheering the exile's home ; and as they sped, 
 Earth rumbled under their far-thundering tread. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The forest branches, woven overhead. 
 
 Shut out the day and cast a twilight gloom ; 
 
 Where now long since extends the verdant mead. 
 Shines the fair palace, or the gardens bloom, 
 
 Frowned one green vault above — -the palisade 
 
 Of trunks, of brambles, boscage, brake and broom. 
 
 Beneath it vexed the warriors' surly mood. 
 
 And cracked and crashed the thickets as they trod. 
 
148 WHATCHEER. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 They gained the height where now the Muses reign — 
 Where now Brown's bounty* to the human mind 
 
 Links earth and heaven — the fruits of honest gain 
 Moulding the youthful soul by taste refined 
 
 To truth's eternal quest — With what disdain 
 Frowns such high bounty on a meaner kind ? — 
 
 But this in after times — for forests then 
 
 Mantled the height, and swarmed with savage men. 
 
 XLXVII. 
 
 Thence, from its frowning brow, our Founder sees 
 
 Mooshausick rolling to his watery vasts ; 
 Across his flood the overhanging trees 
 
 Lock their thick shadowy arms — thick as the masts, 
 In after times, should on the wanton breeze 
 
 lloll forth their spangled banners — ^when the blasts, 
 Fraught with the volume of the cannon's voice, 
 Bid a whole nation through its realms rejoice. 
 
 XXX vni. 
 And thence, with prescient eye, he gazes far 
 
 O'er the rude sites of palaces and shrines. 
 Where Grecian beauty to the buxom air, 
 
 In after times, should rise in beaming lines ; 
 Ay, almost hears the future pavements jar 
 
 Beneath a people's wealth, and half divines, 
 From thee, Soul-Liberty ! what glories wait 
 Thy earliest altars — thy predestined state. 
 
 xxxix. 
 Then down the steep, by paths scored in its side, 
 
 Where frequent deer had sought the floods below, 
 lie pass'd, still following his dusky guide, 
 
 And stooping oft 'neath overhanging bough. 
 Till a broad cultured field expanded wide. 
 
 Betwixt dense thickets and Mooshausick's flow. 
 Its deep green rows of waving maize foretold 
 Aliundant harvest from a fertile mould. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The Priest's forsaken lodge rose in the mid. 
 Beside a fountain on a verdant lawn ; 
 
 * Brown University. 
 
CANTO NINTH. 149 
 
 Its arches broad by climbing vines were bid ; 
 
 Spacious it seemed and like a chieftain's shown ; 
 Then Williams thought of what his warrior did, 
 
 Upon that bloody night in forests lone ; 
 He mourns the fate that urged the felon's doom, 
 Yet sees its fruits a temporary home. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But still some scruples do his mind assail ; 
 
 What horrid rights had made the place profane ! 
 When thus the chief — " No more my son bewail 
 
 Thy comforts lost — let the Great Spirit reign 
 Where Chepian reigned — ay, let thy Grod prevail — 
 
 Be thou his Priest, and this thine own domain — 
 From wild Pawtucket to Pawtuxet's bounds 
 To thee and thine be all the teeming grounds. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 High thanks Sire Williams paid — but as he spake, 
 
 Came o'er his mind a feeling passing strange ; 
 A prophet's rapture did his bosom wake ; 
 
 For, at that moment, down the boundless range 
 Of angel spheres, did some bright being take 
 
 Wing to his soul, and wrought to suited change 
 The visual nerve, and straight in outward space 
 
 Its form stands manifest, in all its heavenly grace.* 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 At once he cried, " I see ! I see the seer ! 
 
 His very form, his very shape and air ! 
 By yonder fount — the same his robes appear ; 
 
 The same his radiant eyes and flowing hair ; 
 Mary ! my children ! come ! his accents hear — 
 
 See age and youth one heavenly beauty share !" 
 They with him moved, (yet ne'er the vision saw,) 
 Until the father paused, transfixed in sacred awe. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 For strange to tell, youth's lingering light began 
 To spread fresh glories o'er that aged face ; 
 
 Till over beard, and hair, and visage wan. 
 Burst the full splendor of angelic grace ; 
 
 A lambent flame around the forehead ran, 
 And rainbow hues the earthly robes displace ; 
 
 * See Note. 
 
150 WHATCHEER. 
 
 The citrling locks, like beams of living light, 
 Streamed back, and glowed insufferably bright. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 The figure seemed to grow — its dazzling eyes 
 Were for a space upon Sire Williams bent, 
 
 Then upward turned. It, pointing to the skies, 
 Spake Hope in God, with silence eloquent. 
 
 Still did it brighten — still its stature rise — 
 
 With Heaven's full glories seemed it to augment — - 
 
 The pilgrim staff no longer did it hold ; 
 
 But on an Anchor leant, that blazed ethereal gold. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Our Father gazed, and, from that heavenward eye, 
 
 Saw the pure streams of angel radiance flow ; 
 An inward glory, as it towered on high. 
 
 Filled all the stature to the lofty brow ; 
 
 And then the shape translucent seemed to grow, 
 And still expanding, fade its glories fair. 
 
 Like those of evening, or the radiant bow. 
 Till all dissolving in transparent air. 
 It melted from the sight, and left no traces there. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 Then, on the bended knees, he bowed to own 
 
 The Heaven-born vision, and his soul declare ; 
 His wife and children, by him kneeling down, 
 
 Sent up their hearts upon the wings of prayer ; 
 
 The dusky nations formed a crescent far. 
 Their ears in awful silence do they bend ; 
 
 Hills, vales and floods, and forests listening are — 
 Force to each word their faithful echoes lend. 
 And with their Ruler's prayers do theirs to Heaven ascen 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 " Mysterious Power ! who dost in wonders speak, 
 We note thy tokens and their import spell ; 
 
 Let Persecution still its vengeance wreak — 
 Let its fierce billows roll with mountain swell. 
 Here must we Anchor, and their force repel. 
 
 Here, moored securely, shall our bannered State 
 Blazon the conscience sacred — ever free — 
 
 Here shall she breast the coming storms of fate 
 
CANTO NINTH. 151 
 
 And ride triumphant o'er the raging sea, 
 
 Her well-cast Anchor here, her lasting Hope in Thee ! 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " Here, thy assurance gives our wanderings rest, 
 
 And points where all our future toils must be ; 
 Lord ! be our labors by thy mercies blest, 
 
 And send their fruits to far posterity ; 
 
 Let our example still the Conscience free. 
 Where'er she dwells by tyrant force enchained. 
 
 And whilst the thraldom lasts, Oh ! let her see, 
 Her ark of safety here, where, unprofaned 
 By Persecution's brands, free altars are maintained. 
 
 L. 
 
 '' Accept, Lord ! our thanks for mercies past ; 
 Thou wast our cloud by day, and fire by night. 
 Whilst yet we journeyed through the dreary vast, 
 Thou Canaan more than givest to our sight. 
 Lord ! 'tis possessed, not seen from Pisgah's height. 
 We deeply feel this high beneficence ; 
 And ages far shall o'er our graves recite 
 Of thy protecting grace their Father's sense. 
 And, when they name their Home, proclaim Thy Providence !*' 
 
NOTES, 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 STANZA .1 
 
 I sing of trials stern^ and sufferings great ^ 
 
 Which Father Williams in his exile hore^ 
 That he the conscience-bound might liberate.. 
 And her religious rights the soul restore. 
 
 " Roger Williams was born of reputable parents, in Wales, A. D. 1598. He was 
 educated at the University of Oxford ; was reg-ularly admitted to Orders in the 
 Church of Eng-land, and preached for some time as a minister of that Church ; but 
 on embracing- the doctrines of the Puritans, he rendered himself obnoxious to the 
 laws ag-ainst the non-conformists, and embarked for America, where he arrived with 
 his wife, whose name was Mary, on the 5th of February, A. D. 1631." He had 
 scarcely landed ere he began to assert the principle of relig-ious freedom, and insist 
 on a rig-id separation from the Church of Eng-land. A declaration that the mag-is- 
 trate oug-ht not to interfere in matters of conscience could not fail to excite the 
 jealousy of a g-overnment constituted as that of Massachusetts then was ; and this 
 jealousy was roused into active hostility when, in the April following- his arrival, he 
 was called by the Church of Salem as teaching- Elder under their then Pastor, Mr. 
 Skelton. 
 
 " Of this appointment," says Winthrope, " the Governor of Massachusetts was 
 informed, who immediately convened a Court in Boston to take the subject into 
 consideration." Their deliberations resulted in a letter addressed to Mr. Endicot, 
 of Salem, to this effect : — " That whereas Mr. Williams had refused to join the 
 churches at Boston, because they would not make a public declaration of their 
 repentance, for having- communion with the Churches of Eng-land while they tarried 
 there, and besides had declared his opinion that the magistrate might not punish 
 the breach of the Sabbath, nor any other offence that was a breach of the first table ; 
 and therefore they marveled they would choose him without advising with the coun- 
 cil, and withal desired him that they would forbear to proceed until they had con- 
 sidered about it." 
 
 This interference of the government forced him to leave Salem. " He removed 
 to Plymouth, and was engaged assistant to Mr. Ralph Smith, the pastor of the 
 church at that place. Here he remained until he found his views of Religious Tol- 
 eration and strict non-conformity gave offence to some of his hearers, when he 
 returned again to Salem, and was settled there after Mr. Skelton's death, which 
 took place on the 2d of August, 1634." In this situation Williams preached against 
 the cross in the ensign, as a relic of papal superstition. His preaching however, on 
 
 20 
 
154 NOTES TO 
 
 this topic, does not seem to have been a subject of complaint, only as it led some of 
 his friends to the indiscretion of defacing- the colors. His persecutors, in excusing- 
 this act to the g-overnment of Eng-land, say that they did so " with as much wari- 
 ness as they mig-ht, being- doubtful themselves of the lawfulness of a cross in an 
 ensig-n." But thoug-h he may have g-iven no offence by declaring- an opinion on 
 this subject so little at variance with their own, yet when he ventured to speak 
 ag-ainst the king-'s patent, by which he had g-ranted to his subjects the lands which 
 belong-ed to the Indians ; and, above all, to maintain that the civil magistrate ought 
 not to interfere in matters of conscience, except for the preservation of peace, his 
 presence within the jurisdiction of Massachusetts could no longer be tolerated. A 
 summons was granted for his appearance at the next court. 
 
 He appeared accordingly. " It was laid to his charge," says Winthrope, " that, 
 being under question before the magistracy and churches for divers dangerous 
 opinions, viz : That the magistrate ought not to punish for the breaches of the first 
 table, otherwise than in such cases as did disturb the public peace. 2d. That he 
 ought not to tender an oath to an unregenerate man. 3d. That a man ought not to 
 pray with such, though wife, children, &c. 4th. That a man ought not to give 
 thanks after sacrament nor after meat, &c., and that other churches were about to 
 write the church of Salem to admonish him of these errors, notwithstanding the 
 church had since called him to the office of Teacher." 
 
 These charges having been read, all the magistrates and ministers concurred in 
 denouncing the opinions of Williams as erroneous and dangerous, and agreed 
 that the calling him to office at that time was a great contempt of authority. He 
 and the church of Salem were allowed until the next General Court to consider of 
 these charges, and then either to give satisfaction to the Court, or else to expect 
 sentence. 
 
 Much warmth of feeling was exhibited in the discussion of these charges ; and in 
 the course of the debate it seems the ministers were required to give their opinions 
 severally. All agreed that he who asserted that the civil magistrate ought not to 
 interfere in case of heresy, apostacy, &c., ought to be removed, and that other 
 churches ought to request the magistrates to remove him. Nothing will give a bet- 
 ter idea of the state of feeling on this occasion than the fact that when the town of 
 Salem at this time petitioned, claiming some land at Marblehead as belonging to 
 the town, the petition was refused a hearing, on the ground that the church of Sa- 
 lem had chosen Mr. Williams her teacher, and by such choice had offered contempt 
 to the magistrates. 
 
 The attendance of all the Ministers of the Bay at tl.e next General Court was re- 
 quested. This was held in the month of November, 1635. Before this venerable con- 
 gregation of all the dignitaries of the church, Williams appeared and defended his 
 opinions. His defence, it seems, was not satisfactory. They offered him further 
 time for conference nr disputation. This he declined, and chose to dispute presently. 
 .Mr. Hooker was appointed to dispute with him. But Mr. Houker's logic, seconded 
 ais it was by the whole civil and ecclesiastical power of Massachusetts, could not 
 force him to recognise the right of the civil magistrate to punish heresy, or to admit 
 that the king's patent could of itself give a just title to the lands of the Indians. 
 The consequence was, that on the following morning he was sentenced to depart, 
 within six weeks, out of the jurisdiction of Massachusetts. 
 
 Such were the causes of Williams' banishment, and such the circumstances under 
 which the decree was passed. He was a man who fearlessly asserted his principles, 
 and practiced upon them to their fullest extent. Persecution could not drive him to 
 a renunciation of his opinions. His observance of any principle which he adopted 
 was conscientiously strict ; but this very strictness of observance had its advantages, 
 
CANTO FIRST. 155 
 
 iii enabling- him with more certainty to detect any latent error which his opinions 
 involved. He was as free to declare his errors as he was to assert whatever appeared 
 to him to be rig-ht. His very honesty in this respect has g-iven occasion to his 
 enemies to brand his character with inconsistency and apostacy ; but he remained 
 true to every principle espoused by him, which posterity has since sanctioned, and 
 inconstant in those thing-s only which are unimportant in themselves, and which are 
 unsettled even in the present day. A tacit confession of his own fallibility was im- 
 plied in the g-reat principle of which he was the earliest asserter, that government 
 oug-ht not to interfere in matters of conscience ; and therein consisted a wide differ- 
 ence between his errors, whatever they were, and those of his persecutors. This 
 fact, in estimating- the character of Williams, cannot be too well considered. 
 
 " Subsequently to his banishment, he was permitted to remain until spring-, on 
 condition thai he did not attempt to draw others to his opinions." But the friends of 
 Williams could not consent to see their favorite pastor leave them, without frequently 
 visiting- him whilst they yet had an opportunity. In these interviews, the plan of 
 establishing- a colony in the Narrag-anset country, where the principle of Relig-ious 
 Freedom (the assertion of which had been the chief cause of his banishment) 
 should be carried into effect, was discussed and matured. It is also hig-hly 
 probable that he did not fail to do what he conceived to be the duty of a faithful 
 pastor in other respects. At leng-lh the rumor of these meeting-s reached the cars 
 of the civil tuihorities ; and in January, 1635, (O. S.,) "The governor and assist- 
 ants," says Wiuthrope, " met in Boston to consider about Mr. Williams ; for 
 they were credibly informed, that he, notwithstanding the injunction laid upon 
 him, (upon liberty granted him to stay until spring,) not to go about to draw 
 others to his opinions, did use to entertain company in his house, and to 
 preach to them even of such points as he had been sentenced for ; and it was agreed 
 to send him into England by a ship then ready to depart. The reason was because 
 he had drawn about twenty persons to his opinions, and they were intended to erect 
 a plantation about the Narraganset bay, from whence the infection would easily 
 spread into these churches, the people being miany of them much taken with an 
 apprehension of bis godliness. Whereupon a warrant was sent to him to come 
 presently to Boston, to be shipped, &c. He returned for answer, (and divers of Sa- 
 lem came with it,) that he could not without hazard of his life, &c. Whereupon a 
 pinnace was sent with commission to Captain Underbill, &c., to apprehend him, 
 and carry him on board the ship, which then rode at Nantascutt. But when thej'^ 
 came to his house, they found he had been gone three days, but whither they could 
 not learn." 
 
 It thus appears that the object of his government, in directing his immediate ap- 
 prehension at this time, was to prevent the establishment of a colony in which the 
 civil authority should not be permitted to interfere with the religious opinions of 
 the citizens. 
 
 Williams was in the thirty-seventh or thirty-eighth year of his age, at the time of 
 his banishment. He fled to a wilderness inhabited only by savages. The two 
 principal tribes — the Narragansets and Wampanoags — had, but a short time before 
 he entered their country, been engaged in open hostilities. The government of 
 Plymouth had on one occasion extended its aid to its early friend and ally, Massa- 
 soit, chief sachem of the Wampanoags. This interference had smothered, but not 
 extinguished the flame. With these warring tribes, one of which (the Narragansets) 
 was a very martial and numerous people, and exceedingly jealous of the whites, 
 Williams was under the necessity of establishing relations of amity. He himself 
 says that he was forced to travel between their sachems to satisfy them and all their 
 dependent spirits of his honest intentions to live peaceably by them. He acted 
 
156 NOTES to 
 
 the part of a peace-maker amongst them, and eventually won, even for the benefit of 
 his persecutors, the confidence of the Narragansets. It was through his influence 
 that all the Indians in the vicinity of Narraganset bay were, shortly after his settle- 
 ment at Mooshausick, united, and their whole force, under the direction of the very 
 men who had driven him into the wilderness, brought to co-operate with the Massa- 
 chusetts forces against the Pequots. [See Winthrope's Journal, and a Sketch of the 
 Life of Roger Williams, appended to the first volume of the Rhode Island Histori- 
 cal Collections, for the above extracts.] 
 
 STANZA XII. 
 
 Much less my consort and these pledges dear. 
 
 Williams was the father of six children, viz : Mary, Freeborn, Providence, 
 Mercy, Daniel, and Joseph. I am not able to determine their number at the time of 
 his banishment. 
 
 STANZA XLV. 
 
 Thrice did our northern tiger seem to come. 
 
 Frequently called the Panther, the Cat of the Mountain, or Catamount. There is 
 indeed no animal of America entitled to the appellation of the Panther ; but this 
 name is frequently applied to the animal mentioned, and is adopted in this produc- 
 tion for that reason. 
 
 STANZA LXI. 
 
 ' Twas Waban^s cry at which the monsters ran. 
 
 The Indians imitate very perfectly the cry of wild beasts, and use that art in con- 
 veying signals and for other purposes, during their hunts and other expeditions. 
 The known antipathy between the wolf and the catamount or panther, and the 
 superiority of the latter over the former, may justify the text. 
 
 STANZA LXIX. 
 
 Wl2£re never shall the flame of fagot glow, 
 Kindled by wrath of persecuting men. 
 
 I know not that the fagot has been generally used in any protestant country for 
 the extirpation of heresy, yet its very general application to that purpose by Roman 
 Catholics has, by common consent, made it the appropriate emblem of persecution 
 in all countries. 
 
 STANZA LXXII. 
 
 Jj7itil Sowaniu^s breezes scatter flowers again. 
 Sowaniu, or the Paradise of the Indians, was supposed to be an island in the far 
 southwest. It was the favorite residence of their great god, Cawtantowit, and the 
 land of departed spirits. The balmy southwest was a gale breathed from the 
 heaven of the Indians. 
 
 STANZA LXXXIII. 
 
 '• And may the Manitto of dreams^'' he said^ Sfc, 
 Manitto— a God. It is a word which seems to have been applied to an extraordi- 
 nary power, or mysterious influence. Any astonishing effect, produced by a cause 
 which the Indians could not comprehend, they appear to have ascribed to the agency 
 of a Manitto. It is natural for man to draw his ideas of power or causation, from 
 what he feels in himself; and when he does so he will ascribe the effects which he 
 observes to the influence of mind. As he advances in knowledge the number of 
 these mysterious agents diminishes, until at last he is forced upon the idea of one 
 great, designing, first cause or agent. Man, froin his very constitution, therefore, 
 
CANTO SECOND. 157 
 
 must be a believer in the existence of God. He approaches a knowledg-e of His 
 unity by degrees, and improves in his religious opinions in the same manner as he 
 advances in the science of astronomy. How essential then is that freedom of opin- 
 ion which our Founder sought to establish ! 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 STANZA XIII. 
 
 In a vast eaglets form embodied^ He 
 Did derr the deep on outstretcJied pinions spring. 
 It was the belief of the Chippewas, a tribe supposed to have descended from the 
 same original stock (Lenni Lenape) with the Narragansets, that, before the earth 
 appeared, all was one vast body of waters ; that the Great Spirit, assuming the shape 
 of a mighty eagle, whose eyes were as fire, and the sound of whose wings was as 
 thunder, passed over the abyss, and that, upon his touching the water, the earth rose 
 from the deep. It was a prevailing tradition among the Delawares and other tribes, 
 according to Heckewelder, that the earth was an island, supported on the back of a 
 huge tortoise, called in the text Unamis. It is the object of the author to embrace 
 in the text a selection of their scattered traditions on the subject of creation, and to 
 give them something like the consistency of a system. Waban, therefore, adopting 
 their leading ideas, has drawn out his description into the appropriate sequency of 
 events. Their Creator was a Manitto, a mysteriously operating power, and of the 
 same nature with that principle of causation which they felt in themselves, as con- 
 stituting their own being. The term Cowwewonck, in the Narraganset dialect, 
 signified the soul, and was derived from Cowwene, to sleep ; because, said they, it 
 operates when the body sleeps. Hence in the text, whilst the Great Spirit slept. He 
 is represented as commencing the work of creation — operating on the immense of 
 waters as a part of his own being, and imparting to it organic existences, (as the soul 
 from itself creates its own conceptions,) thus giving a sort of dreamy existence to the 
 earth and all living things, ere He assumed the shape of the eagle, and at his fiat 
 imparted to them substantial form and vital energy. The idea, that the earth was 
 raised out of the bosom of the Ocean, seems to have been pretty general amongst 
 the Aborigines. 
 
 STANZA XIX. 
 
 Yet man ivas not ; then Great Cawtantowit spoke 
 To tJie Imrd Qnountain crags^ and called for man. 
 
 According to the traditions of the Narragansets, the Great Spirit formed the first 
 man from a stone, which, disliking, he broke, and then formed another man and 
 woman from a tree ; and from this pair sprang the Indians. 
 
 STANZA XXII. 
 
 TJien did lie send Yotaanit on high — 
 Yotaanit was the God of Fire ; Keesuckquand, God of the Sun ; Nanapaushat, of 
 the Moon ; and Wamponand was the ruling Deity of the East. 
 
 STANZA XXIII. 
 
 All things were formed^ thus^from materials good, 
 And tJiefoul refuse every evil had ; 
 But it liadfelt the infiicence of tlte God — 
 {How siiould it not 1) — 
 Heckewelder ascribes to the Indians the opinion that nothing bad could proceed 
 
158 NOTES TO 
 
 from the Great and Good Spirit. Waban is here speaking- in conformity to that 
 opinion. Hence he represents the creation of Chepian, or the evil principle, as ari 
 incidental but necessary effect, yet forming- no part of the orig-inal design. 
 
 STANZA XXVII, 
 
 And manittoos^ that never death shall fear ^ 
 Do too ivithin this "inortalform abide. 
 " They conceive," says Williams, " that there are many g-ods, or divine powers, 
 within the body of man— in his pulse, heart, lung-s, &c." 
 
 STANZA XXVIII. 
 
 But if a sluggard and a coward.^ then 
 
 To rove all wretched in tJw gloom of night. ''^ 
 
 "They believe that the soules of men and women g-o to the southwest — their g-reat 
 and good men to Cawtantowit his house, where they have hopes, as the Turks have, 
 of carnal joys. Murtherers, liars, &c., their soules (say they) wander restless abroad." 
 —Williams' Key. 
 
 STANZA XXXVIII. 
 
 TJiis yet unproved and doubted by tJie best. 
 The Charter of Pennsylvania was g-ranted in 1681. The philanthropic Penn was 
 preceded by Williams in the adoption of a mild and pacific policy toward the na- 
 tives. Both seem to have been equally successful. 
 
 STANZA XLVI. 
 
 Ere dark pestilence 
 Devoured his warriors — laid its hundreds low^ 
 That sachem^ s war-wlwop roused to his defence 
 Four thousand bow-onen^ and fie still can show 
 A mighty force. 
 
 The pestilence, to which Waban has reference, is that which shortly preceded the 
 arrival of the Plymouth planters. The Wampanoag-s, before this calamity, were 
 relatively a powerful people. Patuxet, afterwards Plymouth, was then under the 
 g-overnment of their sachem, who, at times, made it his place of residence. ln<lot;xl 
 the whole countfy between Seekonk and the ocean, eastward, seems to have been 
 occupied by tribes more or less subject to him. Those toward the Cape and about 
 Buzzard's Bay were, however, rather his tributaries than his subjects. The difl'erent 
 clans or communities, in this extensive territory, were under the g-overnment of 
 many petty sachems, who reg-arded Ousainequin (aftewards Massasoit) as their chief. 
 Availing themselves of the misfortune of their neig-hbors, the Narragansets extended 
 their conquests eastward over some of these under-sachems ; and wheti Ousamequin 
 fled from Patuxet to Pokanoket, to avoid the devouring sickness, he found not only 
 Aquidnay, but a part of Pokanoket, subject to his enemies. (See note to stanza xxxiv 
 canto iv.) Pokanoket was the Indian name of the neck of land between Taunton 
 river on the east, and Seekonk and Providence rivers on the west. Mount Hope, 
 or Haup as it is called in the text, forms its southeastern extreme. The number of 
 warriors stated in the text as subject to Ousamequin, is hypothetical. Some of the 
 Nipnets were tributary to the Narrag-ansets, but the g-reater part of them were the 
 allies or subjects of the Wampanoag- Chief. 
 
 STANZA XLVI. 
 
 His highest chief is Corbitant the stern — 
 He bears a fox^s head and panthefs heart. 
 Mr. Winslow, who had frequent conferences with this chief, represents him as " a 
 
CANTO SECOND. 159 
 
 hollow-hearted friend to the Plymouth planters, a notable politician, &c." He, with 
 others, was suspected of conspiring- against the whites, and Captain Standish was 
 sent, on one occasion, to execute summary justice upon him and his confederates. 
 He however escaped, and afterwards made his peace with them through the media- 
 tion of Massasoit, His residence was at Mattapoiset, now Swanzey. 
 
 STANZA XLVII. 
 
 Yet oft their children bleed 
 When the far west sends down her Maquas fell — 
 Warriors who hungry on their victims steal^ 
 And make of human flesh a dreadful meal. 
 
 In compliance with the common orthography, the name of this tribe is written 
 Maqua. Williams says, that in the Narrag"anset dialect they were called Moha- 
 waug'suck, or Mauquauog, from mobo, to eat ; and were considered Cannibals. It 
 is probable, from its location, that he speaks of the same tribe under the name of 
 Mitucknechakick, or tree eaters, " a people," says he, " so called, living* between 
 three and four hundred miles west into the land, from their eating" Mituckquash — 
 that is, trees. They are men-eaters — they set no corn, but live on the bark of the 
 chestnut and other fine trees," &c. Ag-ain, he says, " The Maquaog-s, or men-eaters, 
 that live two or three hundred miles west," &c. Thus it is plain that the Maquas 
 were considered, by the Narragansets and their neighboring tribes. Cannibals. 
 
 STANZA XLVIII. 
 
 Here lies Namasket towWd the rising sun. 
 
 Namasket was within the limits of the territory which now constitutes the town- 
 ship of Middleborough, and was about fifteen miles from Plymouth. 
 
 Here farther down., Cohannefs banks upon., 
 Spreads broad Focasset, strong Appannow^s hold. 
 
 The territory under that name, now forms a part of Fall-River, Mass., and all, or 
 nearly all, Tiverton, R. I. The territory south to the sea, was called Sagkonate, 
 now written Sekonnet, or Seconnet, forming at this time the township of Little- 
 Compton. The northeasterly part of the island, of Aquidnay was also called Po- 
 casset. This word may be a derivative from the Indian name of the strait separating 
 the island from the mainland. The name ot the chieftain in the text must be re- 
 ceived exclusively on Waban's authority. 
 
 STANZA L. 
 
 Two mighty chiefs., one cautious., wise., and old, 
 One young and strong^ and terrible in fight., 
 All Narraganset and Coweset Jwld ; 
 One lodge they build — one council fire they light. 
 
 In a deposition of Williams, dated the 18th June, 1682, he says, that it was the 
 general and constant declaration that the father of Canonicus had three sons — that 
 Canonicus was his heir — that his youngest brother's son, whose name was Mianto- 
 nomi, was his marshal, or executioner, and did nothing without his consent. 
 
 Five tliousand warriors give tJieir arroivs flight. 
 
 This is the number at which Williams estimates them. Calendar says they were 
 a numerous, rich, and powerful people, and though they were, by some, said to 
 have been less fierce and warlike than the Pequols, yet it appears that they had, 
 before the English came, not only increased their numbers by receiving many who 
 
160 NOTES TO 
 
 fled to them from the devouring- sickness or plag-ue in other parts of the land, but 
 they had enlarged their territories, both on the eastern and western boundaries. 
 Their numbers must have diminished rapidly, as Hutchinson estimates their war- 
 riors in 1675 at two thousand ; this estimate, however, might not embrace those 
 tribes which were subject to, or dependant on them, when Williams entered the 
 country. They seem to have been a people greatly in advance of tkeir neighbors. 
 They excelled in the manufacture of Wampompeag, and supplied other nations 
 with it — also with pendants, bracelets, tobacco pipes of stone, and pots for cookery. 
 After the arrival of the whites, they traded with them for their goods, and supplied 
 other tribes with them at an advance. 
 
 STANZA LI. 
 
 Dark rolling Seekonk does their realm divide 
 From Pokanoket^ Massasoifs reign — 
 
 Under the general name of Narraganset, was included Narraganset proper and 
 Coweset. Narraganset proper extended south from what is now Warwick to the 
 ocean ; Coweset, from Narraganset northerly to the Nipmuck country, which now 
 forms Oxford, Mass., and some other adjoining towns. The western boundaries of 
 Narraganset and Coweset cannot be definitely ascertained. Gookins says, the Nar- 
 raganset jurisdiction extended thirty or forty miles from Seekonk river and Narra- 
 ganset bay, including the islands, southwesterly to a place called Wekapage, four or 
 five miles to the eastward of Pawcatuck river — that it included part of Long Island, 
 Block Island, Coweset and Niantick, and received tribute from some of the Nip- 
 mucks. After some research, I am induced to believe that the Nianticks occupied 
 the territory now called Westerly ; if so, then the jurisdiction of the Narragansets 
 extended to the Pawcatuck, and perhaps beyond it. The tribe next westward was 
 that which dwelt " in the twist of Pequot river," now called the Thames ; and was 
 under the control of the fierce and warlike Uncas, a chief who had rebelled against 
 Sassacus, the Pequot sachem, and detached from its allegiance a considerable por- 
 tion of his nation, of which he had formed a distinct tribe. 
 
 STANZA LIII. 
 
 Aivanux gave him strength^ and^ with strange fear ^ 
 Did M^antonomi at tJie big guns start. 
 
 "We cannot conceive," says Mourt in his journal, "but that he [Massasoit] is 
 willing to have peace with us ; for they have seen our people sometimes alone, 
 two or three in the woods at work and fowling, whereas they ofiered them no harm : 
 and especially, because he hath a potent adversary, the Narrohigansets, that are at 
 war with him, against whom he thinks we may be of some strength to him ; for our 
 pieces are terrible unto them." 
 
 STANZA LXXIV. 
 
 At length his vision opened on a space., 
 Ixvel and broad., and stretching witlbout boutid 
 Far towWd the south — nor rose., o'er all its face., 
 A tree., or shrvb^ or rock., or swelling mound. 
 
 It may excite our wonder that the barren plains of Seekonk should have been at 
 first selected by our Founder for a place of settlement. But it is possible that at the 
 time when the selection was made they were in a state, as to fertility, difierent from 
 their present. However this may be, one thing is certain, that Williams made the 
 selection during the winter, when vegetation afibrded no criterion of the soil, whilst 
 its very nakedness was in some respects a recommendation. It was an object with 
 
CANTO THIRD. 161 
 
 the early settlers to establish themselves in the neighborhood of some clearing-, and 
 particularly on meadows in the vicinity of rivers. These yielded pasturage through 
 the summer, and forage for their cattle during winter, and, it may be added, land 
 for tillage without the preparatory steps of clearing. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 STANZA VII. 
 
 War ! War ! my brother. 
 
 Williams says that, at the time of his first entering the Narraganset country, a 
 great contest was raging between Canonicus and Miantonomi on one side, and 
 Massasoit or Ousamequin on the other. Williams, at this time, had come to the 
 resslution of settling at Seekonk, on a part of the lands belonging to the latter 
 sachem. But should actual hostilities be commenced between these tribes, his situa- 
 tion would become peculiarly dangerous, occupying as he would, lands on the fron- 
 tiers of the weaker party. The Narragansets might regard his settlement as a mere 
 trading establishment, supplying their enemies with arms. Besides, the Narragan- 
 sets and Wampanoags, in many instances, laid claim to the same lands. [See note 
 to stanza the thirty-fourth, canto fourth.] To obtain a peaceable posssession of these 
 lands it was necessary to have the consent of both. A reconciliation, therefore, of 
 the contending tribes became indispensable. Williams incidentally mentions that 
 he travelled between them to satisfy them of his intentions to live peaceably by them, 
 and it is hardly possible that the equally necessary object of their reconciliation 
 was neglected. Indeed, we find, shortly after Williams entered their country, these 
 chiefs, so recently hostile, amicably granting their lands to him and his associates, 
 and one of them yielding to the authority of the other. Hence we may infer that 
 Williams not only attempted to pacify them, but that his efforts were crowned with 
 success. 
 
 Ousamequin, or Ashumequin, was the name of the Wampanoag chief, until about 
 the time of the Pequot war, when he assumed the name of Massasoit, or Massasoyt, 
 for it is variously written. The latter is used in the text as that by which he is most 
 generally designated. It was common for the Indians to change their names. That 
 of Miantonomi was originally Mecumeh. 
 
 STANZA VIII. 
 
 The Narraganset hatcJiet stained mith gore — 
 
 Miantonomi lifts it o'er his Jiead^ 
 
 Gives the loud battle yell^ and names our valiant dead. 
 
 To name the dead was considered a great indignity, and, among chiefs, a suffi- 
 cient cause for war. Philip pursued one who had thus offended to Nantucket. The 
 life of the offender was saved only by the interference of the whites. To avoid utter- 
 ing the names of the dead they used circumlocutions, such as S achem-aupan^ Nee- 
 mat-aupan ; the sachem that was here, our brother that was here. 
 
 STANZA XI. 
 
 And Annaivan.) who saw in after times 
 Brave Metacom, and all of kindred bloody 
 Slain^ or enslaved and sold to foreign climes. 
 
 Metacom was the original name of Philip. Annawan was the last of Philip's 
 captains that fell into the hands of the English. He was with Philip at the time he 
 
 21 
 
164 NOTES TO 
 
 dotn and merits stirred up the barbarous heart of Canonicus to love me as his own 
 son to the last g'asp, by which I had not only Miantonomi and all the Coweset 
 sachems my friends, but Ousamequin also, who, because of my ^reat friendship for 
 him at Plymouth, and the authority of Canonicus, consented freely, (being- also well 
 g-ratified by me,) to the Governor VVinihrop's and my enjoyment of Prudence, yea 
 of Providence itself, and all other parts I procured which were upon the point, and 
 in effect, whatever 1 desired of him." A distinction seems here to be intended be- 
 tween Prudence and other places. It is probable that Prudence was conquered by 
 the Narrag-ansets, whilst in possession of some under-sachem of Massasoit. And 
 when the latter renounced all claims to this Island, he at the same time assured to 
 Williams the peaceable enjoyment of Providence and all other places purchased of 
 him. 
 
 A similar state of thing-s appears in the deed, made by Canonicus and Miantonomi 
 to the settlers of Aquidnay, to have existed both in reference to that island and a 
 part of Pokanokct, where Massasoit resided. This deed or memorandum is as fol- 
 lows : " We, Canonicus and Miantonomi, the two chief sachems of Narrag-anset, by 
 virtue of our g-eneral command of the Bay, as also the particular subjecting- of the 
 dead sacheai of Aquidnick and Kitackumuckqut, [Kikemuet] themselves and lands 
 unto us, have sold uato Mr. Codding-ton and his friends united, the g-reat Island of 
 Acquidnick, lying- from hence eastward in this bay, as also the marsh or g-rass upon 
 Q,uinnannacut, [Conanicut] and the rest of the island in the bay, (excepting- Chu- 
 backuweda, fonuerly sold unto Mr. Winthrope, Governor of Massachusetts, and Mr. 
 Williams of Providence,) also the g-rass upon the rivers and coasts about Kitaka- 
 muckqut, and from thence to Pauparquatsh [Poppasquash] for the full payment of 
 forty fathoms of white beads." 
 
 Ousamequin was present, and granted the use of the g-rass and trees on the main 
 land, Pocasset side. Tradition points out the spot on which the battle wjis foug-ht 
 that decided the fate of Aquidnick, and assig-ns a date to the event anterior to the 
 arrival of the Eng-lish at Plymouth. Callender evidently considers it to have taken 
 place during- the g-reat sickness or plag-ue which prevailed among- the eastern Indians 
 before the coming- of the Whites. When the Eng-lish arrived, Massasoit was at 
 Pokanoket, in a part of that territory so recently wrested by the Narrag-ansets from 
 (probably) one of his under-sachems. He was then in no condition to resist any of 
 the demands of the victors, and there can be little doubt that he Submitted to them 
 as a tributary or subject chief. The arrival of the Eng-lish, however, g-ave him alhes, 
 and enabled iiim to set the Narrag-ansets at defiance. Hence the hostility of the Nar- 
 ragansets to the Whites ; and hence Massasoit's uniform adherence to them. That 
 Massasoit was considered by the Narragansets a tributary chief, and bound to com- 
 ply with the requsitions of their sachems, is rendered very probable by the following- 
 passag-e in Winthrope's Journal. It is under date of April, 1632 : 
 
 " The Governor received letters from Plymouth sig-nifying- that there had been a 
 broil between their men at Sowamset and the Narraganset Indians, who set upon 
 the Eng-lish house, there to have taken Ousamequin, the Sag-amore of Pokanoscott, 
 [Pokanoket] who fled thither with all the people for refug-e, and that Captain Stand- 
 ish, being- gone thither to relieve the English which were in the house, sent home in 
 all haste for more men and other provisions, upon intelligence that Canonicus was 
 coming with a great army against them. On that, they wrote to our Governor for 
 some powder to be sent with all possible speed, for it seemed they were unprovided. 
 Upon this the Governor presently dispatched away a messenger with so much pow- 
 der as he could carry, viz : twenty-seven pounds. The messenger returned and 
 brought a letter from the Governor, signifying that the Indians were retired from 
 Sowamset to fight the Pequins, [Pequots] which was probable ; because John Saga- 
 
CANTO THIRD. 161 
 
 the early settlers to establish themselves in the neig-hborhood of some clearing-, and 
 particularly on meadows in the vicinity of rivers. These yielded pasturag-e through 
 the summer, and forag-e for their cattle during- winter, and, it may be added, land 
 for tillag-e without the preparatory steps of clearing-. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 STANZA VII. 
 
 War I War ! ony h-other. 
 
 Williams says that, at the time of his first entering- the Narrag-anset country, a 
 great contest was rag-ing- between Canonicus and Miantonomi on one side, and 
 Massasoit or Ousamequin on the other. Williams, at this time, had come to the 
 resslution of settling- at Seekonk, on a part of the lands belong-ing- to the latter 
 sachem. But should actual hostilities be commenced between these tribes, his situa- 
 tion would become peculiarly dang-erous, occupying- as he would, lands on the fron- 
 tiers of the weaker party. The Narrag-ansets mig-ht reg-ard his settlement as a mere 
 trading- establishment, supplying- their enemies with arms. Besides, the Narrag-an- 
 sets and Wampanoag-s, in many instances, laid claim to the same lands. [See note 
 to stanza the thirty-fourth, canto fourth.] To obtain a peaceable posssession of these 
 lands it was necessary to have the consent of both. A reconciliation, therefore, of 
 the contending- tribes became indispensable. Williams incidentally mentions that 
 he travelled between them to satisfy them of his intentions to live peaceably by them, 
 and it is hardly possible that the equally necessary object of their reconciliation 
 was neg-lected. Indeed, we find, shortly after Williams entered their country, these 
 chiefs, so recently hostile, amicably g-ranting- their lands to him and his associates, 
 and one of them yielding- to the authority of the other. Hence we may infer that 
 Williams not only attempted to pacify them, but that his efforts were crowned with 
 success. 
 
 Ousamequin, or Ashumequin, was the name of the Wampanoag- chief, until about 
 the time of the Pequot war, when he assumed the name of Massasoit, or Massasoyt, 
 for it is variously written. The latter is used in the text as that by which he is most 
 g-enerally desig-nated. It was common for the Indians to change their names. That 
 of Miantonomi was orig-inally Mecumeh. 
 
 STANZA VIII. 
 
 Tlw Narraganset hatcJiet stained with gore — 
 
 Miantonomi lifts it der his Jiead^ 
 
 Gives the loud battle yell^ and names our valiant dead. 
 
 To name the dead was considered a g-reat indig-nity, and, among- chiefs, a suffi- 
 cient cause for war. Philip pursued one who had thus offended to Nantucket. The 
 life of the offender was saved only by the interference of the whites. To avoid utter- 
 ing- the names of the dead they used circumlocutions, such as S achcTn-aupan, Nee- 
 mat-aupan ; the sachem that was here, our brother that was here. 
 
 STANZA XI. 
 
 And Annaivan^ who saw in after thnes 
 Brave Metacom., and all of kindred bloody 
 Slain^ or enslaved and sold to foreign climes. 
 
 Metacom was the orig-inal name of Philip. Annawan was the last of Philip's 
 captains that fell into the hands of the Eng-lish. He was with Philip at the time he 
 
 21 
 
164 NOTES TO 
 
 dotn and merits stirred up the barbarous heart of Canonicus to love me as his own 
 Bon to the last g"asp, by which I had not only Miantonomi and all the Coweset 
 sachems my friends, but Ousamequin also, who, because of my g-reat friendship for 
 him at Plymouth, and the authority of Canonicus, consented freely, (being- also well 
 gratified by me,) to the Governor Winthrop's and my enjoyment of Prudence, yea 
 of Providence itself, and all other parts I procured which were upon the point, and 
 in effect, whatever 1 desired of him." A distinction seems here to be intended be- 
 tween Prudence and other places. It is probable that Prudence was conquered by 
 the Narrag-ansets, whilst in possession of some under-sachem of Massasoit. And 
 when the latter renounced all claims to this Island, he at the same time assured to 
 Williams the peaceable enjoyment of Providence and all other places purchased of 
 him. 
 
 A similar state of thing's appears in the deed, made by Canonicus and Miantonomi 
 to the settlers of Aquidnay, to have existed both in reference to that island and a 
 part of Pokanoket, where Massasoit resided. This deed or memorandum is as fol- 
 lows : " We, Canonicus and Miantonomi, the two chief sachems of Narrag-anset, by 
 virtue of our general command of the Bay, as also the particular subjecting- of the 
 dead sachem of Aquidnick and Kitackumuckqut, [Kikemuel] themselves and lands 
 unto us, have sold unto Mr. Coddington and his friends united, the great Island of 
 Acquidnick, lying- from hence eastward in this bay, as also the marsh or g-rass upon 
 Quinnannacut, [Conanicut] and the rest of the island in the bay, (excepting- Chu- 
 backuweda, formerly sold unto Mr. Winthrope, Governor of Massachusetts, and Mr. 
 Williams of Providence,) also the g-rass upon the rivers and coasts about Kitaka- 
 muckqut, and from thence to Pauparquatsh [Poppasquash] for the full payment of 
 forty fathoms of white beads." 
 
 Ousamequin was present, and granted the use of the g-rass and trees on the main 
 land, Pocasset side. Tradition points out the spot on which the battle was foug-ht 
 that decided the fate of Aquidnick, and assigns a date to the event anterior to the 
 arrival of the English at Plymouth. Callender evidently considers it to have taken 
 place during- the g-reat sickness or plague which prevailed among- the eastern Indians 
 before the coming of the Whites. When the English arrived, Massasoit was at 
 Pokanoket, in a part of that territory so recently wrested by the Narragansets from 
 (probably) one of his under-sachems. He was then in no condition to resist any of 
 the demands of the victors, and there can be little doubt that he submitted to them 
 as a tributary or subject chief. The arrival of the Eng-lish, however, gave him allies, 
 and enabled him to set the Narragansets at defiance. Hence the hostility of the Nar- 
 ragansets to the Whites ; and hence Massasoit's uniform adherence to them. That 
 Massasoit was considered by the Narragansets a tributary chief, and bound to com- 
 ply with the requsitions of their sachems, is rendered very probable by the following 
 passage in Winthrope's Journal. It is under date of April, 1632 : 
 
 " The Governor received letters from Plymouth signifying that there had been a 
 broil between their men at Sowamset and the Narraganset Indians, who set upon 
 the English house, there to have taken Ousamequin, the Sagamore of Pokanoscott, 
 [Pokanoket] who fled thither with all the people for refuge, and that Captain Stand- 
 ish, being gone thither to relieve the English which were in the house, sent home in 
 all haste for more men and other provisions, upon intelligence that Canonicus was 
 coming with a great army against them. On that, they wrote to our Governor for 
 some powder to be sent with all possible speed, for it seemed they were unprovided. 
 Upon this the Governor presently dispatched away a messenger with so much pow- 
 der as he could carry, viz : twenty-seven pounds. The messenger returned and 
 brought a letter from the Governor, signifying that the Indians were retired from 
 Sowamset to fight the Pequins, [Pequots] which was probable ; because John Saga- 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 165 
 
 more and Chickatabott were gone, with all their men, to Cainonicus, Who had sent 
 for themi" 
 
 Here Canonicus, on the point of marching- ag-ainst the Pequots, sent to certain 
 sachems of Massachusetts to join hira ; there is little doubt but that the same requi* 
 sition was made of Massasoit; and attempted to be enforced. He took shelter, how- 
 ever, under the English, and the Narragansets finding that they could not compel 
 obedience without involving themselves in a war with the English, retired and 
 prosecuted the expedition without his assistance. But in 1636, when they were 
 somewhat relieved from the pressure of their enemies, they were probably about 
 engaging in a war with the Wampanoags, to punish this contempt pf^ tbe^.chi^'f 
 authority. Hence the great contest to which Williams alludes. ;. r.^ r^ aitx's ii^^j 
 
 As a further proof that Massasoit was in some sort a subordinate sachem of thef 
 Narraganset chiefs, it may be added, that the above deed of Aquidnick appears to 
 have been made in his presence, and that he and his tribe were afterwards compen- 
 sated for their rights in the lands conveyed. Those rights were therefore considered 
 of a character subordinate to those of the Narraganset chiefs. 
 
 Since the foregoing remarks were written, the author has noticed a deposition of 
 Williams, quoted by Backus in his History of the Baptists, and dated twenty-five 
 years after the settlement of Providence was commenced, which applies directly to 
 the question here discussed, and abundantly confirms the views already taken^ 
 Williams, in his deposition, says, *' After I had obtained this place, now called 
 Providence, of Canonicus and Miantonomi, [the chief Nanhiganset sachems,] Osa- 
 maquin laid his claim to this place also. This forced me to repair to the Nanhigan- 
 set sachems aforesaid, who declared that Osamaquin was their subject, and had sol- 
 emnly, himself in person with ten men, subjected himself and his lands unto them 
 at the Nanhiganset, only now he seemed to revolt from his loyalty, under the shel- 
 ter of the English at Plymouth. This I declared from the Nanhiganset sachems to 
 Osamaquin, who without any stick acknowledged to be true that he had so subjected^ 
 as the Nanhiganset sachems had afl&rmed ; [but] that he was not subdued by war, 
 which himself and his father had maintained against the Nanhigansets ; but God, 
 said he, subdued us by a plague which swept away my people, amd forced me, to 
 yield." 
 
 STANZA XXXVI. 
 
 They were the Yengee's men, not ours, they said. 
 
 "He [Massasoit] also talked of the French, bidding us not to suffer them to come 
 to Narrohiganset ; for it was King James his country, and he was King James hia 
 man." — MourVs Journal. 
 
 STANZA XXXVni. 
 
 He speaks a Manittoo! 
 
 "There is a general custom amongst them," says WilliarriB, " at the apprehension 
 of any excellence in men or women, birds, bejtsts, or fish, &c., to cry out Manittoo ! 
 that is, it is a god ; as thus, if they see one man excel others in wisdom, valor, 
 strength, or activity, they cry out Manittoo !" 
 
 STANZA XLII. 
 
 And for the Pequot deeds Awanux grieves. 
 
 " News came to Plymouth that Captain Stone, who last summer went otJt of the 
 Bay or Lake, and so to Aquawaticus, where he took in Captain Norton, putting in 
 at the mouth of Connecticut, (on his way to Virginia,) where the Pequins [Pequots] 
 inhabit, was cut off with all his company, being eight in number."— ffin^Arop'* 
 Journal. 
 
168 NOTES TO 
 
 g-enerally writes it Aquidnay, and the author has chosen so to write it, for no other 
 reason, than that the sound is a little more ag-reeable. There is some reason to con- 
 clude that Aquetnet is nearer its true etymolog-y. See the following- note. 
 
 STANZA LXXI. 
 
 AfiotJier sacJiem sways 
 TJie Isle of peace. 
 Aquene sig-nified, in the Narrag-anset dialect, peace. It is possible that Aquetnet, 
 as the name of this island has been sometimes written, may be its derivative ; et is 9. 
 termination usually denoting- place. But whether this be or be not its etymology, 
 the desig-nation is not inapplicable, since the island must have been a place of secu- 
 rity ag-ainst the roving- Maquas, Pequots, Tarrateens, &c. 
 
 STANZA LXXIII. 
 
 Tliere sowams gleams, if najTies the Muse aright, 
 
 Till far in forests brown his glories fade. 
 
 Calender intimates that sowams is properly the name of a river, where the two 
 
 Swansey rivers meet and run tog-ether for near a mile, when they empty themselves 
 
 in the Narrag-anset Bay. Sowamset may, therefore, indicate some town or other 
 
 place on the banks of the river. These names have been used by some as synonymes. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 STANZA III. 
 
 Wlw with the laboring axe, 
 On Seekonk^s eastern marge, invades tlm wood. 
 
 Nothing- is said of Williams, by the histories of the age, from the time he left 
 Salem, until his expulsion from Seekonk, afterwards called Rehoboth. We learn, 
 from some of Williams' letters, that, after purchashing- land from Massasoit, he 
 there built and planted, before he was informed by Governor Winslow that he was 
 within the limits of the Plymouth patent. Until this information, he had supposed 
 himself to be beyond the limits of either Plymouth or Massachusetts. And, cer- 
 t^irily, the languag-e of the Plymouth patent was sufficiently equivocal to counte- 
 nance almost any construction of it in reference to the w^estern (otherwise called 
 southern) bounds of its grant. I will transcribe its words, that the reader may judge 
 for himself. It grants the lands " lying- between Cohasset rivulet toward the north, 
 and Narraganset river toward the south, the great Western Ocean toward the east, 
 and a straight line, extending into the main land toward the west, from the mouth 
 of Narraganset river to the utmost bounds of a country called Pokanoket, alias 
 Sowamset, and another straig-ht line, extending directly from the mouth of Cohasset 
 river toward the west, so far into the main land westward, as the utmost limits of 
 Pokanoket, alias Sowamset." 
 
 What is here intended by Narrag-anset river? Is it the bay or some river falling- 
 into the bay 7 What is intended by the utmost bounds of Pokanoket ? Do the 
 words of the patent include or exclude that territory 7 The truth is, that the geog-- 
 raphy of the country was, at that time, very imperfectly understood, and the words 
 of the patent are not a true description of the territory intended to be g-ranted. The 
 charter of Rhode Island is a proof that the Plymouth patent was not considered as 
 embracing- within its limits what is called Pokanoket, alias Sowamset ; since that 
 charter covers a considerable part of that very territory. But, if Pokanoket was not 
 
CANTO FOURTH* 165 
 
 more and Chickatabott were gone, with all their men, to Canonicus, who had sent 
 for them." 
 
 Here Canonicus, on the point of marching- ag-ainst the Pequots, sent to certaia 
 sachems of Massachusetts to join him ; there is little doubt but that the same requi- 
 sition was made of Massasoit, and attempted to be enforced. He took shelter, how- 
 ever, under the Eng-lish, and the Narrag^ansets finding" that they could not compel 
 obedience without involving" themselves in a war with the Eng"lish, retired and 
 prosecuted the expedition without his assistance. But in 1636, when they were 
 somewhat relieved from the pressure of their enemies, they were probably about 
 eng-ag-ing" in a war with the Wampanoags, to punish this contempt of their chief '» 
 authority. Hence the great contest to which Williams alludes. 
 
 As a further proof that Massasoit was in some sort a subordinate sachem of the 
 Narrag-anset chiefs, it may be added, that the above deed of Aquidnick appears to 
 have been made in his presence, and that he and his tribe were afterwards compen- 
 sated for their rights in the lands conveyed. Those rights were therefore considered 
 of a character subordinate to those of the Narraganset chiefs. 
 
 Since the foregoing remarks were written, the author has noticed a deposition of 
 Williams, quoted by Backus in his History of the Baptists, and dated twenty-five 
 years after the settlement of Providence was commenced, which applies directly to 
 the question here discussed, and abundantly confirms the views already taken. 
 Williams, in his deposition, says, " After I had obtained this place, now called 
 Providence, of Canonicus and Miantonomi, [the chief Nanhiganset sachems,] Osa- 
 maquin laid his claim to this place also. This forced me to repair to the Nanhigan- 
 set sachems aforesaid, who declared that Osamaquin was their subject, and had sol- 
 emnly, himself in person with ten men, subjected himself and his lands unto them 
 at the Nanhiganset, only now he seemed to revolt from his loyalty, under the shel- 
 ter of the English at Plymouth. This I declared from the Nanhiganset sachems to 
 Osamaquin, who without any stick acknowledged to be true that he had so subjected, 
 as the Nanhiganset sachems had affirmed ; [but] that he was not subdued by war, 
 which himself and his father had maintained against the Nanhigansets ; but God, 
 said he, subdued us by a plague which swept away my people, and forced me to 
 yield." 
 
 STANZA XXXVI. 
 
 They were tlie Yengee's men^ twt ours^ they said. 
 
 " Hfe [Massasoit] also talked of the French, bidding us not to suffer them to come 
 to Narrohiganset ; for it was King James his country, and he was King James his 
 man." — Mourfs Journal. 
 
 STANZA XXXVIII. 
 
 He speaks a Manittoo ! 
 
 "There is a general custom amongst them," says Williams, "at the apprehension 
 of any excellence in men or women, birds, beasts, or fish, &c., to cry out Manittoo ! 
 that is, it is a god ; as thus, if they see one man excel others in wisdom, valor, 
 strength, or activity, they cry out Manittoo !" 
 
 STANZA XLII. 
 
 And for the Pequot deeds Awanux grieves. 
 
 " News came to Plymouth that Captain Stone, who last summer went out of the 
 Bay or Lake, and so to Aquawaticus, where he took in Captain Norton, putting in 
 at the mouth of Connecticut, (on his way to Virginia,) where the Pequins [Pequots] 
 inhabit, was cut off" with all his company, being eight in number." — Winthrop's 
 Journal. 
 
mi 
 
 168 NOTES TO 
 
 generally writes it Aquidnay, and the author has chosen so to write it, for no other 
 reason, than that the sound is a little more agreeable. There is some reason to con- 
 clude that Aquetnet is nearer its true etymology. See the following note. 
 
 STANZA LXXI. 
 
 ns aim.'.: Another sachem sways 
 
 9i!Xvv ; ;. 1..-. The Isle of peace. 
 
 '^!i|^«ne sfj^Hied, in the Narraganset dialect, peace. It is possible that Aquetnet, 
 as the name of this island has been sometimes written, may be its derivative ; c^ is a 
 termination usually denoting place. But whether this be or be not its etymology, 
 the designation is not inapplicable, since the island must have been a place of secu- 
 jdty ag-sdnst the roving Maquas, Pequots, Tarrateens, &c. 
 
 im^or.i.0. :..ch:- .ai ^.v.;. : STANZA LXXIII. 
 
 There sowams gleams^ if naines the Muse aright.^ 
 V.J iM-:.:v.. Till far in forests brown his glories fade. 
 
 Calender intimates that sowams is properly the name of a river, where the two 
 Swansey rivers meet and run together for near a mile, when they empty themselves 
 in the Narraganset Bay. Sowamset may, therefore, indicate some town or other 
 place on the banks of the river. These names have been used by some as synonymes. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 <.t«tv..d3r.*3o^n. STANZA m. 
 
 ,faam4?ici:-. ,vr;&.ev WJw with the laboring axe^ 
 
 .xsr!f7Q : in::;.0^ Seekonk^s eastern marge^ invades the wood. 
 
 Nothing is said of Williams, by the histories of the age, from the time he left 
 Salem, until his expulsion from Seekonk, afterwards called Rehoboth. We learn, 
 from some of Williams' letters, that, after purchashing land from Massasoit, he 
 there built and planted, before he was informed by Governor Winslow that he was 
 within the limits of the Plymouth patent. Until this information, he had supposed 
 himself to be beyond the limits of either Plymouth or Massachusetts. And, cer- 
 tainly, the language of the Plymouth patent was sufficiently equivocal to counte- 
 nance almost any construction of it in reference to the western (otherwise called 
 southern) bounds of its grant. I will transcribe its words, that the reader may judge 
 for himself. It grants the lands " lying between Cohasset rivulet toward the north, 
 and Narraganset river toward the south, the great Western Ocean toward the east, 
 and a straight line, extending into the main land toward the west, from the mouth 
 of Narraganset river to the utmost bounds of a country called Pokanoket, alias 
 Sowamset, and another straight line, extending directly from the mouth of Cohasset 
 river toward the west, so far into the main land westward, as the utmost limits of 
 Pokanoket, alias Sowamset." 
 
 What is here intended by Narraganset river 1 Is it the bay or some river falling 
 into the bay ? What is intended by the utmost bounds of Pokanoket 1 Do the 
 words of the patent include or exclude that territory 7 The truth is, that the geog- 
 raphy of the coimtry was, at that time, very imperfectly understood, and the words 
 of the patent are not a true description of the territory intended to be granted. The 
 charter of Rhode Island is a proof that the Plymouth patent was not considered as 
 embracing within its limits what is called Pokanoket, alias Sowamset ; since that 
 charter covers a considerable part of that very territory. But, if Pokanoket was not 
 
CANTO SEVENTH. 169 
 
 included by the Plymouth patent, Williams oug-ht not to have been treated as a tres- 
 passer. It is not my purpose to discuss the question of boundaries. These observa- 
 tions are made for the purpose of showing- that Williams had his reasons for believ- 
 ing- that he was out of the jurisdiction of Plymouth. 
 
 STANZA XXVIII. 
 
 Ancl brandishing his blacle, lie jeering said^ 
 That vengeance gave it eyes and appetite ; 
 It soon would eat — but eat in silerwe dread. 
 
 " He [an Indian slain by Standish] brag-g-ed of the excellency of his knife : Hin- 
 7iaim namen, hinnaim michen, matia cuts : that is to say, by and by it should see, by 
 and by it should eat, but not speak." 
 
 STANZA XXX. 
 
 And feign some vestige of maraiiding foe^ 
 To shift suspicion and his guilt conxxal. 
 
 When the Indians were desirous of involving- a neutral tribe in their wars, it 
 seems to have been a common artifice to kill an enemy and leave the war club or the 
 arrow of the neutral party by the dead body. 
 
 CANTO SEVENTH. 
 
 STANZA V. 
 
 That flock noiv torn ivith strife^ tlieir sJiepherd from them riven. 
 
 The opinions for which Williams was banished, were but the beg-inning- of schism 
 in the Massachusetts churches, and his banishment but the commencement of perse- 
 cution. Many members of the church of Salem still adhered to him, and finally 
 followed him to Providence. 
 
 STANZA XXIV. 
 
 O'er yo7i far distant broiv 
 Smokes in the vale Neponsefs peopled town. 
 
 Neponset is the name of a river in Massachusetts. On the banks of this river 
 there seems to have been several Indian towns or villag-es, at the time of Williams' 
 banishment. 
 
 STANZA LXII. 
 
 And by th£ lock he hdd a trunkless head. 
 
 " Timequassin, to cut off, or behead, which they are most skillful to do in fig^ht." — 
 Williams' Key. 
 
 CANTO EIGHTH. 
 
 STANZA XVI. 
 
 Wlio cannot see., 
 • That a dark cloud o'er our Neiv England lowers ? 
 
 The tender co7iscience struggles to be free — 
 The tyrant struggles^ and retains his power. 
 
 Williams seems to have had a strong- presentiment that a season of persecution 
 was approaching-, and often expressed a desire, that his plantation might he a shelter 
 for -persons distressed for conscience. 
 
 22 
 
170 NOTES TO 
 
 STANZA XIX. 
 
 And^ through the eve^ some reasoning^ I opine^ 
 (Fa?' all may err) a weighty tlwine upon^ 
 May not he deemed amiss. 
 
 It was the first intention of the author to have drawn the materials of the conver- 
 sation in the text from the controversy between Williams and Cotton ; but, on ex- 
 amination, he was satisfied that it was not suited to a performance of this kind. 
 This controversy orig-inatcd as follows : A prisoner (one who was doubtless suffer- 
 ing- for heretical opinions) addressed a letter to a Mr. Hall, in which he discussed 
 and aro"ued ag^ainst the rig-ht of g-overnment to persecute for matters of conscience. 
 Hall sent this letter to Mr. Cotton, who answered it. Hall, dissatisfied with the 
 answer, transmitted it to Williams. In the hands of Williams it remained some 
 time ; for he was strug-g-ling" with all the difficulties incident to his situation at Prov- 
 idence. He however composed a reply to Cotton's answer, which he entitled the 
 Bloody Tenent. He says it was written whilst eng-ag-ed at the hoe and oar, toiling- 
 for bread — whilst attending- on Parliament — in a chang-e of rooms and places ; in a 
 variety of strang-e houses ; sometimes in the field, in the midst of travel ; where he 
 had been forced to g-ather and scatter his loose thoug-hts and papers. And, certainly, 
 considerin"" the circumstances in which it was composed, it is a work calculated to 
 increase our admiration of the man. The Bloody Tenent, tog-ether with Mr. Cot- 
 ton's answer to the prisoner's letter, was published in London, at a time when his 
 puritan brethren in Eng-land were addressing- him and others in Massachusetts, 
 with most earnest remonstrances ag-ainst their cruel persecutions of other denom- 
 inations. 
 
 He, in his replies, had been endeavoring to extenuate and excuse the conduct of 
 the civil g-overnment, and had taken particular care to exculpate himself. It is easy, 
 therefore, to conceive what a shock this reverend dig-nitary must have suffered, when 
 his answer to the prisoner's letter, which went in principle the full leng-th of the 
 most unsparing- persecution, tog-ether with Williams' reply, was published and cir- 
 culated among the brethren there. He instantly raised a cry, that Williams was 
 persecuting him, by publishing- his answer to the prisoner's letter, and commenting- 
 upon it. But he felt himself under the necessity of doing- something- more. His 
 brethren in Eng-land would require some sort of justification, and one consistent 
 with the sentiments he had already expressed in his letters to them. Hence the con- 
 troversy between him and Williams, is, on the part of Cotton, a sophistical attempt to 
 avoid the charg-e of persecuting- for matters of conscience. We do not persecute con- 
 sciences, says he, but we do punish those who commit violence on their own con- 
 sciences. If the reader should be so curiovis as to inquire, how Mr. Cotton ascer- 
 tained when a man committed violence on his own conscience, I will state his pro- 
 cess as I understand it. When it was discovered that any member entertained 
 opinions inconsistent with the fundamental doctrines of the order to which he be- 
 longed, he was in the first place called before the church, and admonished of his 
 error. If he still persisted, he was summoned before the magistracy, where the 
 charges were specified, and the magistracy determined whether he was or was not 
 convinced in his own mind of his errors. His judges never failed to be satisfied 
 that he was convinced. If the accused afterwards persisted in his opinions, he was 
 considered as one committing violence on his own conscience, and treated as an 
 incorrigible heretic and disturber of the peace, and as such banished, imprisoned, 
 scourged, or hanged, as the enormity of his heretical opinions might require. I 
 have necessarily given the conversation between Williams and the Plymouth elder 
 t turn different from that of the controversy betvvecn him and Cotton ; but have 
 
CANTO EIGHTH. 171 
 
 endeavored to preserve something- of the tone of feeling- which pervades the latter. 
 I flatter myself, however, that the Plymouth elder is a more moderate man than Mr. 
 Cotton. As a proof, hear Mr. Cotton in his own words set forth the advantages 
 which a state derives from persecuting- heretics, and the summary mode in which 
 the civil mag-istrate may deal with them. 
 
 To the question of Mr. Williams, What glory to God — what g-ood to the souls and 
 bodies of their subjects, did these princes bring- in persecuting 7 Mr Cotton thus 
 replies : "The g-ood that is broug-ht to princes and subjects, by the due punishment 
 of apostate seducers and idolaters and blcisphemers, is manifold. 
 
 First ; It putteth away evil from the people, and cutteth off a g-angrene which 
 would spread to further ungodliness. 
 
 Secondly ; It driveth away wolves from worrying- and scattering- the sheep of 
 Christ ; (for false teachers be wolves.) 
 
 " Thirdly ; Such executions upon such evil doers causeth all the country to hear 
 and fear, and do no more such wickedness. 
 
 Fourthly ; The punishments, executed upon false prophets and seducing- teachers, 
 do bring- down showers of God's blessings upon tiie civil state. 
 
 Fifthly ; It is an honor to God's justice that such judgments are executed." 
 
 He says, " If there be stones in the streets the magistrate need not fetch a sword 
 from the smith's shop, nor a halter from the roper's, to punish a heretic." 
 
 It will appear that time has made no improvement upon the leading- principles of 
 Williams, as gathered from different parts of his replies to Cotton. He says that 
 " the people are the origin of all free power in g-overnment." " That the people are 
 not invested by Christ Jesus with power to rule his Church." That they can g-ive 
 no such power to the magistrate. " That the kingdom of Christ is spiritual " — that 
 to introduce the civil sword into this spiritual kingdom is " to confound Heaven and 
 earth together, and lay all upon heaps of confusion" — " Is to take Christ and make 
 him king- by force (.John vi, 15) — to make his king-dom of this world — to set up a 
 civil and temporal Israel — to bound out new earthly lands of Canaan ; yea, and to 
 set up a Spanish inquisition, in all parts of the world, to the speedy destruction of 
 millions of souls," &c. 
 
 Cotton says, " that when the kingdoms of this earth become the king'doms of the 
 Lord, it is not by making- Christ a temporal king- ; but by making- the temporal 
 kingdoms nursing- fathers to the Church" — " that relig-ion was not to be propagated 
 by the sword ; but protected and preserved by it." 
 
 Williams replies, " that the husbandman weeds his g-arden to increase his grain, 
 and that consequently it is the object of the hand that destroys the heretic to make 
 the Christian" — "That the sword may make a nation of hypocrites, but not of 
 Christians," &c. 
 
 I have thrown together these few detached sentences, that the reader, who may 
 have little inclination to peruse a controversy on a question which happily has no 
 place in the present age, may form some opinion of its character. The discussion 
 occupies two considerable volumes. 
 
 STANZA XL. 
 
 Williams^ lie said^ it is my thankless lot^ 
 Thee tvitJt no j^ieasaM message now to greet ; 
 Not hath our Winsloiv^ in his cJmrge^forgot 
 (For his behest I hear and ivords repeat) 
 His former friendshiiJ^ hut right loath is he 
 To vex his neighbors hy obliging thee. 
 
 After Williams had built and planted at Seekonk, he was visited by a messenger 
 
172 NOTES TO 
 
 from Plymouth witli a letter from Winslow, then Gov^ernor. Professing- his and others 
 friendship for him, he lovingly advised Williams, since he had fallen into the edg-e 
 of their bounds, and they were loath to displease the Bay, to remove but to the other 
 side of the water, and there he had the country before him, and mig-ht be as free as 
 themselves, and they should be loving- neig-hbors together. — See Williams' letter to 
 Mason. Mass. His. Col. 
 
 STANZA XLV, 
 
 By tfte black prophet was to Dudley sJioivn 
 
 Thy purchase feigned — by Jdvi to us made knoivn. 
 
 Williams, in his letter to Mason, says, that Governor Winthrop and some of the 
 council of Massachusetts were disposed to recall him from banishment, and confer 
 upon him some mark of disting-uishcd favor for his services. " It is known," says 
 Williams, "who hindered — who never promoted the liberty of other men's con- 
 sciences." Mr. Davis, in a note to his edition of the New Eng-land Memorial, 
 conjectures that he alludes to Mr. Dudley. The reader will not consider me as 
 doing- violence to historical probability, by supposing- that this man g-ave informa- 
 tion to the mag-istrates of Plymouth that Williams had established himself within 
 the limits of their patent, and required his expulsion. He was the author of the 
 following- lines : 
 
 " Let men of God in courts and churches watch 
 
 O'er such as do a toleration hatch. 
 
 Lest that ill eg-g- bring- forth a cockatrice 
 
 To poison all with heresy and vice. 
 
 If men be left and otherwise conibitie, 
 
 My epitaph's I dy'd no libertine." 
 Yet we ought, perhaps, to blame the system, rather tlian tlic magistrate whose 
 duty it was to carry it into effect. 
 
 STANZA XLVI. 
 
 God gave James Stuart this^ and James gave us. 
 
 The patents of the companies which settled in this covmtry granted them lands 
 without any reference to the rights of the natives. But the companies never availed 
 themselves of these grants to that extent. Whatever may have been their opinions, 
 they acted under them as if they had only invested them with the right of pre-emp- 
 tion. Cotton Mather is the only historian, that I recollect, who makes a merit of 
 paying the Indians for their lands, and of not expelling them immediately from the 
 soil in virtue of these patents. 
 
 CANTO NINTH. 
 
 ,STANZA III. 
 
 Earhj that morn^ beside the tranquil flood ^ 
 Wliere, ready trhnmed^ rode Wal)an)s frail canoe ^ 
 Tlie banisJied man^ his spouse and children stood^ 
 And bade titeir lately bloo^ning Jioj^es adimi. 
 
 1 have represented Williams, throughout this narrative, as unaccompanied by any 
 of his Salem friends. And sucli, I think, was the fact up to the time he left, or was 
 about leaving, Seekonk. Indeed, there was no necessity for any of his friends to 
 accompany him in his flight from Salem " in the winter's snow." They could 
 
CANTO NINTH. 173 
 
 render him no assistance in neg-otiations with the Indians. — They could not allevi- 
 ate his hardships by participating- in them. But what seems to settle the question, 
 (if in fact it be a question) is, that he himself, thoug-h he frequently alludes to his 
 sufiering-s and transactions " during- that bitter cold winter," no where intimates that 
 any white man participated in them. He uniformly speaks in the first person sin- 
 g-ular : " I was sorely tossed for fourteen weeks — I left Salem in the winter's snow — 
 1 found a g-reat contest g-oing- on between the chiefs — I travelled between them — I 
 first pitched and beg-an to build and plant at Seekonk — I received a messag-e from 
 Mr. Winslow — I crossed the Seekonk and settled at Mooshausick." It is strang-o 
 that he shovild, on no occasion, mention that some of his friends suffered with him, 
 if any actually did. All accurate information concerning- Williams, during- these 
 fourteen weeks, must, I apprehend, be drawn from his writing-s ; and I have chosen 
 to follow them. And indeed had he been accompanied by one, or more of his 
 friends, they could not have aided the author in the conduct of his narrative, any 
 more than they could have borne a part in the trials and labors of Williams. 
 
 Williams says that he mortg-ag-ed his house and land in Salem to g-o throug-h, and 
 all that came with him afterwards were not eng-aged, but came and went at pleasure ; 
 but he was forced to g-o throug-h and stay by it. (His purchase of the Indians.) 
 
 I have not been able to ascertain in what particular part of Seekonk Williams 
 attempted to form his plantation, and have consequently felt myself at liberty to 
 suppose it was in the neig-hborhood of Pawtucket Falls. 
 
 STANZA XXV, 
 
 " Netop^ IVhatcJteer .'" broke on the listening ear. 
 
 Netop — friend. The tradition is, that when Williams in a canoe approached the 
 eastern banks of the river, at a place now called Whatcheer Cove, he saw a g-athering- 
 of the natives. When he had come within hail, he was accosted by them in broken 
 Eng-lish with the friendly salutation, " Wha-cheer ! Wha-cheer !" Here he landed, and 
 was kindly received by them. The land which was afterwards set off to him inclu- 
 ded this spot, and he commemorated the amicable g-reeting- of his Indian friends by 
 naming- the field there assig-ned to him the Manor of Whatcheer, or Whatcheer Manor. 
 This field is now the property of Governor Fenner, and the field adjoining- it, which 
 was likewise set off to Williams, has continued to the present day in the possession 
 of his descendants. We are probably indebted to the name which Williams g-ave 
 the first mentioned field, for the preservation of this tradition. 
 
 STANZA XXXVllI. 
 
 Ay^ almost Jiears the future pavements jar 
 Beneath a people^ s wealthy and Jialf divines^ 
 From thee^ Soul-Liberty ! tvhat bright glories wait 
 Thy earliest altars — thy predestined state. 
 
 To show that Williams was not without a presentiment of the temporal advantag-cs 
 that mig-ht arise to his projected settlement, from a full liberty in relig-ious concern- 
 ments, I quote the following- from his memorial to Parliament, prefixed to his Bloody 
 Tenent made more bloody, &c. Speaking- of Holland he says : " From Enchuysen, 
 therefore, a den of persecuting- lions and mountain leopards, the persecuted fled to 
 Amsterdam, a poor fishing- town, yet harborous and favorable to the flying-, thoug-h 
 dissenting- consciences. This confluence of the persecuted, by God's most g-racious 
 coming- with them, drew boats — drew trade — drew shipping-, and that so mig-htily in 
 so short a time, that shipping-, trade, wealih, g-reatness, honor, (almost to astonish- 
 ment in the eyes of all Europe and the world,) have appeared to fall, as out of 
 Heaven, in a crown or garland upon the head of this poor fishertown." 
 
174 NOTES TO 
 
 STANZA XLI. 
 
 From imld PawUicket to Pawtuxet^s bounds^ 
 To thee and thine he all the teeming grounds. 
 
 The first grant made by Canonicus and Miantonomi to Williams, appears to havo 
 been a verbal grant of all the lands and meadows upon the two fresh rivers, called 
 Mooshausick and Wanaskatuoket ; but on the 24th of March, 1637, they confirmed 
 this g-rant by deed, and, in consideration of the many kindnesses and services he 
 was constantly rendering* them, made the bounds Pawtuxet river on the south, 
 Pawtucket on the northwest, and the town of Mashapaug-e on the west. This grant 
 includes nearly all the county of Providence, and a part of the county of Kent. 
 
 STANZA XLII. 
 
 For at that moment down tJie boundless range 
 Of angel spheres^ did some bright being take 
 Wing to the soid^ arid ivrought to suited cJmnge 
 The visual nerve^ and straight in outward space 
 Its form stands manifest in all its heavetdy grace. 
 
 This passag-e, it is true, supposes action on the mind by a supernatural being-, but 
 it docs not suppose the outward bodily manifestation of the ang-elic form described. 
 It simply supposes the image or conception, wroug-ht in the mind by the supernatural 
 ag"ency, to extemize itself throug-h a chang-e effected by a sympathetic action in the 
 visual org-an. Or, in other words, it supposes the internal imag^e to become so dis- 
 tinct as to reflect itself into the retina and overcome the action of external objects 
 thereon ; whereby the internal imag-e is made to appear in the field of vision as an 
 external reality. In justification of this idea, I am g-lad to have it in my power to 
 refer to No, C. of the Family Library, entitled " Outlines of Disordered Mental 
 Action, by Professor Upham, of Bowdoin Colleg-e" — p. 117. 
 
 I feel that these remarks are due to the very friendly criticism which this poem 
 has received on the other side of the Atlantic ; in which, understanding- (as I sup- 
 pose) the apparition to be represented as an external reality, the reviewer blames 
 it as an extravag-ance not in accordance with the g'eneral character of the narrative. 
 
 STANZA XLVIII. 
 
 Her tvdl-cast anchor here — Jier lasting hope in TJiec. 
 
 The Anchor, with the motto Hope, which formed the device on the seal of the Col- 
 ony, may be considered as having- reference to the dang-ers and difficuUics throug-h 
 which the settlers had passed, and were passing" at the time it was adopted. This 
 was done in 1G63. 
 
 STANZA L. 
 
 And ages far shall o'er our graves recite 
 
 Of Thy protecting grace tlieir fatlier'' s sense^ 
 
 And^ %v}tiin they name tJudr Jtx)me^ proclaim Thy Providence. 
 
 Williams carric 1 the philanthropy, which breathes in his great principle of Soul- 
 Liberty, into all ihe important acts of his life. Althoug-h the munificent g-rant of 
 Canonicus and Miantonomi had been made to him only, he shortly after made it 
 the common property of his friends who joined him at Providence, reserving to 
 himself no more than an equal share, and receiving- from them the small sum of 
 thirty pounds, not as purchase money, but as a remuneration for the gratuities which 
 he had made to the Indians out of his own estate. 
 
 " The following passage," says Mr. Benedict, " in his history (^ the Baptists, ex- 
 plains, in a very pleasing manner, Mr. Williams's design in these transactions. 
 
CANTO NINTH. 175 
 
 'Notwithstanding- 1 had frequent promise from Miantonomi, my kind friend, that 
 it should not be land that I should want about these bounds mentioned, provided I 
 satisfied the Indians there inhabiting-, I having- made covenant of peaceable neig-h- 
 borhood with all the sachems and natives round about us, and having- in a sense of 
 GocTs merciful Providence to me in my distress, called the place Providence ; I desired 
 it might he for a shelter to persons distressed for conscience. I then considered the 
 condition of divers of my countrymen. I communicated my said purchase unto my 
 loving- friends, John Throckmorton and others, who then desired to take shelter here 
 with me. And whereas, by God's merciful assistance, I was procurer of the purchase, 
 not by moneys nor payment, the natives being- so shy and jealous that moneys could 
 not do it, but by that languag-e — acquaintance and favor with the natives, and 
 other advantag-es which it pleased God to g-ive me, and also bore the charges and 
 venture of all the g-ratuities which I g-ave to the great sachems and natives round 
 about us, and lay eng-ag-ed for a loving- and peaceable neig-Iiborhood with them to 
 my g-reat charg-e and travel ; it was therefore thoug-ht fit that I should receive some 
 consideration and g-ratuity.' Thus, after mentioning- the said thirty pounds, * this 
 sum I received, and in love to my friends and with respect to a town and place of 
 succor for the distressed as aforesaid, I do acknowledg-e this said sum a full satisfac- 
 tion,' he went on, in full and strong- terms, to confirm those lands to said inhabitants, 
 reserving- no more to himself than an equal share with the rest ; his wife also sig-n- 
 ing- the deed." 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 Having in the preceding- notes g-iven some account of the principal events which 
 marked the life of Williams up to the time he settled at Mooshausick, it may bo 
 ag-reeable to such of my readers, as have not his biography at hand, to find here 
 some notice of the actions which distinguished the remainder of his days. The 
 following- summary is drawn chiefly from Mr. Benedict's History of the Baptists, 
 and the Sketch of the Life of Williams annexed to the first volume of the Rhode 
 Island Historical Collections. 
 
 Williams was soon joined at Providence by a number of his friends from Salem. 
 In a short time their number amounted to forty persons. They then adopted a form 
 of g-overnment, by which they admitted none to become their associates, but such as 
 held to the principle of Relig-ious Freedom. 
 
 The year following- his settlement, a formidable conspiracy of the Indians was 
 planned ag-ainst the Eng-lish colonists. He g-ave his persecutors information of the 
 fact. He addressed a letter to the Commissioners of the United Colonies, " assuring- 
 them that the country would suddenly be all on fire, meaning- by war — that by 
 strong- reasons and arg-uments he could convince any man thereof that was of 
 another mind — that the Narrag-ansets had been with the plantations combined with 
 Providence, and had solemnly settled a neutrality with them, which fully shewed 
 their counsels and resolutions for war."* Had this plot been carried into effect, it 
 would probably have eventuated in the ruin of the colonies from which he had been 
 banished. Instead of indulging- resentment by remaining inactive, he immediately 
 exerted himself to bring- about a dissolution of the Indian confederacy. He accom- 
 plished what no other man in New Eng-land at that time would have attempted. 
 By his influence with the Narragansets, he broke up the combination, and formed 
 treaties between them and the United Colonies, by which the latter had their aid in the 
 war which followed with tlie Pequots. 
 
 The four first years that succeeded Williams' settlement at Providence, were neces- 
 sarily occupied by him there about the affairs of the plantations. He travelled 
 amongst the Indians, and secured the friendship of their chiefs and warriors. He 
 promoted the settlement of Rhode Island and Warwick. Much of his time must 
 also have been required in making- provisions for the support of his family, cast out, 
 as they were, into the depths of a savag-e wilderness. Soon after his settlement, he 
 had embraced the leading- tenets of the Baptists, and had been baptized. He then 
 formed a society of this order, and preached to it ; but resig-ned his pastoral office 
 on his g-oing- to England to solicit the first Charter. 
 
 Not being- permitted to pass through Massachusetts in order to embark on this 
 
 voyage, he went by land to Manhattan, [New York,] then under the Dutch. A war 
 
 between the Dutch and Indians was at that time rag-ing- with great violence. In 
 
 this war, Mrs. Ann Hutchinson and family, who had been banished from Massachu- 
 
 * Hutchinson? s State Papers. 
 
APPENDIX. 177 
 
 setts, had fallen victims to Indian barbarities]; and, as if every step of this remark- 
 able man was to bear the impress of his benevolence, he was here instrumental in 
 pacifying- the savages, and stopping- the effusion of blood. After this, he took ship 
 for Eng-land. Whilst on this voyag-e, that no time mig-ht be lost in laying- posterity 
 under oblig-ations to him, he composed his Key to the Indian Lang-uag-es. This 
 tog-ether with his Bloody Tenent, was published on his arrival in Eng-land. Here 
 as ag-ent for the colonies of Providence, Rhode Island, and Warwick, he obtained a 
 charter of incorporation, signed by the Earl of Warwick, then Governor and Admi- 
 ral of the English Plantations, and by his council. 
 
 On the 17th September, 1644, he landed at Boston, bringing a letter of recommen- 
 dation to the Governor and Assistants of Massachusetts Bay, from some of the most 
 influential members of the Long Parliament. He thus avoided the penalty incurred 
 by entering their bounds. At the first General Assembly formed under this Char- 
 ter, a law was passed establishing the most unlimited toleration in matters of con- 
 science. Unconfined to those who professed Christianity, its provisions extended 
 to the whole human family. I mention this, because it has been said that Maryland 
 furnishes the first example of a legislative act of this kind. The Maryland act was 
 passed in 1649, and its privileges extended only to those who professed to believe in 
 Jesus Christ. 
 
 Mr. Coddington afterwards procured a Charter, which gave him almost unlimited 
 authority over the islands of Narraganset bay. This caused great discontent. It 
 was called Coddington' s Obstruction. Williams and Clark were sent to England, 
 in 1651, to procure its revocation. They effected the object of their mission in Octo- 
 ber, 1652. Whilst in England, Williams resided with Sir Henry Vane, at his seat 
 in Lincolnshire. He returned in 1652, and brought a letter from Sir Henry, inviting 
 the planters to a close union. The colony, during his absence, had been distracted 
 by many divisions. This letter, together with the earnest solicitations of Williams, 
 restored harmony. He was several times after, as well as before this time, elected to 
 the office of President or Governor of the colony. 
 
 Williams died in 1683, at Providence, and was buried under arms, in his family 
 burying ground, with every testimony of respect which the colony could manifest. 
 The religious sentiments of Williams seem to have become more and more liberal 
 as he advanced in life. Whatever rigid forms those sentiments may have assumed, 
 in the early part ot his career, they gradually melted down, and blended themselves 
 in that warm and deep feeling of universal benevolence, which had given birth to 
 his great principle of Soul-Liberty. The dominion of that feeling, over every other 
 in his breast, is sufficiently indicated by the firmness with which he adhered to this 
 principle in circumstances the most trying. This feeling naturally sought for a 
 congenial nature in other breasts, and Williams soon learned that there were good 
 men in all societies. He freely joined in worship with all, and imparted his in- 
 structions to all who were disposed to hear him. This liberality, however, was not 
 inconsistent with theological discussions, in which he occasionally participated. 
 His dispute with the Friends gave umbrage to some of that order. It occupied two 
 or three days, and eventuated by a publication by Williams, entitled " George Fox 
 digged out of his burroughs." Although some of this order seem, for a time, to 
 have remembered this dispute to his disadvantage, yet there were others who cher- 
 ished for him the kindest and most respectful feelings. Among these was Governor 
 Jenks, who though a Quaker, bestows the highest praise on Williams, both as a man 
 and a Christian. 
 
 When not eng-aged abroad on business of the colony, he statedly preached to the 
 Indians in Narraganset ; and those amongst them, who would hear no one else, 
 were attentive to him. ' That branch of the Narragansets, called the Nianticks, seem 
 
 23 
 
178 APPENDIX. 
 
 to have been an object of his peculiar care. They were so far Christianized by his 
 labors that they took no part in Philip's war, and their present existence, as the only 
 remnant of a once powerful people, may be traced to the eiiects of his ministry, 
 
 Williams retained his influence with the Indians nearly to the last of his and their 
 existence. While Philip was making- preparation for war, in 1671, commissioners 
 were sent to Taunton to inquire into the cause. Philip, suspicious of their design, 
 remained in his camp ; and when summolied by the commissioners to meet them, 
 he required that they should meet him. Matters remained in this posture until Wil- 
 liams, then seventy years old, with a Mr. Brown, offered to become a hostage in his 
 camp. Philip then met the commissioners, delivered up seventy guns and promised 
 fidelity. This event gave the colony four years to prepare for the final struggle. 
 
 Whilst, in 1676, this cruel and exterminating war was raging, the Indians ap- 
 proached the town of Providence. Williams, it is said, on seeing their advance, still 
 feeling his wonted confidence in his influence over them, took his staff* and left the 
 garrison. But some of the old warriors on seeing him approach, advanced from 
 the main body, and told him, that as for themselves they would do him no harm, 
 nor would any amongst them who had long known him, but their young men could 
 not be restrained. Upon which he returned to the garrison. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF QUEEN MAB. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF QUEEN MAB. 
 
 Scene I. — Fairy Land. 
 EMer Queen, in state^ attended by a train of young Fairies. 
 
 SONG OF THE YOUNG FAIRIES. 
 
 All hail the Queen — the Fairy Queen ! 
 
 Who comes in state so proud ; 
 Her robes are of the rainbow's sheen, 
 
 Her car of the golden cloud. 
 
 Her peacocks are of the ether born, 
 
 The stars their plumage kissed ; 
 Their reins are from the moonbeams shorn. 
 
 Their harness wrought from the mist. 
 
 All hail the Queen, who comes to teach 
 
 Her youthful fays to-night. 
 What charms the dreamer's soul will reach, 
 
 And how to use them right. 
 
 Queen. 
 Hist ! fairies, hist ! for yet it seems 
 
 I must again repeat, 
 I cannot teach ye the lore of dreams 
 
 Without a subject meet. 
 A bard ye must find, of volatile mind. 
 
 Whose powers yet tranquil lie 
 As the pool that sleeps in cavemed deeps, 
 
 That ripples if ye sigh. 
 
 Then when such soul, free from alarm, 
 
 Shall sleep in fairy bower, 
 She'll body forth at every charm, 
 
 Dreams answering to its power ; 
 
182 THE SCHOOL 
 
 For the human mind is, in its kind. 
 
 Like a fountain that reflects ; 
 It hath its laws, and to each cause 
 
 Responds the meet effects. 
 
 Fay. 
 O Queen, I come from the land of men, 
 
 And I saw the needed wight ; 
 He is a youthful bard in a mountain glen, 
 
 Whose soul is a mirror of light ; 
 His brow is high, and bright his eye, 
 
 Melodious his voice ; 
 His lofty song does he there prolong, 
 
 And echoes wild rejoice. 
 
 Queen. 
 My gentle Fay did he not aspire 
 
 To win poetic bays 7 
 Or did not some fair damsel fire 
 
 His strain to weave her praise ? 
 But still we may the spell essay — 
 
 His soul may be soothed by our art — 
 He shall deem his head with the wreath arrayed. 
 
 And your Queen shall rule in his heart. 
 
 I'll lay aside this royal pride, 
 
 And a sylvan goddess appear — 
 Come, now, let us tramp with the will-o '-wisp's lamp. 
 
 Through the forest far and near — 
 Some to the fountains — some to the mountains — 
 
 Hie away fast and fleet — 
 But some of my fays for my bard must raise. 
 
 And a fairy palace complete. 
 
 Of the stump decayed, which the bushes o'ershade, 
 
 Make him a canopied throne — 
 Let pillars all bright with phosphor light 
 
 In the mouldering trunks be shown — 
 Then overhead the cobwebs spread. 
 
 Bright with the lunar beam ; 
 In a palace thus made, from things thus arrayed, 
 
 Our bard shall tranquilly dream. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
OF QUEEN MAB. |83 
 
 S CENE II. — Wild Mountainous Woodland — In tlie distance Fairies are 
 seen constructing tJie palace according to the Queen's directions. 
 The Queen invisible is heard singing — 
 Speed ye fleet as moonbeams pass us — 
 
 Swift as rays shot from the sun — 
 Bring ye laurels from Parnassus, 
 Steeped in fount of Helicon. 
 
 Bring a hair to bind the bays in 
 
 From Apollo's beamy brow ; 
 None but wreath of lasting blazon 
 
 Shall crown the youthful poet now. 
 
 Enter Bard. Solus. 
 A voice I heard, but now 'tis mute — 
 'Twas as the soothing tone of flute — 
 Glens and groves, and grottoes wild ! 
 Whence came that song so soft and mild ? 
 'Twas as if fay or goddess bright 
 Had broke the stillness of the night, 
 And called upon the groves to hear 
 Music from a heavenly sphere. 
 
 Enter Fairy Queen. Bard, beholding Jier — . 
 Star-eyed Beauty ! whence art thou? 
 Radiant hair and radiant brow ! 
 Form and face and heavenly mien, 
 That might befit a goddess queen ! 
 Art thou from the land of dreams ? 
 Or hauntest thou these shades and streams ? 
 Bard am I, who wake the song 
 These hills and vales so oft prolong. 
 
 Queen. 
 Grentle minstrel, I have come 
 To guide thee to thy muse's dome ; 
 Fair and light the structure stands, 
 The labor of no mortal hands. 
 Formed were they for thee alone — 
 The laurel crown and golden throne ! 
 And goddesses will there proclaim 
 To heaven and earth thy lasting fame, 
 
184 THE SCHOOL 
 
 Bard. 
 Heavenly goddess ! have I then 
 
 Won the meed so long delayed 1 
 Wither soon the hays of men, 
 
 But thy bright laurels never fade. 
 Guide me then, thou goddess, where 
 The palace stands, so bright and fair. [Exetmt. 
 
 Scene III. — TJie Fairy Palace, ^c, constructed in the forest, accord- 
 ing to the directions of the Queen. 
 
 Enter Queen, Bard, and attendant Fai?'ies. 
 
 Bard, viewing tlm Palace — 
 'Tis carved of light — of solid light — 
 
 'Tis a palace meet for Jove — 
 All burning gold, the pillars uphold 
 
 The flaming dome above. 
 The arches are all fretted fair. 
 
 With golden verdure, too. 
 The cornice bright is studded with light, 
 
 In gems of every hue. 
 
 Sure Vulcan fired a golden mine, 
 
 Which up in vapors rolled. 
 Whilst sang the Muse, and song divine 
 
 Took form in burning gold. 
 Diana o'er the carpet green, 
 
 Shed atoms from the moon. 
 And cast her curtain's woven sheen 
 
 O'er yonder golden throne. 
 
 Queen. 
 0, gentle bard, it is the award — 
 
 Award to genius due ; 
 It is a throne — a golden throne — 
 
 And one that's made for you. 
 Go, gentle maids, and search the shades, 
 
 And bring me vapors sweet. 
 To make him a pillow soft and mellow, 
 
 And cushion for his seat. 
 
OF QUEExN MAB. 135 
 
 And bring ye, too, the laurel crown 
 
 To crown the immortal bard, 
 So be his verse and bright renown 
 
 To every age declared. [Exeunt several Fairies. 
 
 Bard. 
 Oh, goddess bright, these scenes delight 
 
 Beyond each wish's bound — 
 The golden throne ! — the laurel crown ! — 
 
 x\nd goddesses around ! 
 
 Re-C7iter several Fairies with pillows of mist, crown, S^^c. TJiey crown 
 
 the Bard. 
 ■ Queen. 
 Best thee, my love — my gentle dove — 
 
 The throne of gold is hard, 
 But cushion and pillow shall make it mellow, 
 
 Meet couch for a laureate bard. 
 Now spread perfumes of the loveliest blooms, 
 
 Culled from each sunny steep ; 
 Mix apple-peru, and poppy, too. 
 To soothe his soul to sleep. 
 
 Bae.d. 
 Thou goddess fair ! what fragrant air 
 
 Fills the celestial dome ! 
 Ambrosia sweet, and nectar meet, 
 
 Mixed in one blest perfume. 
 Celestial born, no more forlorn 
 
 For shadowy things I roam ; 
 'Mong gods advanced, I sit entranced, 
 
 Olympus is my home. 
 
 Queen. 
 Now wake ye the song, my sister throng. 
 
 And pour your music free — 
 The bard our own is weary grown, 
 
 And sweet will slumber be. 
 
 SONG OF THE YOUNG FAIRIES. 
 
 Oh hush the bard, the gentle bard 
 Whose tongue is Apollo's lyre ! 
 
 24 
 
1^ THE SCHOOL 
 
 Whose verse and name are thus declared, 
 
 Whilst heaven and earth admire. 
 The moon is high in the starry sky, 
 
 And sleep our minstrel may — 
 For cockerel sleeps, and mockbird sleeps, 
 
 And sleeps the chattering jay. 
 
 The lily droops her lovely head. 
 
 The violet shuts her eye, 
 The dew-drop sinks, the little pinks 
 
 And roses sleep and sigh. 
 Far from the hills descend the rills, 
 
 And as their murmur goes, 
 Each grove and bower, and every flower. 
 
 Sink into sweet repose. 
 
 Queen. 
 To sweet repose, to sweet repose. 
 
 Our gentle minstrel sinks. 
 His heaving breast deep sleep has blest, 
 
 And nothing now he thinks. 
 Gro swiftest feet of fairies fleet 
 
 To regions far and near, 
 And cull each charm of little harm 
 
 And try its virtues here. [Exeunt several Fairies, 
 
 Now fairies all, young, short, and tall, 
 
 Enring this lovely green, 
 And be each word in silence heard, 
 
 And swift obey your Queen. 
 Ye little fays as bright as rays 
 
 That dance in the fountains' sheen, 
 Go, lightly skip, and watch his lip. 
 
 Enthroned on the sleeper's chin ; 
 Three at his nose, and three at his toes. 
 
 And three at either eye, 
 And three at each ear, that he may hear 
 
 And give the meet reply. 
 
 Re-enter first Fairy ^ singing — 
 I shot upon yon meteor's gleam 
 To the marshes of Champlain, 
 
OF QUEEN MAB. 187 
 
 Then mounted on the cold moon's beam 
 
 And glided back again. 
 O'er bog and rift, and mountain clift, 
 
 I am the Queen's best runner, 
 The fire-fly bright, was on her flight, 
 
 When I clipped her lantern from her. 
 
 Queen. 
 Well done, my fay ! my gentle fay ! 
 
 Who is there can be more fleet ? 
 Broad is the wing, and bright is the ray — 
 
 Come spread its flamy sheet. 
 Press it on lid, 'neath which half hid. 
 
 Peeps forth the dreamer's eye. 
 Come, dreamer, say what is the display 
 
 Of the wing of the fiery fly ? 
 
 Bard, ansvjering in his dreams — 
 I am a sphere of blazing green. 
 
 The sun of a little sky — 
 And all the heavens and earth serene 
 
 Take light from my flamy eye ; 
 But from my light I have all sight, 
 
 And all things are from me ; 
 And all my motions make commotions — 
 
 Worlds rise, and cease to be. 
 
 And now I live in a glory clear, 
 
 My soul with all things fraught, 
 And scenes now rise, now disappear, 
 
 With every change of thought. 
 I think of the mount, and the silvery fount. 
 
 And then of the valley green, 
 And straight the mount and silvery fount 
 
 And verdant vale are seen. 
 
 Queen. 
 Haste, gentle fays ! take off the rays — 
 
 To us it ne'er was given ^ 
 
 To lend to birth of mortal earth 
 
 A distant taste of heaven. 
 
188 THE SCHOOL 
 
 Re-enter second Fairy. 
 But iio ! iiiy fairy, what bring ye there, 
 That sings a ditty so loud ? 
 
 Second Fairy. 
 A fly that a spider has trapped in his snare, 
 
 The victim and victor proud. 
 The cord he applies to his captive's thighs, 
 
 Then lists to the music of pain ; 
 His eye he then flashes, and teeth then gnashes, 
 
 And flies at his victim again. 
 
 Charm liloxxiL at tlie sleepefs ear—fly buzzing. 
 Bard, in his dreams — 
 
 O, a spinning of smoke ! whence a hlackmoor has broke ; 
 
 And he strikes his violin gay — 
 His bow swiftly flies, and he flashes his eyes, 
 
 And grins with delight to his lay. 
 The horse-hair he flings o'er the trembling strings, 
 
 And wildly his music floats — 
 Now as trumpet it peals, or a fife shrilly squeals, 
 
 Or rolls the drum's hollow notes. 
 
 Halloo ! huzza ! the troopers have come, 
 
 And come the footmen's array. 
 And deep is the sound of the martial hum. 
 
 As they move to the battle fray. 
 But the blackmoor stands amid the bands. 
 
 His bow moves the raging strife — 
 And he lists with delight to the groans of the fight, 
 
 To the music of drum, trump and fife. 
 
 Re-enter third Fairy ^ singing — 
 
 With the glow-worm's lamp I have been to tramp 
 
 Among the mosses thick ; 
 Its glimmering ray was lighting my way. 
 
 When I heard the cricket crick. 
 . I bore him by his feelers high 
 
 The murky air along — 
 Come, now let us hear what dreams appear 
 
 From the merry cricket's song. 
 
OF QUEEN MAB. 1B9 
 
 Cricket placed at the sleeper^s ear. 
 
 Cricket. 
 
 Cree-cree, cree-cree, cree-creek. 
 
 Bard, in his dreams — 
 0, the music of light — of the hues of light ! 
 
 The circles of greens and blues ! 
 They flash from my eyes all living and bright. 
 
 And each the other pursues. 
 They take form in air — a chariot they are — 
 
 And a right brilliant show they make — 
 The charioteer his trumpet doth rear, 
 
 And it sounds cree-cree, cree-creek. 
 
 Queen. 
 
 ! take off the spell ; for know ye well, 
 Whenever the sense is right, 
 
 The dreamer may break his vision and wake, 
 
 And laugh at the power of the sprite. 
 But here comes a fay as bright as a ray, 
 
 And a right merry chap is he ; 
 0, what do ye bring on the glancing wing. 
 
 From mountain, moor, or sea? 
 
 Re-enter fourth Fairy ^ singing — 
 
 1 bring the tuft of a fox's tail. 
 And a bonny blithe fox is he — 
 
 He plunders the farms o'er hill and dale. 
 
 And springs from the hounds with glee. 
 O'er saddle-bauld clift he was bounding swift, 
 
 When I plucked the tuft away — 
 He snapped around — he thought of the hound. 
 
 And shot like the lightning's ray. 
 
 Queen. 
 0, try ye the spell, and do it well, 
 
 That the dreamer may seem to be 
 The fox himself, in dale or dell. 
 
 Bounding off far and free. 
 First let him smell the fox's pell. 
 
 That he dream of woodland cheer, 
 Then brush his feet to make him fleet, 
 
 Then tickle his nose and ear. 
 
190 THE SCHOOL 
 
 Bard, in his dreams — 
 Halloo ! halloo ! Wild woodland now ! 
 
 How the twinkling stars look down ! 
 And rocky and rude is the mountain's brow. 
 
 And dark is the forest's frown. 
 Ha ! ha ! the dens and brambled fens 
 
 My wild eyes laugh to greet, 
 And over the clifts and rocky rifts 
 
 Right merrily dance my feet. 
 
 Pure is the gale, and odors rise 
 
 From the wild woodland hill ; 
 Wo-hoo ! "Wo-hoo ! the dark owl cries, 
 
 And shrilly the whip-poor-will ; 
 But the deep tone of the owlet's moan 
 
 Is a note of courage all free, 
 And the whip-poor-will's trill beneath the hill 
 
 Gives music and motion to me. 
 
 The farmers geese are very well fed, 
 
 And fat and and sleek are they — 
 The blood-hound lies in his dreamy bed, 
 
 So let me seek my prey. 
 On drumming wings the partridge springs, 
 
 As over the brakes I fly ; 
 But soon, like specks, the lily-white necks 
 
 Will float before my eye. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! I'll pause upon this height ; 
 
 The village is all in view ; 
 The two-legged bodies are still to-night, 
 
 And I'll the game pursue. 
 But hark ! — I hear a sound, I fear — 
 
 'Tis surely not yet day — 
 ! 'tis the sound of the opening hound — 
 
 Away ! away ! away ! 
 
 O'er bush, o'er brake, o'er rock I go, 
 But nearer they come, I fear ; 
 
 Far oif huzzas the the two-legged foe — 
 Wow ! wow ! — the hounds are near. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF 191 
 
 I'll double my track, I'll run me back, 
 
 I'll pother the beagles some — 
 Now for my den I'll strain again, 
 
 And gain my mountain home. 
 
 Queen. 
 Take off the spell — take off the spell ! 
 
 We torment, but not destroy — 
 And await the things the next elf brings, 
 
 To please him or annoy. 
 
 Re-enter fifth Fairy ^ singing — 
 I come from cold skies, 
 Where the leaf earliest dies, 
 And the bleak moon enshrouds 
 Her horns in folding clouds, 
 Listening to the piping winds, 
 As round her horns she winds 
 
 The wreaths of snow ; 
 And from the wild goose in her flight, 
 Through the dark blue starry arch of night, 
 Beneath her breezy wing 
 I plucked the plume I bring. 
 
 Its dreams to know. 
 
 Queen. 
 0, try ye the charm, my gentle sprites ! 
 
 He's a moody fay, we know ; 
 But then each change hath its delights, 
 
 And constant pleasure is woe. 
 From the tickling plume let the wild goose fume 
 
 Disturb the dreamer's nose. 
 Say, dreamer, now what visions grow 
 
 Up in your deep repose. 
 
 Bard, in his dreams — 
 Lakes, pools, and rivers far extending ! — 
 
 Marshy ilses and sedgy shores ! — 
 And feathered nations language blending 
 
 From all the freckled floods and moors ! 
 But I am now all weary growing, 
 
 Of this wild jar and checkered sight ; 
 
192 THE SCHOOL 
 
 Snow-whispering breezes too are blowing, 
 And long and weary grows the night. 
 
 I think but of the green bananas, 
 
 The tepid coves and cany brakes ; 
 I long to feed on flowered savannas, 
 
 And curve my neck o'er glassy lakes. 
 Come, children, let us up and follow — 
 
 Toward the fount of summer fly — 
 Lo ! here above the clouds we halloo. 
 
 Our clamorous march now streaks the sky — 
 
 Queen. 
 Take off the spell — take off the spell — 
 
 Our dreamer must not yet wake ; 
 The elves are busy by steep and dell. 
 
 Essaying new charms to make. 
 In Yankee land we have a band, 
 
 In Carolina too ; 
 And other beasts must yield their jests, 
 
 Before the wight may go. 
 
 Re-enter sixth Fairy ^ singing — 
 I bring the lock of a Nullifier,* 
 
 Hot from his reeking brain ; 
 He growled in his sleep as if on fire. 
 
 When I clipped the shred in twain. 
 
 Queen. 
 A Nully-fire ! A Nully-fire ! 
 
 Well, 'tis a strange fire to me — 
 But try the shred on the sleeper's head, 
 
 And see what thing it may be. 
 
 Bard, in his dreams — 
 My brain is hot — I am a shot, 
 
 And Carolina's pride ; 
 Come blood and strife, this State's my life — 
 
 I have no country beside. 
 Accursed tariff ! — Let us swear if 
 
 We cannot end this evil, 
 
 * This was written while South Carolina Nnllification was in full blaze. 
 
OF QUEEN MAB. 193 
 
 We'll dwell in Turkey or hell all murky — 
 The slaves of Turk or devil. 
 
 Queen. 
 Take off the tuft, thou wanton fay — 
 
 Why didst thou bring it here 1 
 We can't one hour's such hell repay 
 
 With the joy of a total year. 
 Come, gentles, chase from off his face 
 
 All these distortions dire, 
 Soothe his torn breast, then let him rest, 
 
 Or gentler air respire. 
 
 But dreamer, say, what visions play 
 
 Before your spirit's eye, 
 Whilst off each limb distortions grim 
 
 From fairy fingers fly. 
 
 Bard, in his dreams — 
 
 Who quenches there the volcano's glare ? 
 
 Who lays those billows smooth ? 
 Who drives to the flood yon fiery brood, 
 
 And does the tempest soothe ? 
 The lightnings flee, and the bright'ning sea 
 
 Lies all one glassy plain ; 
 The sun stands still o'er the flower-crowned hill, 
 
 And Nature smiles again. 
 
 Queen. 
 Now, gentle fays, we'll change the sport, 
 
 And faintly awaken the soul ; 
 So that each charm will fall something short 
 
 Of rousing the mind in the whole ; 
 Then shalt thou see what phantoms there be, 
 
 That are short of the charm in its power ; 
 How the maiden so blithe, that shall be his wife, 
 
 Shall bloom like the lily's sweet flower. 
 
 Re-enter seventh Fairy ^ singing — 
 
 And here I bring, and here I bring, 
 A charm from a maiden bright ; 
 
 25 
 
194 THE SCHOOL 
 
 I dropped on her sleep with gentle wing, 
 Nor broke her slumber light. 
 
 She breathed a sigh — I caught it on high, 
 And here with the prize I slip. 
 
 Queen. 
 Well done, my sprite, restrain its might, 
 And gently touch his lip. 
 
 Bard, in his dreams — 
 Soul-soothing balm ! this fragrant breeze 
 
 Comes like the breath of heaven. 
 Or gales of Eden, to whose trees 
 
 Celestial flowers are given. 
 Ah ! beauteous forms and hues. 
 
 And walks that flowers adorn ! 
 I see ye now, spangled with dews, 
 The jewels of the morn ! 
 See rills descending. 
 Rainbows bending 
 Over yon lily's bloom. 
 Centre of glory ! 
 All things adore thee. 
 And live in thy sweet perfume. 
 Thou star of this Eden ! 
 From thee is deriven 
 All the forms of beauty around ; 
 Thou hast a strange being. 
 That I nearly am seeing. 
 But mysteries my vision confound. 
 
 Queen. 
 Take off the spell — another sprite 
 
 Is coming upon the wing ; 
 I feel — I feel it brings the spite 
 
 Of some offensive thing. 
 
 Re-enter eighth Fairy^ singing — 
 The lock of foe, its dreams to know, 
 
 The lock of robber grim. 
 Who couchant lay, in wait for his prey, 
 
 Cursing the moonlight dim. 
 
OF QUEEN MAB. 195 
 
 Queen. 
 Take heed, my fairy, don't press it too bard, 
 
 But gently tickle his nose ; 
 If pressed too hard his sleep will be marred 
 
 By visions of human foes. 
 
 Bard, in Ids dreams — 
 Bushes and fens ! — Wolves and dens ! 
 
 And vapors rank and snaky ! 
 Bogs and brakes, bristling with snakes, 
 
 And alligators flaky ! 
 Earth sinks beneath me, my footsteps deceive me. 
 
 And reptiles are stealing around ; 
 Some huge anaconda towers fiercely beyond me, 
 
 And trails his vast orbs out of ground ! 
 
 Queen. 
 Stay ! stay the charm, my gentle fay ! 
 
 Well has its power been shown ; 
 For hate undefined will ever array 
 
 The simplest forms its own. 
 The soul of man will ever fan 
 
 The fire that in her warms ; 
 Her every feeling is ever stealing 
 
 To its symbolic forms. 
 
 Such, fairies, then, is the soul of man ; 
 
 It hath high laws its own. 
 As matter coarse hath those whose force 
 
 Is in each motion shown. 
 Let motion begin, and the soul within 
 
 Doth in wild concert play ; 
 And straight each cause, from loftier laws, 
 
 Doth strange effects display. 
 
 But hark ! the cock begins to crow — 
 
 Hear ye, the chattering jay ! 
 And lo ! the morn begins to throw 
 
 O'er the steep her silvery ray. 
 We'll leave the bard to the matin beams. 
 
 And, breaking up our school. 
 We'll dive into his world of dreams, 
 
 And sleep in his waking soul. [Eaceunt Fairies. 
 
196 THE SCHOOL, «&C. 
 
 Bard, awaking — 
 Thou goddess fair ! this fragrant air — 
 
 What ! gone ! gone ! — And I here alone, enthroned on a rotten 
 stump, overhung with bushes and cobwebs ! Nothing but old birches 
 and oaks around, and the green strewn with rotten wood ! Humph ! 
 Where are the crumbled atoms of the moon ! — the palace of light meet 
 for Jove ! — and the goddesses ! — and the golden throne ! Where is 
 the laurel crown ? — ha ! a nettle-top stuck in my hair ! Ha ! — hem ! 
 hem ! — have I been dreaming of fame % Why, I thought I was 
 Apollo, at one time, enthroned amid a sun of blazing green, and 
 whole creations rose and disappeared at my nod, or, more probably, at 
 the touch of my lyre. And then, again, I saw an Ethiopian, or was 
 myself the blackmoor, with my lyre turned to a fiddle, whose music 
 created armies, and set them to battling ; and then I saw a chariot — 
 very much like the chariot of the sun — but there was a strange some- 
 thing about it — and — what was I next ? Confound me if I can tell : 
 I think that I was either a blood-hound or a fox, or both ; and then — 
 why I must have completely lost my identity — I was a goose ; a South 
 Carolina Nullifier ; and then I suddenly became blended with this 
 mighty frame of things, and was a paradise of flowers ; then a wil- 
 derness of alligators, dragons, and all the et ceteras of the horribles ; 
 and now, to make the catastrophe complete, I am sitting here, my 
 goddesses and palace vanished, my crown a nettle-top, and my throne 
 a stump ! Well, I will write a poem — I will put the adventures of 
 this night into the form of a tragedy, and be the hero of my own play. 
 And a most dolorous tragedy it will be — it will immortalize me. But 
 the nettle-top — poh ! I care not — I will write. {Exit Bard. 
 
A SUMMONS TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Is it to sit within thy stately hall, 
 
 Or tread the crowded street, thy chief delight ? 
 From all her heights and depths though Nature call 
 
 Thee to her charms — ^though grove, and plain, and height, 
 
 Warble for thee — though Ocean's stormy might 
 Thunder for thee — though the starred heavens sublime 
 
 Shine out for thee — though peering orient bright, 
 O'er mountain wood, the sire of day and time, 
 
 Doth call for thee — and with retiring light 
 Grlance down his hues from their celestial clime 
 
 To lure thee forth — ^yet can all these excite 
 In thy cold breast no chord's responsive chime ? 
 
 Still wilt thou choose a prison-yard and cell ? — 
 
 Well ! God forgive thy choice, for thou dost penance well. 
 
 HYMN BY TWILIGHT. 
 
 See the hues of evening fading 
 From the sky and tranquil bay ; 
 
 See the groves, with deeper shading, 
 Brown the dale as fails the ray; 
 
 Hear the distant torrent falling — 
 Hear the note of whip-poor-will — 
 
 Hear the shepherd homeward calling 
 Flocks that bleat on lonely hill. 
 
 See you cloud the distance glooming, 
 Hear its far-off thunder roar. 
 
 Hear the distant ocean's booming 
 Billows beat the eternal shore. 
 
198 life's voyage. 
 
 God is in the hues of heaven 
 Fading from the sky and bay — 
 
 God is in the shades of even, 
 
 That chase the heavenly hues away. 
 
 God is in the torrent falling — 
 In the song of whip-poor-will — 
 
 In the voice of shepherd calling — 
 In the bleating on the hill — 
 
 In the cloud the distance glooming — 
 In the distant thunder's roar — 
 
 In the far-off ocean booming 
 On his everlasting shore. 
 
 God ! Thou art all substance wreathing 
 Into forms that suit thy will ; 
 
 God ! Thou art through all things breathing 
 One harmonious anthem still. 
 
 LIFE'S VOYAGE. 
 
 There rose, amid the boundless flood, 
 
 A little island green, 
 And there a simple race abode 
 
 That knew no other scene. 
 
 Save that a vague tradition ran. 
 
 That all the starry skies 
 Bore up a brighter race of man. 
 
 Robed in the rainbow's dyes. 
 
 A youth there was of ardent soul, 
 
 "Who viewed the azure hue. 
 And saw the waves of ocean roll 
 
 Against its circle blue. 
 
 He launched his skiff, with bold intent, 
 
 To seek the nations bright, 
 And o'er the rolling waters went. 
 
 For many a day and night. 
 
life's voyage. 199 
 
 His lusty arms did stoutly strain, 
 
 Nor soon their vigor spent : 
 All hope was he right soon to gain 
 
 And climb the firmament. 
 
 Where glorious forms, in garments bright. 
 
 Dipped in the rainbow's dyes, 
 And streets, star-paved, should lend their light 
 
 To his enraptured eyes. r 
 
 And then might he his isle regain 
 
 Fraught with a dazzling freight, 
 And lead his kindred o'er the main, 
 
 To this celestial state. 
 
 But whilst he plied the bended oar 
 
 The island left his view ; 
 But yet afar his bark before, 
 
 The azure circle flew. 
 
 Yet still did flattering hope sustain 
 
 And give him vigor new ; 
 But still before him, o'er the main, 
 
 Eetired the circle blue. 
 
 Though whirlpools yavmed, and tempests frowned. 
 
 And beat upon his head, 
 And billows burst his bark around, 
 
 Hope on that phantom fed. 
 
 Nor yet had ceased his labors vain, 
 
 Had not his vigor failed. 
 And 'neath the fever of his brain. 
 
 His vital spirit quailed. 
 
 Then Death appeared upon the sea, 
 
 An angel fair and bright — 
 For he is not what mortals say — 
 
 A grim and haggard sprite. 
 
 And, " Thou dost chase," he said, " my child ! 
 A phantom o'er the main ; 
 
205 life's voyage. 
 
 But though it has thy toils beguiled, 
 Thou hast not toiled in vain. 
 
 " Thou hast thus roused each slumbering might, 
 
 And framed thy soul to be 
 Fit now to climb yon starry height — 
 
 Come, then, and follow mc." 
 
LECTURE. 
 
 DELIVERED WEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 6, 1836. 
 
 26 
 
LECTURE. 
 
 HISTORY OP THE SUBJECTION AND EXTERMINATION OP THE 
 NARRAGANSETS. 
 
 The subject of Indian history,* considered in its broadest sense, is 
 a tbeme far too comprehensive to be even glanced at in the brief 
 discourse called for by the present occasion. The history of the abo- 
 riginal race of the western world, has already drawn largely upon the 
 learned and laborious researches of modern times — ^volumes upon 
 volumes have been written, and still the subject remains unexhausted, 
 and is probably inexhaustible. A race which, marked by nearly the 
 general outline of character, once peopled the long and broad extent 
 of the two Americas — a race, divided into a great number of nations, 
 speaking a variety of languages, or dialects of the same language, 
 and these still subdivided into a multitude of petty tribes or clans, 
 with each its peculiar traditions, manners, customs, habits, and state 
 of society, presents a subject which opens indeed a vast field for the 
 speculations of the philosopher and the researches of the antiquary ; 
 but the very circumstance of its vastness imposes upon the author of 
 an occasional discourse the necessity of selecting some very limited 
 portion of its almost boundless variety. 
 
 I shall select that portion of aboriginal history which belongs to that 
 tribe or nation which constituted the centre of Indian power in New 
 England at the landing of the Whites at Plymouth. Nay, having 
 determined where that centre was, I shall limit this discourse to a 
 mere history of the subjection and final extermination of the people 
 which formed it. They have had no historian, and we will endeavor 
 to impart something of novelty to our design, by viewing the events 
 which brought about this result from aboriginal ground, with an abo- 
 riginal eye, and with something of the feelings which such a view is 
 calculated to inspire. 
 
 * Aborig-inal history was the subject assig-ned to the author. 
 
204 LECTURE. 
 
 If we consider Indian society as one state or condition of life 
 brought into collision with White society, another and antagonist 
 state or condition of life, it will, I think, clearly appear, that the cen- 
 tre of Indian power, or the firmest point of resistance, was the people 
 called the Narragansets. For it is not by arms alone that a people 
 resists change, but by its whole character — its habits and institutions, 
 moral, religious, and political. 
 
 Some few years previous to the arrival of the Whites, the Narra- 
 ganset people were without a rival or equal among the tribes of the 
 east. If we adopt their own traditions, (and what other authority 
 can we have ?) Tashtapack, the ancestor of Canonicus, was a mighty 
 conqueror, a sachem of vast dominion, and without an equal in pomp 
 and splendor of state. He was too proud to match his two children, 
 a son and daughter, witli the children of the subordinate sachems, 
 who came to his sachiTmtacommock^ or palace, bending under the bur- 
 then of their tributes. To avoid such degradation, the son and 
 daughter were joined in wedlock; and from them sprang several 
 sons. Of these, Canonicus, their chief sachem when the English 
 came, was the eldest. Whether this tradition be true or false, it is 
 conclusive, from the currency which it gained with the people, that 
 they believed that their immediate progenitors were possessed of all 
 the power and dominion which the tradition attributed to them. 
 And this belief is amply borne out and justified by the known actual 
 condition of the Narragansets immediately preceding the landing of 
 the Whites. At that time no eastern tribe could compare with them, 
 either for the extent of their jurisdiction, the number of their war- 
 riors, the compactness of their population, the firmness and wisdom 
 of their government, or the industry of their people. Passing over, 
 for the present, the question of their influence over the Wampanoags, 
 the Massachusetts, and tribes about the Cape, their chiefs had full 
 and undoubted jurisdiction over the inhabitants of a tract of coun- 
 try, extending from the region of the Nipmucks, now Oxford, (Mas- 
 sachusetts,) on the north, southerly to the ocean, including Manisses, 
 (or Block Island,) and a part of Long Island. It began on the east 
 with Seekonk river and the eastern shores of Narraganset bay, and 
 extended westward, including the islands, to the borders of the 
 Pequot and Mohegan tribes, and those of the river Indians, of which 
 tribes the two first dwelt on the banks of the river now called the 
 Thames, and the latter on the margin of the Connecticut. The gen- 
 eral name of Narragansets seems to be often applied in history to all 
 the inhabitants of this long tract of country ; but they were divided 
 
LECTURE. 205 
 
 into several petty tribes, with each its under-sachem and local name ; 
 and this appellation, in its original and restricted sense, belonged 
 only to that tribe which dwelt on the southwestern shores of the bay. 
 This was the chief tribe, or the most distinguished of all the tribes of 
 which the nation was composed, and the sachem, or ruler of this tribe, 
 was consequently the grand sachem of the nation. This broad tract 
 was not a mere forest, occupied by roving hunters ; it was diversified 
 with towns, villages, and cultivated fields. Agriculture had made 
 considerable progress, and historians mention, without surprise, an 
 occasional gratuity made to a single individual, out of their surplus 
 produce, of one thousand bushels of corn. Their chiefs could call 
 into the field five thousand warriors, and their population was so dense 
 that one, in travelling a space of twenty miles, would pass a dozen 
 towns or villages, consisting of from twenty to two hundred or more 
 houses. They thus drew their bread from the earth by cultivation, 
 whilst the forests abounded with game, and the waters with fishes. 
 They were further advanced in the arts than any other aboriginal 
 nation of the north. They excelled in the manufacture of earthen- 
 ware, in forming tools and implements, wrought from stone, for 
 mechanical purposes, and in constructng canoes — some of them for 
 the purpose of naval warfare, and of a size sufiicient to contain thirty 
 or forty vfarriors. They excelled in making belts and girdles for 
 ornament, and in the manufacture of wampum — beads wrought from 
 shells, and used for the purposes of personal decoration. Its general 
 use, as an ornament, made it answer all the purposes of a coin, 
 throughout the sea coast, and for five or six hundred miles in the 
 forest westward. They were, therefore, relatively, a rich as well as a 
 powerful people. This gave them an additional importance in the 
 eyes of the surrounding tribes. Even the terrible Mohawks, the 
 Eomans of aboriginal America, esteemed them as brothers and equals, 
 and, in any great emergency, were ever ready with their aid. Their 
 reputation among others, justly increased their own estimation of 
 themselves, and consequently their attachment to their country. 
 
 As to their government, to call it a monarchy, an oligarchy, an aris- 
 tocracy, or democracy, would only serve to mislead the mind. Under 
 the general supervision of a grand sachem, aided by his under- 
 sachems, it vibrated from one extreme to the other. If the grand 
 sachem was a great and powerful chief, he was absolute — his will was 
 law, especially in all sudden emergencies. If he wanted a great rep- 
 utation, or if the occasion was of great and general interest, such as 
 declaring war, concluding peace, or ratifying treaties, he never failed 
 
206 LECTURE. 
 
 to call together the grand council of the nation ; and at such times 
 nothing was concluded to which the people could not be brought by 
 gentle persuasion. They had not merely an order of sachems at 
 the head of which was the grand sachem, but they had an order of 
 priests and prophets, by whom the superstitious feelings of the peo- 
 ple were brought into alliance with their natural love of country. I 
 cannot however, now dwell at any length on these subjects, and I only 
 here point at them for the purpose of indicating the ties which gave 
 this people their unity, and increased their capacity for endurance 
 and resistence. 
 
 I will now proceed to point out the relations in which the neighbor- 
 ing tribes stood to the Narragansets. The Pequots, who occupied 
 the territory which now constitutes the - townships of Groton and 
 New London, were the only tribes which, previous to the arrival of 
 the Whites, were not overawed or controled by the Narragansets' 
 power. The Pequots are said to have been originally an inland tribe. 
 About thirty or forty years before the landing at Plymouth, from 
 one of those causes which sometimes suddenly infuses unwonted 
 energy into barbarous nations, they poured down from their western 
 solitudes, making progress eastward by exterminating or vanquishing 
 one tribe after another — passing from conquest to conquest, until the 
 Narraganset nation opposed a barrier to their course. They then 
 paused in their career of victory, and sate themselves down on the 
 banks of the river, which took their name, and from their rude forti- 
 fications, carried on an implacable war with the people that had 
 given the first check to their arms. A part of the Nipmuck, and 
 nearly all the Connecticut tribes, had yielded to their violence, and 
 become their tributaries ; but the Narragansets repelled their inso- 
 lence, and firmly maintained their independence. But here, for the 
 present, we must leave them, merely adding that they continued their 
 hostilities unto the time they were exterminated by the Whites. 
 
 The relations of the Narragansets to the tribes on the northern 
 border seem to have been entirely pacific. The Nipmucks were a 
 vanquished people — a part of them were the tributaries of the Wani- 
 panoags, a part of the Pequots, and the residue were either the allies 
 or subjects of the Narragansets themselves. 
 
 The partiality of early historians for Massasoit, the chief of the 
 Wampanoags, seems to have rendered the relation in which the Nar- 
 ragansets stood to the eastern Indians something equivocal. They 
 have chosen to represent Massasoit as at the head of a confederacy of 
 all those tribes, and as the great enemy and rival of Canonicus him- 
 
LECTURE. 207 
 
 self. But on this point wo are bound to take the confessions of Mas- 
 sasoit himself, as attested by Roger Williams : " After I had obtained 
 this place," says Williams, in a deposition quoted by Backus, " now 
 called Providence, of Canonicus and Miantonomi, (the chief of the 
 Narraganset sachems,) Ousamequin (the other name of Massasoit) 
 laid his claim to this place also. This forced me to repair to the 
 Narraganset sachems aforesaid, who declared that Ousamequin was 
 their subject, and had solemnly, himself in person and ten more, 
 (doubtless his under-sachems,) subjected himself and his lands unto 
 them at Narraganset, only now he seemed to revolt from his loyalty 
 under shelter of the English at Plymouth. This I declared froni 
 the Narraganset sachems to Ousamequin, who, without any stick, 
 acknowledged to be true that he had so submitted, as the Narraganset 
 sachems had affirmed ; that he was not subdued by war, which him- 
 self and his father had maintained against the Narragansets ; but 
 God, said he, subdued us by a plague, which swept away my people, 
 and forced me to yield." 
 
 This tells the whole story. The plague, to which Massasoit alludes, 
 is that which immediately preceded the landing at Plymouth. Mas- 
 sasoit, previous to this, might be, and doubtless was, at the head of an 
 independent confederacy of ten or more tribes, represented by the 
 ten men who accompanied him ; but the Narragansets, who were un- 
 touched by the prevailing pestilence, had seized the favorable moment, 
 and extended their conquests over their eastern enemies, and they 
 now held them as their subjects or tributaries. 
 
 With regard to the Massachusetts tribes — I mean those immedi- 
 ately beyond the old Plymouth colony — they also were subject or 
 tributary to the Narragansets. Both Sagamore John, and Chickatabot 
 (the sachem of the Neponset tribe) obeyed the summons of Canoni- 
 cus, and followed Miantonomi to wage battle with the Pequots. Nor 
 can it be supposed that the tribes about Cape Cod, and those of the 
 neighboring islands, were not in some degree subject to them. They 
 had been the allies or tributaries of Massasoit, and his submission to 
 Canonicus must have left them more or less subject to the dominant 
 power. They were a numerous people. They had been but slightly 
 touched by the great pestilence, which had depopulated Patuxet and 
 the country adjacent to it. 
 
 If this view of the relations of these tribes be correct, it follows, 
 that before the landing^ the Narragansets constituted the nucleus — 
 the centre or basis of a great association of clans, more or less 
 dependent upon them, extending through nearly the whole of Massa- 
 
208 LECTURE. 
 
 chnsetts proper, and throughout all that territory which gubsequently 
 fell under the jurisdiction of the old Plymouth colony. They were a 
 hardy, brave, and warlike people, amply supplied from flood, forest, 
 and field, with all the necessaries of barbarous life and aboriginal 
 warfare. Trade, directly and indirectly, with the Whites, had 
 already armed their hands with scalping knives and tomahawks, and 
 pointed their arrows with metal. We have no data by which we can 
 accurately determine their numbers, but to say that such an associa- 
 tion or confederacy, including all its tributaries, could muster ten 
 thousand warriors, and could count more than fifty thousand men, 
 women, and children, seems to me to be a moderate estimate of their 
 probable numbers. It was this body of aboriginal people, that in New 
 England first came in abiding contact with the elements of civilized 
 society — ^it was this vast mass of barbarism, that, in little more than 
 half a century after the first touch of the white man, was made to 
 dissolve and disappear, as before a consuming fire. And the tale 
 which unfolds the causes, which terminated in this result, is no other 
 than an account of a conflict between the antagonist principles of bar- 
 barous .and civilized life, necessarily begun, in some form, at the mo- 
 ment of the first landing, and continued, without intermission, by 
 every movement, whatever the motive, unto the final consummation, 
 in the triumph of the white, and in the subjection and extermination 
 of the aboriginal man. It is a state over which the philanthropist 
 may weep, and from which the philosopher may draw the profoundest 
 precepts — it is a state of contest between the civilized and the bar- 
 barous mind, in which all the resources of the first, uninfluenced by 
 any predominant pacific principle, was put in requisition against all 
 the resources of the last, and achieved a dreadful triumph. None of 
 us will regret that the white man succeeded, but all will deplore the 
 manner in which his success was accomplished. 
 
 It was in the year, some say 1612, others 1619 or 1620, that a ter- 
 rible pestilence, which depopulated nearly half his dominions, scarcely 
 leaving of the survivors enough to bury the dead, compelled Massa- 
 soit, the grand sachem of the "Wampanoag confederacy, reluctantly to 
 submit himself and his tribes to the overwhelming power of Canoni- 
 cus, the Narraganset chief Previous to this event, hostilities had 
 been carried on between the two nations, time beyond memory — 
 every fresh aggression had increased their animosities ; and the occa- 
 sion which brought about the submission of the Wampanoag chief, 
 neither assuaged those feelings, nor subdued his ambition to rule. 
 He still anxiously desired to be head of an independent confederacy. 
 
LECTURE. 209 
 
 though the calamities of his people had bereft him of the means of 
 gratifying that ambition. But an occasion was now to present itself, 
 which at once was to give him the promise of all that he desired and 
 to constitute a new epoch in the history of aboriginal Xew England, 
 
 It was in the winter of 1620, whilst residing at Pokanoket, that 
 Massasoit received intelligence that the strange people, atat-men^ 
 ( Watoronuoag) whose faces were pale, and whose warriors were armed 
 with the thunder and lightning of the Great Spirit, had, with their 
 women and children, come over the great waters in their winged 
 canoes, and built wigwams, and kindled their council fire on the 
 recently deserted strand of Patuxet. It may well be supposed that 
 this strange intelligence at once formed a subject of grave and anx- 
 ious deliberation at the council fire of the barbarous chief. The idea 
 doubtless presented itself of filling up the vacancy in the popula- 
 tion of his territory, occasioned by the wasting pestilence, the better 
 to put himself in a condition to assert his former independence ; and 
 yet he feared to contract an alliance for that purpose with a strange 
 race of men, with whom his tribes had but lately been in a state of 
 actual hostility. He knew just enough of the white men to feel for 
 their power a superstitious dread, and for their treachery, the most 
 anxious apprehensions. They were not such entire strangers, but 
 that he had, unfortunately, witnessed specimens of both. In latter 
 years his coast had been more frequently visited than formerly — 
 Gosnola had explored it in 1602, Prinne had examined it the follow- 
 ing year, the French in 1604-6, the Dutch in 1609 ; and traders had, 
 from time to time, visited his shores, and bartered knives, hatchets, 
 arrow-heads, &c., for their furs. Among those of the latter class was 
 the famous Hunt, who kidnapped twenty-seven of his subjects, and sold 
 them as slaves. He had then learned something of the terrible effects 
 of the white men's arms ; and from that time to the present, his tribes 
 had been in a state of warfare with all white men who visited their 
 coast. Nothing but his stronger hatred, therefore, of the Xarragan- 
 set domination, and his desire to restore the independence of his con- 
 federacy, could have induced him or his people to consent to an alli- 
 ance with the strangers. 
 
 But, whatever may have been his motives, on the 22d of March fol- 
 lowing the landing, escorted by sixty men, he repaired to Patuxet, 
 now Plymouth, for his first interview with his new neighbors. 
 
 The first meeting of these rude tribes with civilized societ}^, then 
 just commencing on these shores, was marked by all that distrust and 
 jealousy which previous circumstances, acting on opposite natures, were 
 
 27 
 
210 LECTURE. 
 
 calculated to inspire. It was the approach of antagonist forces, each 
 questioning the character of the other. Hostages were exchanged for 
 the security of each party before an interview was hazarded. These 
 and other preliminary measures having been arranged, Massasoit was 
 escorted by six musketeers to the house and apartment where the 
 first treaty was concluded. There, elevated on a seat of cushions, 
 with a green rug at his feet, and with nothing but a necklace of bone 
 beads to distinguish him from his men, the sachem of the "Wampano- 
 ags awaited the arrival of the chief of the Whites. All around him 
 was new and strange : but presently, with the beat of drum and sound 
 of trumpet, the governor entered, with a guard of several musketeers. 
 Such pomp and circumstance the sachem had never before witnessed. 
 In the midst of so much that was new and imposing — the pale faces 
 their strange garments, the glittering of their arms, and, more than 
 all, the sound of the drum and trumpet — the chief was awed and 
 appalled ; and when the governor, after salutation, had seated him by 
 his side, he trembled as with a supernatural dread — as if one of his 
 own manittos were honoring him with his presence. He was now liber- 
 ally supplied with strong waters, of which he took copious draughts ; 
 and, under the influence of a combination of strange feelings, Massa- 
 soit could have little doubt that the white strangers would be allies 
 too powerful for his Narraganset conquerors ; and he immediately con- 
 cluded with them a treaty, offensive and defensive, and gave them a 
 portion of those lands which he had so recently subjected to Canoni- 
 cus and Miantonomi. The "Whites, however, supposed they were 
 treating with an independent chief ; yet they had now, unconsciously, 
 made an important step toward the dissolution of that body of abo- 
 rigines with which they first came in contact. That mass (the con- 
 quered Wampanoags and all their federate clans) was at one blow, or 
 rather at the mere touch of the white hand, cleft off from the Narra- 
 ganset empire, and Massasoit, as the ally of the Whites, reinstated at 
 the head of the independent confederacy of the very tribes which had 
 so recently been subdued. 
 
 But the Whites sought for some further assurance than a treaty 
 with the grand sachem only. They exacted a promise from him that 
 he would acquaint all his under-sachems with the treaty which he had 
 made, that they might be included in its terms. And it seems to 
 have been in pursuance of his recommendations that, in the Septem- 
 ber following, nine of his under-sachems came to Plymouth and sub- 
 scribed a treaty as interpreted by Squanto, an Indian in the service 
 of the Whites ; by which treaty they appear to acknowledge them- 
 
 I 
 
LECTURE. 211 
 
 selves to be the loyal subjects of the king of Great Britain, France, 
 and Ireland, defender of the faith, &c. The subscribers doubtless 
 understood this to be a mere treaty of alliance, such as their grand 
 sachem had formed, but the Whites placed their own construction 
 upon its terms, and considered these chiefs afterwards as independent 
 sovereigns or as subjects, just as the interest of the moment might 
 dictate. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that all these movements among the tribes 
 in the neighborhood of Plymouth entirely escaped the attention of 
 the Narragansets. The agitations at the extremes could not fail to 
 vibrate to the centre. But what could they do ? The Pequot, with 
 his hatchet continually uplifted, was at their backs, whilst in their 
 front was the strange white man, strong in power, yet unmeasured — 
 armed with the weapons of their own Great Spirit — holding (as the 
 report went) disease and death in his hands, and still further strength- 
 ened by those bands of warriors who had seceded from their dominion. 
 But the white man might be less powerful than he seemed — ^he might 
 lack in courage — some of his race, they had heard, were deficient in 
 fortitude, and would groan when tortured. Some of them, therefore, 
 seem to have proposed to make one experiment upon his temper ; 
 and in making it, there seems to have been practiced something of 
 political finesse. In December following the treaty, a challenge was 
 sent, but from whom does not distinctly appear. A Narraganset 
 Indian appeared at the plantation, writh a bundle of arrows tied 
 together with the skin of a rattlesnake. He inquired for Squanto, 
 the interpreter. Squanto was absent, and the messenger departed 
 without further explanation. Squanto was a cunning practicer upon 
 the superstitious fears of his countrymen, and the jealousy of his 
 white employers. He represented to the Indians that the Whites 
 kept the plague among them, buried in the ground, which they could 
 let loose upon their enemies when they pleased ; and, he told them, 
 that white war and peace were both in his hands, and he could give 
 them either. The challenge, therefore, might have been designed for 
 him ; but when he returned, he seems to have explained the mystic 
 symbols to be a menace addressed to the Whites. The governor of 
 Plymouth, thereupon, threw back the taunt, and, with a rude answer 
 of defiance, sent the skin filled with bullets to Canonicus, the Narra- 
 ganset chief That sachem, however, either did not recognize the 
 original message, or refused to understand the answer, and the unwel- 
 come message was passed from hand to hand, finding no receiver, 
 until it found its way back to Plymouth. But, whatever the origin 
 
212 LECTURE. 
 
 or object of tlie message, the manner of its reception by the Whites 
 must have satisfied the Narragansets that the strangers were not des- 
 titute of courage, and that before they expelled them, or regained 
 tlieir lost dominion over the Wampanoags, they must quell the Pe- 
 (juots. But it may be well doubted whether Canonicus and Mianto- 
 nomi had any part in this message. The abiding policy of Canonicus, 
 toward the Whites, appears to have been constantly pacific. He valued 
 himself, at the time Roger Williams became acquainted with him, 
 upon never having suffered wrong to be done to the English — and 
 Miantonomi, his nephew, seems only to^have carried into effect the 
 resolutions of the elder sachem. 
 
 But to return to the Wampanoag confederacy — for it was through 
 their prostration;that the Whites were brought in immediate contact 
 with the Narraganset people. The message of the Narragansets had 
 the effect of exciting no small alarm among the English. They im- 
 mediately fortified their village with a strong pale or barricade, 
 wliich was closed at night, and watched by sentinels. This j was fur- 
 ther strengthened by a fort, on which were mounted severaFpieces of 
 artillery. Such a display of warlike strength could not fail to over- 
 awe the neighboring natives, and render them sensible of their own 
 inferiority in arms. It doubtless prepared the way for the success of 
 the first warlike enterprise of Captain Standish on American ground. 
 
 A company of English, under a Mr. Weston, attempted a settle- 
 ment at a place called Wessagussit, (now Weymouth.) They proved 
 to be a lawless, profligate, and prodigal people. Their improvidence 
 was such, that in a short time they were reduced to the last stages of 
 famine. Some perished with hunger ; others, without making any 
 application to Plymouth for relief, begged their daily food of the 
 Indians, who, for a time, supplied their daily wants with a liberal hos- 
 pitality. But from begging they passed to robbing and stealing, day 
 and night, from their benefactors. This was too much for even these 
 pacific red men to bear. They made loud and frequent complaints 
 to the English at Plymouth, and were told in answer, that Weston's 
 company were a separate and distant people, or clan, over which the 
 company at Plymouth had no control, and that they could extend to 
 the injured no relief These Indians, therefore, felt themselves under 
 the necessity of redressing their own wrongs, and doubtless felt that 
 they had a right to expel the bandits that threatened to reduce them 
 to the same extremity with themselves. It appears that there were 
 consultations among some of the tribes, for the purpose of forming a 
 
LECTURE. 213 
 
 combination, with this view. These consultations were made known 
 to the Plymouth authorities, under the following circumstances : 
 
 News came to Plymouth that Massasoit was sick, and near unto 
 death. Mr. Winslow was sent to visit him : when he came to his 
 residence he found his house so thronged with company that he could 
 scarce gain admittance. The Pawaws were practising upon him their 
 spells, with noise and tumult better calculated to distemper the well, 
 than relieve the sick. The sachem's sight had already failed him, and 
 he seemed indeed to be tottering on life's utmost verge. Winslow 
 administered some cordials and medicines which gave him sudden and 
 unexpected relief His sight was gradually restored, and the kind 
 attention of Winslow, continued for a few days, secured his recovery. 
 The gratitude of Massasoit knew no bounds, and the benevolence of 
 his Plymouth friends wag rewarded with the revelation of a state 
 secret. He called Hobomack, the Indian attendant of Winslow, to 
 his bed side, and directed him to inform Winslow, on his way home, 
 that an extensive conspiracy had been formed by the Massachusetts 
 and Cape Indians to cut off or suppress Weston's company, and to 
 defend themselves against the Plymouth people, in case they should 
 resent it. Hobomack obeyed the directions of the chief, and immedi- 
 ately on the receipt of this intelligence at Plymouth, Captain Standish, 
 with a body of armed men, was dispatched to Wessagussit. To the 
 English there he gave immediate relief, and then, without having 
 given the slightest warning, or opportunity for explanation, he fell on 
 the suspected but still peaceful tribes, cut off the heads of six of their 
 bravest warriors, and so terrified others — men, women and children — 
 that they forsook their dwellings and wandered hither and thither in 
 swamps and deserts, until they contracted diseases whereof great 
 numbers died. Among those who fell victims to this act of treachery, 
 (as it would have been called had it been perpetrated by Indians,) 
 were Canaum, sachem of Menomet ; the generous and humane Aspi- 
 net, sachem of Nawset, who, untutored in Christianity, had yet learned 
 to return good for evil ; and the courteous Tanaugh, sachem of Cuma- 
 quid, to whose open lodge and hospitable board the English had been 
 ever welcome, and where, within but a short time previous, he had 
 royally received and sumptuously entertained them as his brothers 
 and his friends. 
 
 How far the numbers of the Wampanoag confederacy were reduced 
 by this act of violence and its immediate consequences, can never be 
 known ; but its moral effects were far more decisive than its physical. 
 They stood appalled at the hardihood of the outrage — they knew not 
 
214 LECTURE. 
 
 on what achievements these strangers might next venture ; but worse 
 than all, they could no longer have the slightest confidence in each 
 other. They must have soon learned that the secret of their consul- 
 tation had been betrayed by their own grand sachem. He had 
 shown himself in this more under the influence of a fear or a friend- 
 ship for the white than of love for the red man. The example of the 
 great, even among barbarians, is contagious, and the influence of his, 
 ran through the whole confederacy. From this time no one, whilst 
 Massasoit lived, seems to have dared to think of resisting the power 
 of the Whites ; thus the whole confederacy, for all the puposes of the 
 English, seems to have been suddenly dissolved, and its parties reduced 
 to a state of absolute subjection. 
 
 In the mean time the numbers of the Whites were rapidly increasing, 
 and the condition of the red men, who came in immediate contact with 
 them, was as rapidly growing worse. They soon learned all the wants, 
 without acquiring any additional means for their gratification, and fell 
 into the most brutalizing vices of civilized society, without acquiring 
 a single virtue to counterbalance them. They were at the same time 
 exchanging their furs for the manufactures of the Whites, and selling 
 the hunting grounds which produced them. A white population be- 
 gan to difi'use itself rapidly over the lands, and before it the primeval 
 forests fell ; and the bear, the beaver, the deer and moose, sought 
 securer haunts in distant wilds. In order to give some idea of the 
 rapidity with which the white population was at this time pressing on 
 the red, and limiting their means of subsistence by appropriating their 
 lands, one fact will be sufficient : There came over to Shawmut, or 
 Boston, in 1631, in only one fleet, fifteen hundred emigrants. 
 
 But it was not only their new wants and the new vice of intemper- 
 ance, acquired from the Whites, that were now reducing their numbers 
 and rendering them wretchedly dependant ; but, through the medium 
 of civilized society, there passed amongst them a wide spreading death 
 and desolation in the form of a strange and horrible contagion — it was 
 the small pox — to them, until now, utterly unknown. Civilized society 
 gathers, through the medium of commerce, within its bosom, all the 
 diseases of the four quarters of the earth, but through the same instru- 
 mentality it acquires a knowledge of their appropriate remedies, and 
 learns how to combat them. Not so with the Indian. This disease 
 was forced upon him by the uninvited presence of the white man, and 
 it found him in utter ignorance of any remedy or preventive, and in 
 the midst of the comfortless and squalid wretchedness of barbarous 
 life. Stretched naked on their hard mats of rushes or of birch, in 
 
LECTURE. 215 
 
 smoky hovels, surrounded by their weeping friends and wailing chil- 
 dren, only waiting for the same fate, they rotted and died by hun- 
 dreds — ay, by thousands. The three sachems of Massachusetts were 
 swept off with almost all their people ; and at Winnesimett, the resi- 
 dence of Sagamore John, thirty of his tribe were buried in one day. 
 I have not observed that either the governments of Plymouth or Mas- 
 sachusetts did any thing to stay the wasting pestilence ; but it is to 
 be hoped, that the humanity of individuals was not wanting to allevi- 
 ate their distress. Thus straigthened by the increase of the Whites, 
 dependent upon them for the gratification of new wants and of new 
 vices, and rapidly melting away with strange diseases, the tribes of 
 the Wampanoag confederacy lay prostrate and powerless before their 
 English neighbors. This situation of things brought the Narraganset 
 people more immediately under the action and influence of white 
 society. 
 
 The Narraganset chiefs had not yet visited the Whites — they had 
 made no treaty with them. They had kept themselves aloof, but still 
 refrained from any acts of hostility. They had probably too much to 
 do at home, in repelling their old enemies, the Pequots, to think either 
 of cultivating their friendly relations or of provoking the hostilities of 
 the strangers. But in 1632 they evidently came near to an open rup- 
 ture with them. Sassacus, the Pequot sachem, was mustering his 
 warriors for the purpose of invading the Narragansets. Canonicus 
 and Miantonomi summoned all their forces to repel them. Sagamore 
 John and Chickatabot were called to their aid ; and these sachems 
 seem not to have forgotten their former subjection. They were not 
 slow to obey the commands of their superior chiefs. But Massasoit, 
 when sumnloned, probably for the same purpose, disregarding his for- 
 mer submission, refused to comply with the requisition. And when 
 the Narragansets attempted to enforce a compliance he threw himself 
 under the protection of the English, who occupied a trading house at 
 Sowams, and who immediately sent to Plymouth for assistance ; but 
 before it was received news reached the Narraganset forces that the 
 Pequots had actually invaded their territory. They thereupon imme- 
 diately withdrew, and hastening to the scene of danger, drove back 
 the enemy to his accustomed haunts. 
 
 Their war with the Pequots was at this time raging with great fury ; 
 but though their enemies were repeatedly foiled, they yet seemed to have 
 had that within them which was destined, under the direction of the 
 Whites, ultimately to operate the ruin of the Narragansets. To use an 
 aboriginal figure, the Pequots seem to have been a flight of arrows, shot 
 
216 LECTURE. 
 
 down from tlie far West, "by tlie bow of the Great Spirit. The English 
 finding them, selected one of the number, pointed with the soul of the 
 ferocious Uncas, for the destruction of the Narragansets, and then 
 burnt and destroyed the rest. 
 
 The Narragansets were a people which it would have been danger- 
 ous for the whites at this period to have provoked or directly injured. 
 Though at war with the Pequots, yet it was in their power, as will 
 subsequently appear, to have made peace with them, and it is difficult 
 to conceive how the English could have withstood their combined 
 forces. But the tide of events seems to have moved on under a super- 
 human impulse. It is not probable that the English sought, by extir- 
 pating the Pequots, to open a way to the subjection of the successors 
 of Canonicus and Miantonomi ; but so they did, and I will proceed 
 to show how it was accomplished. 
 
 In 1631, the people of Plymouth were invited by a sachem who 
 dwelt on the banks of the Connecticut, and who had been cruelly 
 oppressed by the Pequots, to commence a settlement in his neighbor- 
 hood. In 1633 an establishment was accordingly formed, in a place 
 now called Windsor, at the mouth of Little River. The land was 
 purchased of Sequasson and Attawankut, chief sachems of the river 
 Indians; and the latter chief, who had been expelled by the Pequots 
 was reinstated in his former possessions. 
 
 To the Pequots, that proud and martial people, these events were, 
 by no means agreeable ; but they were in no condition to resist the 
 encroachments. In fact they were in a situation to render it neces- 
 sary for them to avail themselves of whatever advantages even these 
 compromising circumstances might afi'ord. They were at war among 
 themselves. It was about this time that Uncas, a ferocious and blood- 
 thirsty under-sachem of the nation, rebelled against Sassacus, and 
 drawing oif from their allegiance with him seventy or eighty warriors, 
 established himself at Mokuk, an Indian town, situated at the turn 
 of Pequot river. They were also still at war with the Narragansets ; 
 and the tribes that they had subdued were watching for a favorable 
 opportunity to bend the bow against them. Hostilities had about the 
 same time broken out between them and the Dutch, who had estab- 
 lished themselves on the Hudson and in some parts of Connecticut, 
 and they could no longer look to them for a supply of arms. Under 
 these circumstances, voluntarily to have added the English to the 
 number of their enemies, would have been madness. They therefore 
 saw the white settlements multiply around them without resistance. 
 Windsor, Wethersfield, Herdford and Saybrook, were successively 
 
LECTURE. 217 
 
 commenced. Indeed, their necessities urged them so far that they at 
 this time sought to form a commercial treaty with Massachusetts. 
 The messengers whom they sent to Boston were at first coldly received 
 on account of the murder of Captain Stone, when on a trading expe- 
 dition up the Connecticut. But a treaty was finally concluded, by 
 which the English engaged to open trade with them immdiately ; and 
 they were to pay or give four hundred fathoms of wampum, together 
 with a quantity of furs, and to deliver up the surviving murderers of 
 Stone when sent for. 
 
 Matters continued in this pacific state until 1636. During that 
 year Mr. Oldham, a man of irritable and violent temper, whilst 
 engaged in a trading expedition, was slain by a party of Indians at 
 Manisses, or Block Island. The slayers were demanded of the Nar- 
 raganset sachems, who were inclined to surrender them. The offen- 
 ders, however, being apprised of this, made their escape to the 
 Pequots. Soon after this. Captain Endicot, under instructions from 
 Massachusetts, after having given the Block Islanders a passing blow, 
 landed with an armed force of ninety men at the mouth of Pequot 
 river, where the principal part of the tribe then dwelt, and demanded 
 one thousand fathoms of wampum for damages, and the surrender of 
 the murderers of Stone. Sassacus, the chief sachem, was gone to 
 Long Island, and the Indians desired him to wait a short time for his 
 return. But the Captain demanded an immediate compliance with 
 his requisition — he would admit of no such delay. Upon this, great 
 excitement began to manifest itself among the Pequots. Large bod- 
 ies of them soon gathered round, and he began to feel some little 
 alarm at their presence, as well as vexation at their delay. He at 
 length bade them begone. They had, he told them, dared the Eng- 
 lish to come and fight with them, and now he was ready. They 
 thereupon peaceably retired ; and when they were beyond musket 
 shot, the English followed them, upon which the Indians discharged a 
 shower of arrows, without effect, and fled, receiving in return a volley 
 from the English musketry, by which two of the Pequots were killed 
 and several wounded. The English then burnt all their wigwams on 
 both sides of the river, and all their canoes. Endicot, after this 
 exploit, left a reinforcement for the garrison at Saybrook, and sailed 
 for Boston. After his departure, this detachment landed for the pur- 
 pose of plunder. They were attacked by the Pequots, and a skir- 
 mishing fight was continued till near evening. 
 
 War was now commenced in right earnest, and the whole soul of 
 Sassacus went with it. Nothing short of the complete extirpation of 
 
 28 
 
218 LECTURE. 
 
 the English from New England ground could satisfy him. To 
 accomplish this purpose, he sought to reduce the number of his foes 
 by treaty. He could even humble his proud spirit so far as to solicit 
 an alliance offensive and defensive with his old enemies, the Narra- 
 gansets. Every argument was used to induce their chiefs to accept 
 his proffered friendship, and engage in the war. " Behold," said his 
 embassadors to Canonicus, in their own figurative language, " behold 
 the all-grasping violence of these white strangers ! They come over 
 the mighty waters from a far distant island, and, without leave, take 
 possession of our country before our eyes. They are fast overspread- 
 ing your lands. Your tributaries have already yielded to their sway. 
 They are occupying the soil which your valor has conquered. If suf- 
 fered to increase, they will build towns on the graves of your honored 
 dead, and your living will not find space whereon to spread their 
 blankets. They are already before and behind you — assist them to 
 subdue us, and your destruction is certain. Look ye toward where 
 the sun shews himself in the sky of the morning ; and the red men 
 between you and the strangers have become little children, and the 
 bosom of Canonicus is stripped bare to the bullets of the white war- 
 riors. Look ye toward where he hides himself behind yonder hills ; 
 and between Canonicus and the stranger there is nothing but the 
 tomahawks of Sassacus and his warriors. His death is your death. 
 Harken ye, therefore, to the words of his voice. Fear not the white 
 strangers — we will not brave them in open battle — but we will burn 
 their houses — ^we will kill their cattle — we will waylay their steps — 
 not a man shall stir abroad that falls not by the arrow of the red 
 warrior ; and thus shall the white strangers die of hunger, or forsake 
 our country." 
 
 This stirring appeal was addressed to ears not altogether deaf 
 Canonicus and Miantonomi hesitated — wavered. They detested the 
 Pequots — but they felt the truth of their appeal ; and the balance 
 was already inclining to their favor, when the interference of Roger 
 Williams turned the scales ultimately to the side of the Whites. 
 
 When Williams first became acquainted with the Narraganset 
 chiefs, (which was shortly before this period,) his reception by Canon- 
 icus was cold and distrustful. He charged the English with spread- 
 ing the plague among his people — with having menaced them with 
 violence, and with aiming at his life in particular. But his conduct 
 in a short time changed ; and both he and Miantonomi soon became 
 the warm-hearted friends and benefactors of the poor persecuted 
 wanderer and his associates. I need not mention the large tract of 
 
LECTURE. 219 
 
 country which, through Williams, we inherit as the princely gift of 
 Canonicus and Miantonomi. It is sufficient for my present purpose 
 to say, that Williams had even now acquired their unlimited confi- 
 dence. As soon as he heard of the overtures made by the Pequots 
 to the Narragansets, he made the governor of Massachusetts acquaint- 
 ed with them, and was thereupon commissioned by him to use his in- 
 fluence to defeat the attempted league. He accordingly proceeded to 
 the Narraganset council, and in the presence of the Pequot embassa- 
 dors, and at the hazard of his life, volunteered his advice to Canon- 
 icus and Miantonomi. and by argument, persuasion, and entreaty, de- 
 feated the negotiations of Sassacus. 
 
 Through Williams the governor of Massachusetts, at the same time, 
 requested Miantonomi to do him the honor of a visit, and that chief 
 immediately proceeded to Boston, attended by twenty sanops. He 
 gave notice of his approach, and the governor sent a corps of musket- 
 eers to meet him at Roxbury, and they escorted him into town. He 
 was received with great respect. The magistrates, the chief, and his 
 attendants, dined together in the same hall, and much ceremony was 
 observed in the subsequent negotiations. 
 
 The principal provisions of the treaty then concluded were, that 
 neither party should make peace with the Pequots without consulting 
 the other. The Narragansets were not to harbor the Pequots. They 
 were to deliver up murderers and fugitives. The English were to 
 notify them when they marched against the enemy, and the Narra- 
 gansets, on their part, merely engaged to send guides. The treaty 
 being concluded, the party dined together, as at first. They then 
 took a formal leave of each other, and the sachem was escorted out of 
 town, and dismissed with a volley of musketry. Miantonomi con- 
 firmed this treaty, early in the spring following, by a present of 
 wampum, and the Narragansets were faithful to it in every particular. 
 Miantonomi subsequently had frequent conversations with Williams, 
 as to the mode of prosecuting the war ; and on one of these occa- 
 sions, both he and his counsellors expressed a desire, whatever might 
 be done with the Pequot warriors, that their women and children 
 might be spared, I mention this that, in the sequel, a comparison 
 might be drawn between them and their white allies. 
 
 In the meantime Sassacus was prosecuting the war in true barba- 
 rian style, and with unremitting vigor. He was firmly bent on ex- 
 tirpating the Whites from Connecticut. Every garrison — every set- 
 tlement was attacked. The inhabitants were cut ofi" whilst engaged 
 in the culture of the field — captives were taken and tortured. The 
 
^20 LECTURE. 
 
 garrisou at Saybrook were so pressed that they dared not go beyond 
 the reach of their guns. Their out-houses were razed, their stacks of 
 hay burnt, and their cattle killed. In March, 1637, four of the gar- 
 rison were siain — the fort was surrounded — its defenders were chal- 
 lenged to battle, and mocked with the dying groans of their friends. 
 Indeed, the assailants would have beaten down the gates with their 
 war-clubs, had they not been kept at bay by the discharge of a cannon 
 loaded with grape shot. Life was everywhere periled — on road, river, 
 or field. Arms were in the hands of every man and boy, by night 
 and by day, at the altar and by the fireside. Men, women, and chil- 
 dren, were on the constant watch, and trembling at every unwonted 
 sound. Indeed, Sassacus seemed to be realizing, unaided, all that he 
 expected to perform with the assistance of the Narragansets. But 
 the tide of success had now risen to its height, and the sun of Pequot 
 glory was about to set forever. The whites on all sides began to 
 shoulder their muskets — the tomakawks of the Narragansets and 
 those of the rebel Mohegans were rising around them, and the tribes 
 that they had vanquished began to whet the scalping knife, and tread 
 the maddening war dance with a firmer foot. Sassacus saw the gath- 
 ering of the tempest, and sought shelter with his warriors in his two 
 strong fortresses near the mouth of Pequot river. Of these two 
 fortresses, one was situated on a commanding eminence, between 
 what was called Pequot harbor (New London) and Mistic river. 
 This fortress was occupied by Sassacus, with between three and four 
 hundred warriors and their families. The other fortress, called Mis- 
 tic, likewise crowned a commanding height in the neighborhood of 
 the river of that name, a few miles east of Fort Grriswold. In this, 
 likewise, from three to four hundred warriors sought shelter. These, 
 together with their aged fathers and mothers, and their wives and 
 children, occupied about seventy wigwams, covered with mats, and all 
 standing closely together within the hedge and palisade, which consti- 
 tuted the walls of the fortress. 
 
 Uncas had been watching the progress of events, and, when the Nar- 
 ragansets threw tliemselves into the scale of the "Whites, his course 
 was no longer doubtful. He joined Captain John Mason, who com- 
 manded about seventy English at Hartford. On the 10th of May, 
 the united forces sailed from Hartford, on their expedition against 
 the Pequot fortresses. They were joined on their way by a part of 
 the garrison at Saybrook. These, and the forces from Plymouth and 
 Massachusetts, were to concentrate in the Narraganset country ; but 
 neither the troops from Plymouth nor Massachusetts were at the 
 
DECT U RE, 221 
 
 point of concentration wlien Mason arrived. His forces, however, 
 were eager for the contest, particularly his Indian allies, and he^ 
 thought it imprudent to delay. He gave notice to Miantonomi of 
 his arrival, and the chief, in compliance with the treaty, furnished 
 him with guides. He did not lead his own forces under Mason, nor 
 in company with Uncas, his implacable enemy ; but he allowed hi» 
 subjects to volunteer. Three or four hundred followed the English ; 
 but, it would seem by the result, more for the purpose of being spec- 
 tators of the battle, than of participating in it. 
 
 It was on the night of the 26th May, 1637, that the combined forces of 
 Indians and English approached Fort Mistic. The Pequots, as was their 
 custom when not in an enemy's country, trusted to the reports of their 
 scouts. Those warriors, who sallied forth in the morning in quest of 
 game, reconnoitered the country around the encampment, and if they 
 saw no unaccustomed marks in the thickets, no impress of hostile foot 
 on the turf, and espied no strange smoke or fire in the distant horizon, 
 they deemed that no enemy was near, and all fearlessly trusted them- 
 selves to repose, without a single sentinel to watch over their slumbers. 
 It was now midnight — and the warrior had danced his last round at 
 the war-dance— the gray-haired veteran had told the last tale of his 
 heroic youth — -infancy, always inoffensive, had been hushed to slumber 
 in the bosom of maternal affection — and through all the lodges there 
 now reigned the unbroken slumber of the midnight hour. 
 
 It was at this moment that the English were concerting their 
 destruction. They approached the fort in profound silence at two 
 points, and finally surrounded it with three circles of armed men. 
 First, the English looked through the palisades armed with muskets ; 
 next were the Mohegans, with their tomahawks, scalping knives, and 
 shortened lances ; and lastly, and at a still greater distance, stood the 
 Narraganset volunteers. There was no chance for escape now left, 
 and a body of the English rushed on the entrance of the fort. The 
 first alarm was given by the bark of a watch-dog — this was followed 
 by the cry, " Awanux ! Awanux ! " Wild alarm and confusion in- 
 stantly spread through all the lodges ; men, women and children 
 poured forth — they were met by a blaze of musketry. Warriors 
 grasped their arms and ran desperately on their assailants — ^they were 
 hewed down with the sword — they were run through with rapiers — 
 they were shot down, or they were beaten to the earth by the two- 
 handed sway of the clubbed musket. Some attempted to escape from 
 the fortress; but, if any passed beyond the circle of muskets and 
 swords, they were cut to pieces by tomahawks and scalping knives. 
 
222 LECTURE. 
 
 In tlie mean time showers of balls were piercing the crowds, from 
 which there came the frequent shriek of woman and child. Bid any 
 at this moment of desperation seek for shelter in their lodges, a brand 
 was applied to the dry matting that covered them — the breeze wafted 
 the blaze from lodge to lodge, and in an instant the whole mass of 
 their combustible shelters shot up in one pyramid of fire, canopied by 
 a dark red cloud of smoke, and surrounded by the sombre gloom of 
 the forest. The wild yell of despair burst from the breasts of the 
 fiercest warriors when they saw their wives and children rush shrieking 
 from the burning mass, their garments, their hair, and their flesh on 
 fire ; one moment more, and they themselves were the victims. The 
 encircling palisade rose in flames ; their bowstrings scorched, snapped 
 short, and those not disabled were now disarmed ; and all yielded 
 themselves to their fate. With the groans and the shrieks of the suf- 
 ferers, now came mingled the shouts and taunts of the victors — Eng- 
 lish, Mohegan and Narraganset. Whilst their blood was quenching 
 the flames that their bodies were feeding, the stench — but I must stop 
 short — the description is growing too horrible. It is enough to say 
 that the shrieks of agony died away upon the ear, as body after body was 
 converted to brands and ashes, until all was silent. In the short space 
 of one hour nearly half the strength of the Pequot nation had been 
 annihilated ; seven only escaped, and seven only were taken prisoners. 
 The work of destruction having been thus finished, the victors com- 
 menced their retreat. 
 
 The flames of Mistic that night shed an ominous glare on the for- 
 tress occupied by Sassacus, and all that now remained of the Pequots. 
 The sight was big with meaning ; the dreadful reality, however, soon 
 reached his ears, and at the head of his warriors he went forth in pur- 
 suit of the enemy. He came up with him ; but what could he do with 
 bows and arrows against the discipline and musketry of the English ? 
 He was repulsed with loss ; he abandoned the pursuit, and his forces 
 turned back to cast one maddening glance on the scene of massacre. 
 The Pequots there searched in vain the yet smouldering relics of the 
 dead, for some remnant of parent, child, brother, sister or friend. 
 They mourned piteously ; they beat their breasts and tore their hair, 
 till their feelings, wrought up to the highest pitch of despair and mad- 
 ness, sought, for the want of other object, to vent themselves by vio- 
 lence on the grand sachem himself — on him, whom his people now 
 accused as the cause of their misfortune — him, who failed to avenge 
 the dead whilst the foe were yet within reach. They followed him to 
 his remaining fortress near Pequot harbor, and would have torn him 
 
LECTURE. 223 
 
 in pieces but for the intervention of his counsellors, who were at once 
 their chiefs, and his body guard. Foiled in this, and conscious that 
 the fortress was no longer a place of safety, they at once dispersed. 
 The knot which bound them together as a nation was cut asunder ; 
 they scattered toward every point of the heavens, like leaves tossed in 
 the eddies of the whirlwind. They plunged into the densest thickets 
 — ^into the deepest swamps — but every where found enemies in the 
 English, the Mohegans, the Narragansets, and in the tribes that they 
 had recently vanquished, now rising and seeking retributive vengeance. 
 If they fought they were slain ; if they capitulated, those who were 
 not butchered were carried into captivity. 
 
 But the great prize for which the war was now prosecuted, was the 
 head of Sassacus. He was pursued from one place of refuge to an- 
 other. A small number of warriors still proved faithful to him in 
 this last extremity. Thirteen of his sachems had now been slain — 
 seven hundred of his people had been destroyed. His own life now 
 began to be sought by his own people, from fear of the victors ; he 
 was still pursued from swamp to swamp, by night and by day, till, 
 abandoning his country with a few faithful friends, he sought refuge 
 among the Mohawks, and found a grave. They cut off his head, and 
 in the fall of 1637 the scalp of Sassacus was sent to Connecticut, and 
 a lock of it, soon after, to Massachusetts. 
 
 Thus terminated the Pequot war. The great body of the people 
 was annihilated. Their country passed to the conquerors. A por- 
 tion of the prisoners were divided between the Narragansets and Mo- 
 hegans, and the rest were retained by the Whites as slaves. Some 
 small portion of this people were subsequently allowed to settle in 
 the conquered territory, over whom the English appointed rulers. 
 
 The terrible fate of the Pequots struck a dread of the Whites into 
 all the surrounding tribes. Many there were who immediately 
 threw themselves under their protection, begged their friendship, and 
 became their tributaries. The prowess, and, I might say, the cruelty 
 which the English had shown in this war, awakened the apprehensions 
 even of their allies, the Narragansets. They have been accused of 
 being backward in the war. There was good reason for their want of 
 zeal. From the flames of Mistic they undoubtedly gathered some 
 vague presentiment of those of the great swamp, yet forty years in 
 the future. 
 
 The immediate effect of the extirpation of the Pequots was to 
 bring the Narraganset people, naked on all sides, under the action 
 of hostile principles. The heart of Indian life had been thus divested 
 
224 LECTURE. 
 
 of its natural exterior, and now lay bare to the action of Englisli soci- 
 ety, and the servile instruments of its magistracy. 
 
 Saturday Evening, Jan. 9, 1837. 
 [Stcbject continiied.'] 
 In the discourse of Wednesday evening, I described the extent of 
 territory occupied by the Narragansets, and endeavored to form some 
 estimate of their numbers. I gave some account of their state of 
 society, and named those ties, moral, religious, and political, which 
 gave them their unity, and increased their capacity for endurance and 
 resistance. I then fihowed that nearly all those tribes, which inhab- 
 ited Massachusetts proper, and the territory which fell under the 
 jurisdiction of the old Plymouth colony, were either their subjects or 
 tributaries; and that the only neighboring aboriginal nation, over 
 which they had not a decisive control, or undoubted influence, was the 
 Pequot ; and in the sequel it appeared, that even this people, with 
 which they might at almost any time have contracted an alliance, 
 offensive and defensive, against the far more dangerous English, must 
 be regarded as one of their own outposts, giving them additional secu- 
 rity against the advancing power of the Whites — a power antagonist, if 
 not hostile, to them, from its inmost principles, and which could not 
 strike them with safety, but by first subjecting the Pequots. I 
 showed how, by one stroke of White policy, most of the tribes of the 
 Wampanoag confederacy were severed from the Narraganset power — 
 and then how these severed tribes, by force of arms, by treachery, by 
 new and strange diseases and enervating habits, unknown before the 
 landing, were prostrated before English society, and became its de- 
 graded subjects. We then saw the power of the Whites advancing 
 through their subjection, and approaching the Narragansets from the 
 east, whilst the same power approached them from the west through 
 the extermination of the Pequots. I thought it necessary to dwell 
 with some particularity of description on the principal event of the 
 Pequot war, in order that it might be perceived how the exhibition of 
 the terrible prowess of civilized man might well give to the English that 
 ascendancy which they ever after maintained over the barbarous mind. 
 Having thus brought White power on both sides into the immediate 
 proximity of the Narragansets, we will follow it in its progress, as it 
 closes around and upon them, until, like the fabled prison of the 
 iron shroud, it crushes out the lives of its victims. 
 
LECTURE. 225 
 
 Of all that once constituted the Pequot nation, nothing now 
 remained but the traitorous Mohegans, at the head of whom was the 
 cannibal Uncas. A baser compound of brutality, treachery, servility, 
 and meanness, never disgraced savage or civilized man. For what 
 virtue he could have been prized by any Christian and humane com- 
 munity, is beyond the reach of all conjecture. He had but three 
 qualities, which distinguished him from the meanest of his people—. 
 great physical force, a ferocious courage, and a base species of cunning. 
 It must have been for these, and the fact that these controlled the 
 brute force of the Mohegans, that Uncas became (as we shall see) tlie 
 favorite of the commissioners of the united colonies. But I ought to, 
 add a further reason. The seat of his power was in the immediate 
 neighborhood of the Narragansets, and he inherited for Miantonomi 
 and his people the rancorous hostility of the extirpated Pequots. He 
 was a wild beast, which the commissioners could chain up or let loose 
 when they pleased. And this was the instrument with which the 
 commissioners chose to destroy one of nature's noblest works, in the 
 chivalrous, lofty-spirited, generous, and humane Miantonomi, These 
 are words of no CQ.mmon import, when applied to a barbarous chief- 
 tain ; but their meaning has been fully considered, and the character 
 of Miantonomi thoroughly studied. It was this chief and his kind- 
 hearted subjects that were now to fall a sacrifice to White policy, by 
 the aid of this brutal instrument. Let us follow the course of events, 
 and we shall see how it was accomplished. 
 
 As preparatory to the division of the Pequot prisoners, and his 
 purposed hostilities with Miantonomi, Uncas visited Boston, ostensibly 
 for the purpose of presenting twenty fathoms of wampum as tribute 
 to the English, but really for the purpose of establishing himself in 
 their confidence ; to that end he made the following speech : — " Tliis 
 heart," said he to the Governor, laying his hand on his breast, " Thi.s? 
 heart is not mine, but yours. I have no men — they are all yoru's. 
 Command any hard thing-T-rl will do it. I will not believe any Indi- 
 an's word against the English. If any man shall kill an Englishman, 
 I will put him to death, were he never so dear to me." However 
 agreeable these declarations might be to, the white, they breathed trea- 
 son to the ped man. Uncas eve:r ^er acted up to these declarations ; 
 liis hand was ever after against his own color, and the Whites did not 
 fail to countenance his outrages, and reciprocate the partiality whW^ 
 he had expressed for them, in all controversies between, liim and hiy 
 red brethren. 
 
 Miantonosji g-nd Unoaa, were now invited to Hartford to divide tlie 
 
 29 
 
226 LECTURE. 
 
 prisoners ; 'Eoger Williams on this occasion accompanied Miantonomi. 
 The chief, with his wife and children, left his home, escorted by about 
 one hundred and fifty of his warriors. On his way to Hartford he 
 was assailed from all quarters with the complaints of his people, of 
 outrages committed by Uncas and his Mohegans. A number of indi- 
 viduals, they said, had been assaulted and robbed ; a great number of 
 fields of corn had been spoiled, and the marauders had threatened to 
 waylay their chief on his passage to Hartford, and to kill him and boil 
 him in a kettle. Williams thereupon advised the Narraganset chief 
 to turn back. " Rather let us all die," said Miantonomi, and he 
 moved on, keeping strict watch by day and night ; and, in all danger- 
 ous passes, forty or fifty men, on either hand, guarded his march. 
 When he reached Hartford, Uncas was not there ; he was sent for by 
 jGrovernor Haynes, but he feigned indisposition ; he was, however, at 
 length forced to make his appearance. 
 
 Without absolutely denying, he seems rather to have endeavored to 
 extenuate these outrages. After the chiefs had given vent for some 
 time to their mutual complaints, the Whites endeavored to bring 
 about a reconciliation ; they were at length prevailed on to shake 
 hands, and conclude a treaty. In this treaty they agreed to an obliv- 
 ion of past injuries, and that, in case any should be thereafter com- 
 mitted, complaints therefor should be submitted to the arbitration of 
 the English, on pain of incurring their displeasure. 
 
 Miantonomi entered into this treaty with reluctance ; but having 
 so done, he was sincerely disposed to act up to its terms. To manifest 
 this sincerity, he twice invited Uncas to dine with him ; but his invi- 
 tations were rejected by the Mohegan chief, although their acceptance 
 was strenuously urged upon him by his white friends. 
 
 When the English came to divide the prisoners, the chief of the 
 Narragansets was mortified, and perhaps offended, to find that he, at 
 the head of a great people, whose mere determination to aid the Whites 
 was what induced Uncas to join them with his sixty or seventy Mohe- 
 gans, was now to receive but eighty of the captives, whilst Uncas was 
 to receive one hundred. He breathed no complaint, but doubtless 
 remembered it as the first act of English arbitration between him and 
 the Mohegan chief He had previously experienced other indignities 
 from the same source ; on one occasion he attempted to speak with a 
 Pequot chief, whom his own brother had captured and delivered to 
 the English, and for whom he had a particular esteem, but was rudely 
 repulsed by the lances of the guards levelled at his breast. " Did 
 ever friends so deal with friends ? " said he to Williams afterwards. 
 
LECTURE. 227 
 
 " Would the Narragansets have so dealt with Mr. Grovernor ? " But 
 policy required him to disguise his feelings among his people ; for to 
 be esteemed on bad terms with the Whites was, at that time, to dimin- 
 ish his influence with all the surrounding tribes. 
 
 The treaty was not long kept inviolate. Uncas grew more and more 
 insolent towards his red brethren, and his popularity with the Whites 
 increased in proportion to his insolence. Their manifest favor drew 
 around him kindred spirits from all quarters ; he could soon muster 
 five or six hundred warriors. A part of the Pequot country had been 
 yielded to him, and this gave him great consequence with the English 
 in Connecticut ; they made treaties with him, and he bestowed gifts in 
 land. In the mean time he or his friends were engaged in calumni- 
 ating Miantonomi, by charging him with hostile designs against the 
 English ; whilst he was doing all that he could to provoke them. His 
 hand was constantly against the Narraganset chiefs and their allies. 
 He was ever ready to engage in a brawl, and he kept aboriginal Con- 
 necticut and Narraganset in a constant state of turmoil. He threw 
 out menaces, he jeered the memory of their dead, and uttered their 
 names. If complaint was made to the English, they might chide 
 their favorite, but do nothing more. Under such circumstances, the 
 persecuted clans began to combine against Uncas, as a common enemy, 
 and to threaten to draw down the Mohawks to their assistance. This 
 alarmed the English ; for they regarded a war with their favorite as 
 but little short of a war against themselves ; they treated it as an 
 Indian conspiracy, and the English in Connecticut could be with diffi- 
 culty restrained from at once falling upon the Narragansets. This 
 state of things brought about a more perfect confederation of the four 
 colonies — Massachusetts, Plymouth, Connecticut, and New-Haven. 
 The affairs of this confederacy were conducted by commissioners, and 
 the colonies were put in a state of defence, and many of the native 
 tribes were disarmed. 
 
 In the mean time an attempt was made upon the life of Uncas by 
 a Pequot, one of his oppressed subjects. The Mohegan chief charged 
 Miantonomi with instigating the assassin. Miantonomi was summoned 
 before the magistracy of Massachusetts ; he complied with the sum- 
 mons, and brought with him to Boston the assassin, who had fled to 
 his dominions. He so completely satisfied the Grovernor and magis- 
 trates of the falsity of the charge, that they allowed him to take the 
 Pequot back with him, under a promise that he should be delivered to 
 Uncas ; Miantonomi, however, on his return, inflicted justice on the 
 culprit with his own hands. But matters were soon brought to a cri- 
 
228 LECTURE. 
 
 sis between Miantonimi and Uncas, by what seems originally to have 
 been a personal quarrel between the latter and Sequasson, the grand 
 sachem of the Connecticut or river Indians. 
 
 I think it is somewhere said, that the Narraganset chief married 
 the daughter of Sequasson, and that Uncas, in a private broil with 
 this sachem, gave him a blow. If so, this was an indignity to which 
 a grand sachem did not feel himself at liberty to submit. He resent- 
 ed it by war. He waylaid and shot at Uncas. He afterwards killed 
 a Mohegan. Uncas complained to the Commissioners ; but Sequas- 
 son was under no obligation to submit to the arbitration of the partial 
 Engiisli. He had wrongs of his own to redress ; and when the com- 
 missioners directed him, pursuant to a sort of Chinese justice, to 
 deliver to Uncas one of his people, he did not comply, but prosecuted 
 the war already begun. A battle was finally fouglit. Sequasson was 
 defeated. Several of his subjects were slain, thirteen were wounded, 
 and his village plundered and burnt. 
 
 For these injuries done to his friend, kindred, and ally, as well, 
 doubtless, as for the calumnies by which his friendly relations with 
 the English had been nearly broken up, and for the aggressions on 
 his own people, Miantonomi complained first to Connecticut, and was 
 told that the English did not countenance or justify the wrongs. He 
 then complained to Massachusetts, and was told that if Uncas had 
 done him or his friends wrong, and would give no satisfaction, he was 
 at liberty to take his own course. He had thus fulfilled the obliga- 
 tions of the Hartford treaty to the letter. The arbitrators had 
 declined acting, and he went about to redress his wrongs in his 
 own way. 
 
 It was Miantonomi's design to give his enemy an unexpected 
 blow. For this purpose he secretly and hastily gathered around him 
 between five hundred and a thousand warriors, all animated indeed by 
 a confidence in their sachem, but wanting time and experience to gain 
 confidence in each other. With this force he marched through the 
 forests, toward the Mohegan territory. But the spies of the enemy 
 had marked his movements, and now warned Uncas of his approach. 
 That chief caused the intelligence to be immediately spread through 
 his clan, and his Mohegans, amounting to four or five hundred well- 
 trained warriors, suddenly gathered around him. Uncas now made 
 them acquainted with a stratagem, by which he calculated, and calcu- 
 lated too well, to make up for his deficiency in numbers, and then led 
 them forth to battle. The two armies approached each other over a 
 
LECTURE. 229 
 
 place since called Sacliem's Plain ; and here Uncas proceeded to carry 
 his stratagem into effect. 
 
 Before the battle commenced, he stepped forth from his ranks and 
 desired a parley ; the two armies thereupon halted within how-shot of 
 each other. He then addressed Miantonomi : " You have," said he, " a 
 number of stout men with you, and so have I with me. Is it not a pity 
 that such brave warriors should be killed in a private quarrel between 
 you and me ? Come on then, like a man, and let us fight it out. If 
 you kill me, my men shall be yours ; if I kill you, your men shall be 
 mine." The two chiefs, as to personal valor, were probably equal — as 
 to physical force the advantage was probably on the side of Uncas, who 
 was a stout, brawny giant. Miantonomi is described as of very good 
 personage — of tall stature and commanding aspect. He was a man 
 of too much prudence to be thrown off his guard by this insulting 
 bravado. " My warriors," replied he, " have come a long way to fight, 
 and they shall fight." This refusal of the challenge was precisely 
 what Uncas had anticipated ; and the moment it was uttered, he fell flat 
 on the groud, and his men, as had been preconcerted, discharged over 
 him a shower of arrows upon the unsuspecting Narragansets ; and 
 then, uttering the hideous war-whoop, fell on pell-mell with their tom- 
 ahawks, scalping knives, clubs and shortened lances. The fury of the 
 assailants left no space for the Narragansets to prepare for the onset, 
 or to recover from their surprise. They yielded to the shock. They 
 broke, and they fled like herds of driven deer. They were pursued 
 over rock and steep — down headlong precipice, through thicket and 
 ravine — frequently falling beneath the whirled tomahawk, or the 
 stunning stroke of the war-club. Thirty were slain — a great number 
 were wounded. Among the latter were two of the sons of Canoni- 
 cus, and a brother of Miantonomi ; and a number of the bravest Nar- 
 raganset sachems were taken prisoners. In the heat of the pursuit, 
 the Mohegans were arrested by the shout of Uncas, announcing the 
 capture or the fall of Miantonomi. The speed of that sachem had 
 been retarded by a heavy suit of borrowed armor* interfering with 
 the movements of his limbs. The crowds of Mohegans, as they 
 overtook him, caught hold of his apparel and his ornaments, the 
 insignia of his rank, and jerking him back, passed on, intent on leav- 
 ing him to be taken alive. But the Mohegan chief soon fastened his 
 eye on the flying sachem, and bolting upon him with the fury and yell 
 of the panther, seized him by the shoulders, and arrested his progress. 
 Miantonomi turned round, and found himself in the grasp of tha 
 
 * Borrowed of S. Gorton. 
 
230 LECTURE. 
 
 giant Uncas, and in the midst of the uplifted tomahawks of the 
 Mohegans. 
 
 He at once seated himself on the ground in silence — not a word 
 did he utter. The Mohegans, coming in from the pursuit, gathered 
 around, and gazed on him in silent exultation. They now brought 
 before him several of his bravest captains, who had been taken and 
 disarmed. " Will you not speak 1 " said Uncas ; the chief deigned not 
 a reply. With a view of moving him to some expression of grief or 
 anger, the Mohegan now ordered the prisoners to be put to death ; 
 they were instantly slain before his eyes. But this changed not the 
 marble of his aspect ; he uttered not a word, he moved not a muscle. 
 " If I had fallen into your hands," continued the Mohegan chief, " I 
 would have begged my life." But Miantonomi disdained life on such 
 terms, and he made no reply. They now bound their illustrious pris- 
 oner, and marched, exulting in their splendid living prize, to Nokeek. 
 '■ Miantonomi had not only been the friend of Roger Williams in his 
 distress, but of that much injured and persecuted man, Samuel Gor- 
 ton ; and he was not forgotten in the day of his tribulation. Gorton 
 and his associates had been driven from Massachusetts, on account of 
 their faith. They had at first established themselves at Patuxet, in 
 the neighborhood of Boger Williams ; but upon Massachusetts attempt- 
 ing to extend her jurisdiction over them, they removed to Showamet, 
 within the acknowledged dominions of Canonicus and Miantonomi. 
 These kind and generous chiefs had received them and their families, 
 with the same benevolent hospitality that had previously characterized 
 their reception of Boger Williams ; they granted them lands, with the 
 consent of those who dwelt upon them. But the same persecuting 
 spirit followed them even here ; Pumham and Soconoco, two under- 
 sachems, were induced to subject themselves and their lands, as if 
 theirs, to the government of Massachusetts ; thus the laws of Massa- 
 chusetts were again attempted to be extended over Gorton and his 
 associates. The right of Miantonomi to grant the lands was denied ; 
 and, after having seduced his under-sachems to renounce his authority, 
 the magistrates of Massachusetts summoned the independent chief 
 himself to appear before them, as judges in their own cause, to show 
 by what right he had made the grant, and how he claimed jurisdiction 
 over his own subjects. But they were resolved to root out heresy 
 from Showamet, and would recognize no grant made by Miantonomi 
 to heretics. They finally sent a body of armed men and took Gorton 
 and his associates by force ; they were charged with blasphemy and 
 enmity to what Massachusetts then conceived to be religion and gov- 
 
LECTURE. 231 
 
 ernment. They escaped with life, indeed, but they were sentenced to 
 wear irons, and to be kept to hard labor during the pleasure of the 
 general court. It was during the heat of these proceedings that Gor- 
 ton and his friends learned that Miantonomi, their kind benefactor, 
 had become the captive of Uncas, the favorite and protege of their per- 
 secutors. Policy, no less than gratitude, prompted their interference. 
 His existence would be some impediment to the claims of Massachu- 
 setts, and some protection against the under-sachems, whom that gov- 
 ernment had already instigated to insolence and aggression. Gorton 
 immediately interposed ; he required Uncas to release his prisoner, 
 and threatened him with English vengeance if he refused. To avoid 
 giving offence to his English allies, the shrewd Mohegan conducted 
 his prisoner to Hartford, and then asked the advice of the public 
 authorities. They declined acting, but proposed a reference to the 
 commissioners of the united colonies ; to this Uncas acceded. And 
 here Miantonomi asked the favor of being left in the custody of the 
 English at Hartford ; to this Uncas agreed, and he was retained at 
 Hartford as the prisoner of the Mohegan chief 
 
 It was, perhaps, unfortunate for Miantonomi that Gorton interfered. 
 For at the very meeting that they decided on his fate, the commis- 
 sioners authorized Massachusetts to adopt forcible measures for the 
 apprehension of Gorton and his associates. Plymouth and Connecti- 
 cut, as well as Massachusetts, claimed jurisdiction in the Narraganset 
 country ; and if Gorton saw in Miantonomi a friend, the commission- 
 ers saw in him an enemy, and a universal protector and benefactor of 
 heretics. 
 
 At the next meeting of the commissioners they took the case of this 
 unfortunate chief into consideration. They called into their counsel 
 five of the most judicious elders of the church. The result of their 
 joint deliberations was, that Miantonomi should be taken by Uncas 
 from Hartford, carried out of the jurisdiction of the English, and there 
 be put to death. It was likewise resolved, that if the Narragansets, 
 or others, should assault Uncas for this execution, the English would 
 assist and protect him. The execution was to be done in the presence 
 of certain discreet English persons ; they were to see that it was done, 
 for the better satisfaction of the commissioners. Were they apprehen- 
 sive that the ferocious Mohegan might relent ? or that he might accept 
 the ransom which the Narragansets where already paying for their 
 chief? 
 
 Uncas obeyed the direction of the commissioners with alacrity. He 
 appeared at Hartford at the appointed time, with his blood-thirsty 
 
232 LECTURE. 
 
 Mohegans ; lie received his prisoner and marched forth, attended by 
 the discreet English persons who were to see that the execution was done, 
 for the better satisfaction of the commissioners ; and these discreet per- 
 sons were followed by others, discreet and indiscreet, all going forth 
 to witness the same deed of blood. The captive was conducted to 
 Sachem Plain ; as he approached the place where he was captured, 
 the brother of Uncas stepped behind him, and the moment he trod the 
 fatal spot, one whirl of the tomahawk cleft his scull in twain, and the 
 soul of Miantonomi joined the spirits of his fathers. 
 
 The deed being done, Uncas gratified the appetite of a cannibal, in 
 the presence of theEnglish witnesses, upon the body of the illustrious 
 victim ; he then cast on the mangled remains a heap of stones, which, 
 in after times, receiving fresh accessions from the hand of every way- 
 faring Narraganset, continued a long-enduring monument at once of 
 the ferocity of the cannibal, and of the atrocity of his English accom- 
 plices and advisers. He was after this escorted home to his wigwam 
 by a band of Connecticut musketeers. Such was the fatal consequence 
 of Miantonomi's aiding the English in the Pequot war, and of his 
 befriending heretics. 
 
 When the tale of this dreadful outrage first reached the ears of the 
 Narragansets, they were thunderstruck. Could it be credited 1 They 
 had just made a treaty with Uncas for the ransom of their chief — a 
 part of the ransom had already been delivered, and they were now 
 straining their utmost means for the collection of the residue. Could 
 it be that he was now murdered, and murdered at the instigation of 
 his English friends ! It could not be ! — he had never offended them. 
 He had been calumniated by Uncas, it was true, and charged with a 
 design of bringing about a conspiracy against the English, and with 
 an attempt to procure his assassination ; but on all the charges of his 
 enemy he had been heard by the Whites, and had been fully acquit- 
 ted. All his acts, toward the English, had been acts of benevolence. 
 The sojourner in the wilderness had been welcome to his own and his 
 people's unbought hospitality. He had given homes, by ceding part of 
 his dominions, to white men and their families in distress. All his 
 acts, they thought, must have been pleasing to his white friends. It 
 could not be that he was murdered by their directions. But when the 
 truth was brought home to their minds in all its clear and dreadful 
 realities, one universal wail of grief passed throughout all Narragan- 
 set. They had now no chief of renown to lead them forth to battle. 
 They had no skilful embassador to visit the Whites, and assert their na- 
 tional interests. They seemed to be suddenly left friendless and alone. 
 
LECTURE. 233 
 
 It was their belief tliat the spirit of a murdered chief or warrior, 
 still felt the anguish of the wounds of his mortal part, and failed not 
 to cry for vengeance until appeased by the blood of the murderer. To 
 the cries of the spirit of Miantonomi the feelings of the whole nation 
 responded. Loud lamentations, day and night, burst from groups of 
 women and children, and aged men, whilst the warriors, blacking 
 their faces, sharpening their hatchets, and muttering dreadful impre- 
 cations, yearned with a never-ceasing anguish for the life of the mur- 
 derous Uncas. A sort of superstitious horror fell upon all. The 
 wrath of the Manitto was gathering over every moment's delay — some 
 unheard of disaster — some undefinable calamity, awaited their neglect 
 to avenge the death of their chief 
 
 But how did the commissioners attempt to justify themselves for 
 this atrocious deed? With two exceptions, they did nothing more 
 than reiterate charges on which they had before acquitted their chief 
 The two exceptions are, first, that if his life was spared the life of 
 Uncas would be in danger. Second, he had taken the life of the Pe- 
 quot assassin, instead of delivering him to Uncas. As to the first, 
 did not the commissioners know that his murder would jeopardize the 
 life of their favorite tenfold more than his release ? And well know- 
 ing this, and that they were adopting an Indian quarrel, did they not 
 pledge to Uncas the protection of the whole military strength of the 
 united colonies 1 As to the second, if the Pequot must die, was not 
 justice as well administered by Miantonomi as it could have been by 
 Uncas ? Or did the offence of the Narraganset chief consist in the 
 humanity of depriving their favorite of the satisfaction of roasting 
 the ofi'ender alive ? The truth is, that Connecticut, Plymouth, and 
 Massachusetts, were each desirous of stretching their jurisdiction 
 over the Narraganset country, and the latter particularly over the 
 heretics at Shawomet ; and they felt that as long as the Narragan- 
 set people were combined under the influence of such a noble spirit, 
 they could not, with safety, put forth their boldest efforts, and deprive 
 the persecuted of a land of refuge. I judge them by the advantages 
 which they took of the necessary consequences of their acts. 
 
 This was the first blow of White policy which fell directly on the 
 Narraganset people. It inflicted a wound from which they never 
 recovered. Canonicus was now bending under the weight of many 
 years. He was still the supreme counsellor of the nation, but he had 
 long since committed the execution of the decrees of the grand coun- 
 cil of the tribes to Miantonomi ; and Miantonomi was now dead. On 
 his death the sachemdom no longer presents its former unity of 
 
 30 
 
234 LECTURE. 
 
 aspect. The executive power passed into the hands of three under- 
 sachems — Pessacus, a brother of Miantonomi, a youth about twenty 
 years old ; Mexham, a son of Canonicus ; and Ninigret, a sachem of 
 the Nianticks, and a near relation of the deceased chief 
 
 With the New England savage, (as perhaps with all others,) the 
 code of vengeance was the code of honor. It formed the basis of his 
 conception of criminal justice — international and domestic. It 
 branched into all parts of his character — it constituted a portion of 
 every political and social idea ; and that tribe that neglected to fulfill 
 its requirements, renounced its own nature, sunk degraded in its own 
 estimation, and lost the respect of others. To avenge the death of a 
 chief became, therefore, the solemn duty of every individual, or rather 
 an irresistible impulse. The whole tribe spontaneously put forth its 
 whole strength, moral and physical. To succeed, was to sustain their 
 lofty spirit of independence — to fail, was to have that spirit broken 
 down, subdued, and annihilated. 
 
 The duty of leading in this work of vengeance fell more particu- 
 larly on the near kindred of the deceased ; and accordingly in about 
 two months after the murder of his brother, and again in March fol- 
 lowing, Pessacus sent messengers to the governor of Massachusetts, 
 informing him of his determination to make war on Uncas, to avenge 
 the death of their sachem, and requesting that the English might not 
 interfere. To both these messages he received a similar answer — that 
 the English intended to preserve peace, and that Uncas should par- 
 ticipate in it. At this time Gorton had returned to Shawomet ; and 
 on his expressing to the chiefs the expectation that his wrongs would 
 be redressed by the king of England, the idea occurred to them, that 
 by submitting themselves to the protection of the same power, through 
 Gorton and his friends, they might in like manner be protected from 
 the interference and oppression of the same authorities, and have 
 their grievances redressed. An act of submission was accordingly 
 subscribed, and Gorton and others were appointed their commission- 
 ers to present it to the king, and to ask his acceptance of it. This 
 was, in fact, no other than an application for the interposition of the 
 British sovereign between them and their oppressors. They had just 
 before this been summoned to attend the general court, and they now 
 declined attending, alledging this submission as a cause, and that a 
 common sovereign would now be judge between them and their Eng- 
 lish neighbors, and then added that the death of their sachem required 
 their present action. 
 
 The commissioners of the united colonies perceiving that it was 
 
LECTURE. 235 
 
 their determination now to prosecute the war, prevailed on them to 
 send delegates to meet others from Uncas at Hartford. The accept- 
 ance of this proposition arose, doubtless, from the hope that they 
 should in a short time learn the result of their application to the 
 king of the English. Their delegates visited Hartford, in Septem- 
 ber, 1645, and there, still under the influence of the same hope, they 
 agreed to defer hostilities until planting time, and then to give thirty 
 days' notice to the English of their commencement. 
 
 But no treaties of their chiefs could subdue, or effectually control, 
 the irresistible impulse to vengeance which now pervaded the Narra- 
 ganset mind. The tempest which agitated the mass of the nation, 
 endangered all that fell within the sweep of its commotion. Even 
 their white friends in Providence and Aquidneck became alarmed, and 
 sought to join the New England confederacy ; but their application 
 was rejected. As to Uncas, he dared not venture beyond his fort ; 
 and Hartford, alarmed for his safety, sent troops for his protection. 
 This roused the indignation of the Narragansets and Nianticks. 
 They seem to have considered it a breach of the truce. They at once 
 prepared themselves for war, and that their warriors might understand 
 their relations with the people of Providence and Aquidneck, they 
 concluded treaties with them, by which the inhabitants of those two 
 places were to observe a strict neutrality, and be secure in ther per- 
 sons and property. They then for a short time vigorously pushed 
 the war. During the summer they laid siege to the fortress of Un- 
 cas, slew a number of men, took a number of prisoners, and so 
 severely was he pressed, that nothing but additional troops from Con- 
 necticut saved him and his tribe from utter extirpation. 
 
 The commissioners had adopted the quarrel of their savage ally ; 
 they had so far adopted the principles of the cannibal's code of ven- 
 geance, as, in conformity with them, to advise and direct the murder 
 of a captive — and they were now about to shed Christiaii blood in 
 defence of the same inhwnum outrage. 
 
 There were, however, some amongst them who were disposed to 
 pause ; they might have thought of the judgment of posterity — or 
 there may have been some awakenings of conscience. They, at any 
 rate, did consider the difficulty of the enterprize ; perhaps the threat 
 of Ninigret had no small influence on their ultimate determination. 
 That chief reminded their messengers of the military assistance sent 
 to Uncas. He considered it a violation of the treaty, and threatened, 
 unless that force was withdrawn, to call down upon them as many 
 Mohawks as the English could meet, and lay their cattle on heaps as 
 
236 
 
 LECTURE. 
 
 high as their houses, and to kill every Englishman who stirred out of 
 his door. But whatever was their inducements, they resolved to make 
 another attempt to effect a pacification. 
 
 Roger Williams was employed as an interpreter, in the place of 
 Benedict Arnold. Through his mediation several misunderstandings, 
 brought about by the misrepresentations of the former interpreter, 
 wore explained ; and, as the English desired a conference, it was agreed 
 that Pessacus, Mexham, and others, should forthwith go to Boston, 
 and treat with the commissioners for the restoration of peace. 
 
 When the Narraganset chiefs, together with a deputy from Niantick, 
 visited Boston, they Avere intimidated by a great display of military 
 force. This, together with the stern manner of the commissioners, 
 induced them to believe that their lives were in danger. They at first 
 proposed another truce ; but this would not satify the commissioners. 
 They then inquired what would satisfy them. They were told that 
 they must pay two thousand fathoms of wampum (then about five shil- 
 lings a fathom) to reimburse the united colonies for their preparations 
 for war, restore the prisoners and canoes taken from Uncas, and make 
 reparation for all damages, and sell tw lands without their consent. 
 A treaty containing these and other humiliating stipulations was ac- 
 cordingly signed. One great object of the commissioners seems now 
 to have been attained : if the treaty was observed, the Indians in Nar- 
 raganset could no longer sell their lands to heretics. It does not, 
 however, appear that this treaty was subsequently ratified or confirmed 
 by the grand council of the Narraganset Indians. Pessacus did not 
 feel himself bound by it ; at the time he made it, he was in the hands 
 of his enemies ; and he subsequently declared, that he signed it under 
 the influence of personal fear. He said that he was told if he did not 
 sign such and such things, the army, which he saw, should go imme- 
 diately to Narraganset and kill him ; but he still might comfort him- 
 self with the hope, that when his submission was known, the king would 
 redress all his wrongs. 
 
 This treaty ultimately reduced the Narragansets to the condition 
 of a vanquished and tributary people. Hostages were delivered for 
 its performance, among whom was the son of Pessacus. And the fear- 
 less violence with which the commissioners subsequently enforced its 
 terms, may have been owing to that circumstance. The payment of 
 the wampum seems to have been a matter of grave concern with the 
 commissioners for the space of five years, and a source of great vexa- 
 tion and distress to the Indians. One of the avowed objects was to 
 impoverish and disable them from employing foreign force, particu- 
 
LECTURE. 237 
 
 larly the Mohawks. The payments were rigorously enforced, from 
 time to time, hy threats of violence, or at the point of the sword. 
 
 In the mean time every movement of the Narragansets was watched 
 with a suspicious eye. In 1648 they seem to have again meditated 
 the prosecution of the Mohegan war. An army of eight hundred men 
 was raised, four hundred of whom were Mohawks, artned with muskets, 
 and plentifully supplied with amunition ; but the same vigilance which 
 had heretofore protected Uncas, defeated the present attempt. The 
 Mohawks finding that they could not attack the Mohegan without 
 endangering their peaceful relations with the English, withdrew to 
 their native country. 
 
 At the death of Miantonomi the star of Narraganset glory had 
 fallen ; and when the venerable Canonicus descended to his grave, the 
 nation lost the common bond of union in the great mind which had 
 hitherto directed its counsels. In 1648, this benevolent and kind- 
 hearted old man, the benefactor of Roger Williams, and the univer- 
 sally beloved and esteemed of the first settlers of Rhode Island, 
 passed to the land of spirits. There was no longer any great mind 
 about which subordinate minds could concentrate. They became a 
 disheartened, if not a divided people. From that time there was a 
 want of firmness in their counsels, and of energy in their actions. 
 The government ceased to be a government of one sachem, and 
 became the government of several, neither of whom enjoyed the con- 
 fidence of all. 
 
 The spirit of Miantonomi went unavenged. The ferocious Uncas, 
 under the protection of the commissioners, now ranged their forests at 
 the head of his clan, insulting, and occasionally plundering and mur- 
 dering their people. He challenged their sachems to battle, he jeered 
 the memory of their dead, and killed one of their people. 
 
 Mexham complained to the commissioners, but obtained no redress, 
 and in 1657 the Narragansets resumed hostilities, and planned an 
 attack on the fort of Uncas. But notice was given to Uncas by the 
 English, and their design was frustrated. They were much irritated, 
 and complained to the legislature of Rhode Island. That body, at 
 their request, addressed a remonstrance to the inhabitants of Connec- 
 ticut dwelling near the Mohegan fort. Hostilities were resumed in 
 1660. The fort was beseiged. Uncas was reduced to great straits, 
 for want of provisions ; but he was supplied by the people of Connec- 
 ticut, and the seige was raised. It was on this occasion that a few 
 shots passed into some probably deserted dwelling house of certain 
 whites who dwelt in the Mohegan plantation. The affair in itself 
 
238 LECTURE. 
 
 was of no consequence, but it gave an opportunity for the commis- 
 sioners to manifest their spite. They demanded that four of the 
 chief aggressors should be delivered up, to be sent to Barbadoes and 
 sold as slaves, or the payment of five hundred fathoms of wampum. 
 But this unfortunate people, whose chiefs little more than twenty 
 years before had generously received the founders of Rhode Island — 
 who had made them princely donations in lands — ^who had, as a mere 
 occasional gratuity, given a thousand bushels of corn to a Mr. Old- 
 ham, had now become so poor by their attempts to ransom their cap- 
 tive chief, by their subsidizing the Mohawks, and by other expenses in 
 their ever frustrated efforts to avenge the murder of the same chief, 
 and by the exactions of the commissioners, that they were unable to 
 pay the small sum of five hundred fathoms of wampum. They mort- 
 gaged their whole domain to secure this sum first to the commission- 
 ers, and subsequently to a Major Atherton, who advanced the wam- 
 pum, and afterwards took possession of the vast territory by livery of 
 the mortgagors. What renders this transaction seemingly more hu- 
 miliating is, that this was the same Major Atherton, who, with 
 twenty armed men, had been, a few years before, sent to Narraganset 
 by the commissioners to demand the balance of wampum due by the 
 treaty of Boston, and who, in the execution of his commission, had 
 seized their grand sachem by the hair, and held him under the muzzle 
 of his pistol until his people purchased his safety by complying with 
 his demands. 
 
 The Narragansets were now indeed in a state of subjection ; and 
 from this period down to Philip's war, they seem to have submitted 
 in sullen silence to the tyranny of the commissioners. In the course 
 of a few years the spirit of the people had undergone a great change. 
 The generation of chiefs and warriors who had grown up in the lib- 
 erty and independence of their native wilds, before the arrival of the 
 Whites, strong in the heroic virtues of their barbarian ancestors, had 
 now passed from the scene of action, and had been succeeded by a 
 generation cursed with the most debasing vices of civilization, without 
 the blessing of one of its virtues. Intemperance, peculiarly the bane 
 of savage life, had produced effects even more pernicious than the 
 policy of the commissioners. It stupified and brutalized them. Few 
 could resist its temptations, and such as could not, became the volun- 
 tary slaves of those who could gratify their appetites. Such fearful 
 inroads had this vice made, that the legislature of Rhode Island, in 
 1673, much to their credit, appointed a committee to enter into a 
 treaty with their sachems to prevent drunkenness amongst them. 
 
LECTURE. 239 
 
 Like the tribes in the neighborhood of Plymouth and Boston, they 
 had now, to a great extent, exchanged their bows and arrows for the 
 muskets, and their robes of fur for blankets, and other European 
 garments, and had, like them, thus become dependent on the white 
 trader for many of the necessaries of life. Even apparent blessings 
 seem to have contributed to weaken tbem and the tribes generally, 
 and to have prepared the way for their final extirpation. Such was 
 the result even of the benevolent efforts of Elliot, the Indian apostle. 
 With the Indian, as with civilized man, a religious sentiment or belief 
 formed tbe basis of all his social institutions. The worship of his 
 manittos, benevolent or malignant, mingled itself with almost every 
 amusement or important transaction of his life. When an Indian, 
 therefore, was converted to Christianity, he was at once, and general- 
 ly irretrievably, severed from the community to which he had belonged. 
 He could no longer partake in their fasts, their feasts, or their dances, 
 or go forth to avenge their dead. He could not even join in the 
 burial of his deceased kindred. He ceased to be of them, and 
 became a part of a community whose principles were antagonist to 
 theirs. No wonder then that the sachems were generally opposed to 
 Christianity. They lost a warrior in every male adult that became a 
 convert ; and at the commencement of Philip's war the converts 
 amounted to nearly four thousand, many of whom were finally made 
 subservient to the extirpation of their unconverted countrymen. 
 
 The Indian power throughout New England having been thus sub- 
 dued and broken down, all the tribes being in greater or less degree 
 of subjection to the united colonies — their numbers greatly reduced 
 by strange diseases — their martial spirit broken by repeated defeats 
 and disasters — their moral and physical energies impaired by vices 
 hitherto unknown — divided among themselves, and dependent upon 
 the Whites for the gratification of their new appetites and desires, it 
 is perfectly evident that their associations were tending to a dissolu- 
 tion, and that a broad way was open to personal servitude, or to their 
 utter extirpation. Some of their chiefs began to awake to a full 
 sense of their situation. They found themselves moving rapidly 
 toward the vortex of a whirlpool, which would soon swallow up the 
 red man and his country ; and those who saw this were impelled, 
 almost instinctively, to make at least one effort against the rushing 
 tide. In resistance there was some hope — in submission none. 
 There were yet some things from which they might take courage. 
 In the former wars of the red men with the white, they had fought 
 with bows and arrows, but full half of their warriors were now sup- 
 
240 LECTURE. 
 
 plied with fire-arms, the dread implements of White prowess, and 
 were becoming expert in the use of them; and the Narraganset 
 power, though greatly reduced and humbled, was still the centre of 
 Indian strength, and could yet muster from two to four thousand 
 warriors. 
 
 In this state of things, a troubled spirit began to move over the dark 
 waters of aboriginal life. He was engaged in collecting the wrecked 
 and battered fragments of Indian strength and valor, and in endeavor- 
 ing to connect them with their ancient basis, the Narraganset power. 
 He was thus forming a mass whereon he was resolved to take his stand, 
 and float or sink, live or die. That spirit was Metacom — Pumatar- 
 keam — or Philip of Pokanoket. This chief was the son of Massasoit, 
 the friend of the English ; Massasoit had died a short time previous 
 to 1662 ; on his death his eldest son, Wamsutta, otherwise called 
 Alexander, succeeded to the sachemdom. He was a lofty and proud- 
 spirited chief. On some suspicion that he was plotting mischief with 
 the Narragansets, the government of Plymouth caused him to be 
 seized at his hunting house, in the midst of his attendants, and carried 
 before a magistrate for examination. This insult so wrought upon his 
 lofty spirit, that he was seized with a raging fever, and after being 
 taken home on the backs of his men, in a few days died. This out- 
 rage, the first that had been perpetrated by the English on any Wam- 
 panoag chief, stirred the soul of his brother and successor, Metacom, 
 in its deepest recess. From this moment he seems to have conceived 
 an4 acted upon the daring plan of extirpating the whole English pop- 
 ulation, and of restoring the Indians of New England to their former 
 dominion and liberty. Years were spent by him in reconciling an- 
 cient animosities, and in bringing about a combination of most of the 
 New England tribes, to eifect this great object. But I cannot enter 
 into a history of Philip's war. I can only name those transactions 
 and events which are essential to a history of the extermination of 
 the Narragansets. 
 
 Great efi"orts were made by Philip to induce this people to join 
 him in the enterprise. He forgot the ancient animosities of the two 
 tribes, and appealed to the sympathies of the Narragansets, and their 
 recollection of the wrongs which they had sufi"ered from the English. 
 Their younger chiefs easily caught his spirit ; but the elder chiefs 
 and warriors were desirous of dying in peace. Nannuntenoo, or Ca- 
 nonchet, was now their grand sachem. He was the son of the gener- 
 ous, but unfortunate Miantonomi, and he inherited the spirit of his 
 father. He remembered the death of that father, and felt that his 
 
LECTURE. 241 
 
 spirit was yet unavenged. Full well he knew who directed the mur- 
 der, and who stood between vengeance and the murderer. He saw 
 too, the degradation of his country ; and strong indeed was the im- 
 pulse to strike at once for vengeance and for liberty. But there 
 were circumstances to check even the daring spirit of Canonchet. 
 Ninigret, at the head of the Nianticks, (a part of the Narragansot 
 nation,) was resolved on observing a strict neutrality, whilst the Mo- 
 hegans and the subject Pequots would doubtless side with the 
 Whites ; and then for the English of Rhode Island he probably 
 entertained the affections of his father. There can be little doubt 
 that these considerations had an influence on the young sachem, as 
 well as on all the considerate men of the nation. Historians have 
 said that the Wampanoags commenced the war prematurely, and that 
 the Narragansets were not to begin hostilities until the succeeding 
 spring or summer. There seems but little foundation for this asser- 
 tion. The Whites probably feared, Philip and his Indian friends 
 doubtless hoped, that in the space of one year the Narraganset mind 
 would be ripe for action. But their chiefs could make no such prom- 
 ise without the assent of their warriors ; and a body of Indian war- 
 riors do not come to conclusions a year in advance of their action. 
 The real state of the Narragansets, at the commencement of hostili- 
 ities by Philip, seems to have been one of sympathy in his cause ; 
 and that was probably the only source of their great calamity. 
 
 In the month of June, 1675, Philip had gathered around him at 
 Haup, his residence, a large body of Indian warriors, eager to com- 
 mence the war ; and on the 16th of the same month, they were so 
 exasperated at the condemnation and execution of the slayers of 
 Sausamon. that they could no longer be restrained. They com- 
 menced the work of destruction by killing a number of cattle in 
 Swanzey. This was followed by the slaughter of a number of the 
 inhabitants. 
 
 The English forces immediately advanced against Philip. He 
 thereupon broke up his encampment, and, with a view of gathering 
 his forces on the eastern shore, passed over to Pocasset (Tiverton.) 
 From this point he spread death and conflagration around him. He 
 was at length assailed in turn. After some skirmishing, he was 
 besieged in a great swamp, a part of which was near Taunton river. 
 Over this river he escaped by rafts, on the night of the last day of 
 July. He fled with the principal part of his forces to the Nipmuck 
 country. He was pursued, and a number of his men were killed and 
 wounded. 
 
 31 
 
242 LECTURE. 
 
 In the meantime, tlie old men, women, and children, and the 
 wounded and feeble of the tribes whose warriors had taken the toma- 
 hawk, had been pouring into the Narraganset country from all quar- 
 ters, claiming the protection and hospitality of the chiefs and the 
 people. They received them with kindness — they fed the hungry, 
 clothed the naked — they nursed the sick, and boiind up the wounds 
 of the disabled warrior. These acts, which a humane enemy among 
 civilized nations performs for the vanquished, drew down upon the 
 Narragansets the hostility of the English, and opened for them the 
 gulf of destruction. There is something singular in the fate of this 
 people. Their disasters, in almost every instance, seem to have 
 flowed from their humanity, their generosity, or other ennobling 
 qualities. 
 
 When the commissioners of the united colonies learned that Nar- 
 raganset was a place of refuge for the women and children, and for 
 the old and disabled of the hostile tribes, they directed a troop of 
 infantry and a troop of horse to enter the country, and conclude a 
 treaty, sword in hand, for the delivery of the fugitives. These forces 
 commenced their expedition on the 5th of July. They found the 
 northern parts of Narraganset almost entirely deserted ; but meeting 
 with four of the people, they compelled them, after four days deliber- 
 ation, to conclude a treaty in the name of their chiefs. The terms of 
 the treaty were cruel and humiliating. It bound them to deliver up 
 all Philip's subjects, living or dead, that should come within the pre- 
 cincts of their lands — to commence hostilities against Philip — to em- 
 ploy their men as a guard round about their country, for the safety 
 of the English inhabitants ; and they delivered four hostages, near 
 kinsmen of the subscribers, for the performance of these and other 
 stipulations of the treaty. This treaty was, however, confirmed at 
 Boston on the 18tli of October — if that could be a confirmation 
 where the confirming party was coerced in a state of peace, and where 
 the confirmation implied a breach of the laws of humanity. For it 
 was well known to the Narraganset chiefs, that to deliver up those of 
 Philip's people who had sought a refuge with them was to deliver 
 them to certain death, or to be sold to toil out their lives under the 
 broiling sun of a West Indian climate, and that the proceeds of the 
 sale of Indian flesh and blood was to be applied to the extermination 
 of their kindred clans. 
 
 At the news of the confirmation of this treaty, the deepest feelings 
 of the Narraganset heart were harrowed up by the agonizing entreat- 
 ies of those who had thrown themselves on their benevolence. They 
 
LECTURE. 243 
 
 were their guests, their friends, and their kindred — made almost a 
 part of themselves by immediate neighborhood, and by the thousand 
 ties of mingled blood. To deliver them up was to deliver their own 
 vital flesh and blood to death, or perpetual bondage. Canonchet 
 himself now spurned the stipulations of the treaty. " Not a AVampa- 
 noag," said he " shall be delivered up — nay, not the paring of a Wam- 
 panoag's nail." This stern determination belonged not to him only, 
 but to the whole Narraganset name. Pumham, who had seceded 
 from the confederacy in the time of Miantonomi, now rejoined it at 
 the head of two or three hundred warriors, influenced by a like firm 
 determination against the treaty. Even Ninigret, sachem of the 
 Nianticks, who had resolved to remain neutral, was not behind them 
 in refusing to comply with a similar exaction. 
 
 The commissioners of the united colonies were determined that 
 things should not remain in this state ; and on the 2d of November, 
 ordered one thousand additional men to be raised for an expedition 
 against the Narragansets. Canonchet foresaw the tempest, and pre- 
 pared to abide its utmost fury. He constructed a large fortress on a 
 rising ground, in the depths of a hideous swamp ; it covered an area 
 of five or six acres ; it was enclosed by a dense hedge, a rod in thick- 
 ness, closely girdling a circle of palisadoes firmly planted in the ground 
 and rising some feet above the hedge. In the space within this en- 
 closure were constructed five or six hundred spacious wigwams, covered 
 with mats ; thither were transported all the winter stores and neces- 
 sary furniture of the people. This fortress was defended by all the 
 warriors of the nation, nine hundred of whom were armed with mus- 
 kets ; and to it, as an ark of safety, retired their aged men, women 
 and children, together with the unfortunate guests who had rendered 
 all this precaution necessary. This fortress presented only two assail- 
 able points ; one was the common avenue over a large tree that bridged 
 a deep pool, or place of water, fallen with its branches pointing from 
 the fort, so that but one person could pass in at a time ; the other point 
 was a space where the enclosure or hedge was continued by a fallen 
 tree about five feet in height, but this was defended by flankers, and 
 a house immediately fronting it, constructed of logs, and which an- 
 swered all the purposes of a blockhouse. 
 
 Early in December six companies from Massachusetts, with a troop 
 of horse, and two companies from Plymouth, all under Gren. Winslow, 
 marched into the Narraganset country, and swept it from Patuxet to 
 Smith's garrison, (now Wickford,) what remained of the Indian inhab- 
 itants flying before them. From Smith's garrison a war of skirmishes 
 
244 LECTURE. 
 
 and conflagrations was for several days carried on, some few of tlie 
 English being slain, and a number of the Indians killed, and many 
 taken prisoners, and one hundred and fifty of their wigwams burned. 
 The Indians, on their part, burned Bull's house, at Tower Hill, and 
 killed fifteen persons, men, women and children. After this event, 
 the five companies from Connecticut, under Major Treat, arrived at 
 Tower Hill ; and on the 18th of December they were joined by the 
 forces under Greneral Winslow. The whole army there spent a cold 
 and tempestuous night, and at the dawning of day, under the direction 
 of an Indian guide, commenced their march over trackless snows, 
 through the country of Old Queen Quiapen, for the Narraganset for- 
 tress, and found themselves in its neighborhood about noon. 
 
 The Narragansets, not suspecting the approach of their enemy, were 
 engaged in preparing the usual meal of that hour. A considerable 
 number of their warriors were absent ; some small parties were near 
 by in the skirts of the swamp. The report of a volley of English 
 musketry, discharged upon these, gave the first alarm ; the log house 
 and the flankers were instantly manned with their boldest musketeers. 
 Presently the parties that had been assailed came pouring, in wild 
 disorder and alarm, over the tree in front of the log house ; these were 
 imediately followed by a body of pursuing English, oflicers and men 
 confusedly mingled. At this moment a succession of tremendous vol- 
 leys from the log house instantly spread the ground with their dead 
 and wounded ; some of them, however, actually entered the fortress. 
 But these were soon shot down, or they fled out of the enclosure and fell 
 on the earth to secure themselves from the deadly showers. They were 
 immediately followed by another body of English, who, unconscious of 
 the fate of their predecessors, came rushing on with like disordered 
 impetuosity ; but they were met with the same destructive fire and 
 were repulsed with equal disaster. This was a moment of tremendous 
 interests to New England — big with the destinies of the two races 
 that peopled her. The English commanders felt the inspiration of 
 the moment ; they rallied the assailants ; they re-enforced them by 
 doubling their numbers ; their General animated them by his exhorta- 
 tions, and the soldiers cheered each other to a renewal of the onset. 
 A cry from one of their commanders that the enemy fled, stimulated 
 them to the boldest efi'orts, and they poured in a torrent over the en- 
 closure, heedless of the destructive fire of the log house, and taking 
 possession of one of the flankers, made it a temporary shelter from the 
 deadly tempest. Here their numbers were augmented, until their 
 strength enabled them to confront their enemy, and assail his posts. 
 
LECTURE. 246 
 
 The Narragansets now contested the ground, inch by inch, and every 
 retiring step left the field covered with their dead ; they asked for no 
 quarter, and they gave none. The lodges, behind which they had at 
 first sheltered themselves, fell gradually within the advancing lines of 
 the English ; and the Indians, slowly driven to the upper end of the 
 enclosure, left all the ground which they lost covered with blood and 
 carnage. It had now become a field fight, in which irregular masses 
 of Indians were contending against European discipline. In this state 
 of things an order was given to fire their wigwams ; and their five or 
 six hundred shelters, with all their contents, consisting of their winter 
 store, were soon enveloped in flames. In these, many of their feeble 
 men, women and children, had sought for shelter, and the shrieks of 
 the agonized sufi'erers now came mingling with the shouts of contend- 
 ing warriors. One more furious effort the Narragansets made, and 
 then yielded to despair. They gave way ; they fled, and, breaking 
 through the enclosure, plunged into the recesses of the swamp, leaving 
 their conqueror behind them in the midsts of the death and desolation 
 his hands had wrought. 
 
 The English now committed to the flames whatever had hitherto 
 escaped them, and abandoned the fort. The battle had raged with 
 unremitting fury for the space of three hours. The English had lost 
 upwards of two hundred in killed and wounded, and they now com- 
 menced their march back to Smith's, through the desert forests of 
 Pettaquamscut, and against the intense and piercing cold of a driving 
 snow-storm. Bearing many of their dead along with their maimed, 
 whose wounds were yet bleeding and undressed, they waded through 
 the driving snow, and reached Smith's at a late hour in the night, all, 
 but particularly the wounded, suffering greatly from the cold. 
 
 But if the victors endured much, what were the sufferings of the 
 vanquished. That people, who, forty years before, had acted the 
 good Samaritan to the founders of the State of Rhode Island, and 
 generously given them homes, and who had on the morning of this 
 fatal day been in the full enjoyment of an ample supply of all the 
 necessaries and even comforts of life, were now — men, women, and 
 children, sick and wounded — in the depths of a gloomy swamp, on a 
 cold and tempestuous winter's night, without a shelter, without any 
 bed but the frozen earth, without their ordinary clothing, and without 
 a mouthful of food to satisfy the cravings of hunger. Three hundred 
 of their fighting men had that day been slain — seven hundred more 
 were here, on this dreadful night, dying of their wounds. There was 
 no hand present to staunch the blood that was flowing — none to mit- 
 
246 LECTURE. 
 
 igate a single pang. Nature was forced back upon herself, and each 
 wretched being sat absorbed in his own sufferings and dreadfu^ 
 presentiments. 
 
 Those who survived this disastrous night, dragged themselves, on 
 the following morning, through the snows to the smouldering ruins of 
 the fortress. The snow-drift was already the winding sheet and tem- 
 porary grave of their dead, and nothing now appeared but the smoking 
 ruins of their late habitations. From these they dug up some charred 
 and half burnt ears of corn, and were thus enabled to sustain life, 
 whilst they made some fruitless efforts to re-establish peace. But 
 nothing would satisfy the English but the surrender of the Wampa- 
 noags. Canonchet and other sachems, however, were determined to 
 endure every extreme of suffering, and even death itself, rather than 
 submit to this demand. 
 
 About the middle of January, one of the elder sachems sent a 
 message to General Winslow, requesting a month's delay, in order to 
 adjust the terms of peace. Very probably there were divisions 
 among the sachems. The necessity of peace was great. The price 
 of corn amongst them was two shillings a pint. But Winslow re- 
 garded this as a mere artifice to gain time, and shortly after (27th of 
 January) marched for the swamp, where they were posted. But the 
 Narragansets anticipated his approach, and at once abandoned their 
 country, carrying with them two hundred sheep and fifty cattle, of 
 which they despoiled a Mr. Carpenter, of Warwick, and which formed 
 a seasonable supply to a half-famished people. They were closely 
 pursued by the English forces, and seventy of their people were cap- 
 tured and killed ; yet they turned not upon their enemy, but pressed 
 their flight until they joined themselves to the Nipmucks, Nashuas, 
 and Wampanoags, among the Watchuset hills. This was the move- 
 ment of the whole people, with the exception of a few straggling 
 bands, that, concealing themselves in swamps and thickets, still clung 
 to their native soil. But the unremitting quest of their enemies 
 gave them no rest. Connecticut seems to have made it her special 
 business to exterminate the natives from the territory over which she 
 asserted jurisdiction. Ten times, in the course of 1676, her united 
 forces of English and Indians swept the devoted region, and rooted 
 out all that dared to remain ; and those who, urged by famine, ventur- 
 ed to return to dig up some scanty stock of provisions concealed in the 
 earth, or for the purpose of enjoying the accustomed banquet which 
 the bounty of their native shores afforded — all were killed, captured, 
 or dispersed. 
 
LECTURE. 247 
 
 From the 27tli of January, 1676, tlie day of tlie departure of the 
 main body, the Narragansets ceased to exist as a distinct people. 
 They blended with the followers of Philip, and shared their fortunes. 
 Many perished miserably by famine. Many were cut off by the sword. 
 Great numbers, through stress of hunger, surrendered themselves as 
 prisoners, or were captured ; and all such as were not executed for 
 bearing arms in defence of their race and country, were sold into the 
 bondage of West India slavery. The few that escaped these desti- 
 nies, scattered east, west, and north, and mingled with foreign tribes. 
 The Narraganset nation now lives only in history, unless that misera- 
 ble remnant of the Nianticks, in the southwestern part of the State, 
 may be considered a fragment of the Narraganset people. The ma- 
 jority of the Nianticks remained neutral during the war. Some few 
 of their warriors joined the Mohegans and subject Pequots, and, to 
 secure the friendship of the Whites, fought under Captain Denison, 
 of Connecticut, against their brethren. But the present miserable 
 and degraded condition of the remnant of this tribe, makes it at 
 least questionable, whether the sudden extinction of their braver 
 countrymen was not preferable to the lingering consumption of which 
 they have ever since been wasting away. With the exception of these, 
 there was not, at the close of Philip's war, a single free Narraganset 
 in all the extent of country which that people had lately occupied. 
 The whole tract was one deserted waste. Not a single wigwam re- 
 mained to curl up its smoke to heaven — nay, nor a single English 
 habitation. Warwick had been burnt, and Providence had greatly 
 suffered. 
 
 Until after the invasion of the Narragansets, the inhabitants of 
 Rhode Island appear not to have participated in the war. They had 
 ever lived on terms of friendship and good feeling with their Indian 
 neighbors, and they appear to have regarded the Narraganset war, 
 when commenced by the united colonies, as at least of doubtful justice. 
 But when commenced, it left them no choice. They subsequently so 
 far followed the example of other colonies, as to execute one if not two 
 of the Narraganset under-sachems as adherents of Philip, and to sell 
 some of the captives, not as slaves for life, but as servants for a term 
 of years. Canonchet was the last grand sachem of the Narragansets ; 
 he was captured in the month of April, by a party of English, Mohe- 
 gans and Nianticks, under Captain Denison, of Stonington. They 
 offered him his life if he would procure the submission of his tribe. 
 This he firmly refused to do ; choosing rather to die himself than to 
 subject his people to the cruel bondage of the Whites ; he was then 
 
248 LECTURE. 
 
 taken to Stonington, and sentenced to be shot. When told of his 
 sentence, he answered that he liked it well ; he should now die before 
 his heart was soft, or he had said any thing unworthy of himself. The 
 Pequots then shot him. Oneco, the son of Uncas, beheaded him, and 
 the traitorous Nianticks burnt his body to ashes, and presented his 
 head as a token of their fidelity to the English authorities at Hartford. 
 Thus died Canonchet, the son of Miantonomi, and the last grand 
 sachem of the Narragansets. 
 
 Such is a brief and imperfect history of the subjection and exter- 
 mination of the Narragansets. They were our earliest friends ; they 
 received us in the day of tribulation, in the person of our founder and 
 his family. Through him they welcomed us with the salutation of the 
 pipe of peace ; through him they gave to us this fair land, now bright- 
 ened with towns and cities, and teeming with busy and happy life. On 
 the bosom of their nation they nursed and cherished our infancy ; their 
 strength had no terrors for our weakness. Our childhood fearlessly 
 sported with the mane of the lion, even whilst he was stung to mad- 
 ness by the outrages of its persecuting kindred. They partook, per- 
 haps unconsciously, of our sufferings in the great cause of religious 
 freedom. They were the friends of heretics, and expiated their offence 
 in the blood of their most illustrious chief. Indeed, Rhode Island 
 owes too great a debt to this unfortunate people to tread rudely upon 
 their ashes, or to deny them a distinct historical monument, and a feel- 
 ing and faithful epitaph. "We can now redress none of their wrongs, 
 but we can do to their memory the justice of speaking the truth. 
 
LECTURE. 
 
 THE IDEA OF THE SUPERNATURAL AMONG THE INDIANS. 
 
 In a lecture sometime since delivered in another place, I gave some 
 account of the Narragansets, the most considerable tribe of aborigi- 
 nes found at the settlement, within the limits of New England. I 
 gave some account of their resources, and their government, and 
 briefly pointed out those elements in their character which gave them, 
 as a community, or rather as an association of communities, a capacity 
 for resisting change to a greater extent than belonged to any of the 
 other New England tribes ; and I followed this by a rapid history of 
 their subjugation and final extirpation by the Whites. But there 
 was one feature in their character, not however peculiar to them, but 
 which nevertheless bore such an important part in modifying the 
 action of that combination of causes which effected their ruin, that I 
 deemed it highly worthy of a separate consideration, and of a philo- 
 sophical analysis. I allude to their idea of the supernatural — an idea 
 which involved their religion, their faith in a future state, together 
 with all those superstitious beliefs and practices, which with them, as 
 under various forms they ever do in every community, sprang sponta- 
 neously from the all teeming soil of the religious sentiment. Most of 
 the prominent features of society took form and complexion from 
 this idea ; most of their institutions had their basis in it ; and it need 
 not be said, that whatever is founded in the religious sentiment rests 
 upon the very ground-work of human nature, and so stubbornly resists 
 change, that it is often easier, abundantly easier, to destroy the foun. 
 dation itself than to alter or modify that which rests upon it. This, 
 to a great extent, was realized by the Narragansets, and their kindred 
 tribes, and hence their civilization became exceedingly difficult, and 
 their extirpation almost inevitable. 
 
 Can such an idea be without its interest to the philosophic histo- 
 rian ? Though of itself silent and invisible, yet if it did in fact per- 
 vade and take form in their whole social frame, then it was essentially 
 the same idea which, under the antagonist operation of Christian 
 civilization, resolved itself into action, and spoke in the sanguinary 
 events of their history. It was the same idea which, standing forth 
 in the form of a rude humanity, resisted, wept, bled, suffered, and 
 
 32 
 
250 LECTURE. 
 
 was finally extirpated only by the extermination of the race. No 
 history of the aborigines of New England can be complete, that fails 
 to trace this idea to its origin, and to define its character. 
 
 In illustrating and analyzing this idea, I shall not confine myself 
 to the limits of any tribe, nor to any particular period, but shall go 
 wherever a similar idea may be found, and embrace any fact or sug- 
 gestion that may present itself in connection with it, serving to define 
 its character or throw light upon its philosophy. We take this liberty 
 of necessity. The light which early New England historians afford 
 us is very imperfect. They were generally rigid opinionists, and 
 sometimes bigots. The aborigines could not be free in their commu- 
 nications to those who ridiculed their rites as the whims of children, 
 or abhorred them as the incantations of sorcery, and the suggestions 
 of the prince of darkness. Even the liberal minded Roger Williams 
 could say, that after once being in their houses, and beholding what 
 their worship was, he durst never after be eye-witness, " lest he should 
 be accounted a partaker of Satan's inventions and worship." Yet 
 none of the early writers are so copious on this subject as Williams, 
 and Cotton Mather copies the Jieretic almost verbatim, without making 
 the slightest acknowledgement of his obligations to him. 
 
 But facts illustrative of their religious notions may be gathered 
 from a very wide range. The Narragansets were a branch of the 
 Algonquin or Chippeway stock; and the members of this family 
 were diffused, at the era of the discovery, as appears by their lan- 
 guage, over the whole country, from the Penobscot to the Chesapeake, 
 and from the ocean to Lake Superior. 
 
 But the limits of this lecture do not admit of an extensive collec- 
 tion of facts, neither does its object require it. My purpose is to 
 show that their general idea of the supernatural sprang from the 
 inherent energies of the mind, called into action by the sublime and 
 mysterious around and within them ; and that it thus constituted an 
 essential part of their nature. In doing this I shall trace the idea as 
 it developed itself in their mythology, in their worship, in their mag- 
 ical incantations, and in their belief of the immortality of the soul. 
 
 The Narragansets acknowledge one Supreme Spirit, Giver or Mas- 
 ter of life. Him they regarded as the supreme source of all power and 
 of all good. They supposed the earth on which they dwelt to be an 
 island resting on the bosom of the great deep. It was this Omnipo- 
 tent Spirit who drew it from the abyss of the mighty waters ; clothed it 
 with forests and herbage, and caused its mountains, valleys, plains, 
 lakes, rivers and bays, to teem with all manner of living things. They 
 
LECTURE. 251 
 
 regarded themselves as his children, created by his hands ; and be- 
 lieved that earth, and flood, with all their abundance, had been provi- 
 ded by him as an inheritance for their special use. 
 
 They seem to have recognized in this Great Being a sort of Omni- 
 presence. He was the Great Man who looked down from above. 
 They witnessed his anger in the flash and roar of the thunder cloud. 
 His presence was felt in the stupendous mountain, its overhanging 
 clifts and solemn groves. His voice was heard and his strength was 
 felt in the roaring cataract, where the forests stood trembling for 
 leagues around. Nor was He absent from the vast and unexplored 
 cavern where ever-during silence reigned, save when broken by those 
 mysterious echoes, which, resounding from its unknown depths, told 
 of the invisible Being that made it his temple. In short, wherever 
 they found the sublime and mysterious combined, there they recog- 
 nized the presence of this invisible Being. But though ascribing to 
 him this sort of ubiquity, they yet believed that his chosen abode was 
 in the Island of Sowanui, in the far southwest, whence came the balmy 
 breezes of the summer, fructifying the earth and giving life and joy 
 to its inhabitants. 
 
 They ascribed to him a human form. Under this form they seem 
 to have regarded him as the Chief Manitto of all hiiman manittos, or 
 spirits. He was, therefore, the Chief Manitto or Spirit among the 
 spirits of the blessed. It was around the grand council fire of the 
 Great Spirit that the souls of their departed chiefs and warriors as- 
 sembled to rehearse the exploits which they had performed while on 
 earth, and to banquet on the luxuries of their paradise. 
 
 But this Great Manitto was likewise represented under certain typ- 
 ical forms. It was under these forms that they often saw him in their 
 dreams. He sometimes, however, actually assumed them ; as when 
 such assumption became necessary in order to accomplish some great 
 purpose, or to manifest himself in some interesting attribute. Thus 
 it is said to have been a tradition of the Chippeways, that before earth 
 was created, all was one vast expanse of waters — waters without a 
 shore — and that when the Great Spirit willed to draw the earth from 
 their abyss he took the form of a mighty eagle, and moved over the 
 great deep, with eyes flashing fire, and wings rustling thunder, and 
 that on touching the surface with the plumage of his breast, earth, 
 filled with all living things, at once arose and floated on its bosom. 
 
 This form seems to have been typical of his power. But there was 
 another which was probably emblematical of his boundless benevolence, 
 or of the absence of all evil. Thus by the Indians of New England 
 
252 LECTURE. 
 
 lie seems to have been symbolically represented as the great Hare, or 
 divine Hare ; nor ought this to provoke our ridicule ; we have the lamb 
 and the dove in the Scriptures. We ought rather to infer that there 
 is a tendency in all mind to represent the attributes of the Creator 
 by those living organisms which, perhaps, have more particularly taken 
 birth from those very attributes which they are thus used to represent. 
 
 But whenever they found a mysteriously operating cause, they dis- 
 covered some manitto or spirit, subordinate to the Supreme. They 
 thus found manittos all around, and even within their own bodily or- 
 ganization. The Indian could not doubt that the voluntary agent 
 which existed within him — ^which constituted his essential self and 
 presided over his frame was a manitto. But he placed his hand upon 
 his heart — he felt its pulsations — and he asked himself the question, 
 which science and philosophy through all time has asked but never 
 answered. What causes this beating ? It was something wonderful, 
 and the Indian called it a manitto. He discovered another in his 
 wrist ; in short, he found many manittos within his own body, besides 
 the voluntary principle which presided over and ruled the whole. On 
 the like principle, diseases, which deranged the healthful action of their 
 manittoi?, were evil spirits afflicting the sick. 
 
 To every thing that had motion apparently its own, they seem to 
 have ascribed a distinct vital and voluntary principle, and whenever it 
 was of a nature to call forth their wonder or astonishment, they called 
 it a manitto, or divine power. Thus the sun, and the moon, and the 
 stars, as they ran through their changes in the heavens, and called up 
 the mind of the savage at once to contemplate their beauty and recog- 
 nize their blessings, were the most beneficent of manittos, or divine 
 powers. The boundless ocean, that lashed the shores with never-ceas- 
 ing waves, and swelled and shrunk like a vast mass of breathing life, 
 was a manitto of all but omnipotent power. Each quarter of the hea- 
 vens had its manitto, who came in balmy breeze and gentle showers, or 
 rode forth on the wings of the tempest, carrying terror and destruc- 
 tion in his career. 
 
 The term manitto was of such general application, that it may be 
 questioned whether the Indian's simple philosophy did not teach him, 
 that every property by which one thing was distinguished from another 
 was itself divine. Thus each species of animals had its manitto : as 
 the manitto of the deer, the manitto of the beaver, the manitto of the 
 buffalo. And whenever any individual of the species was distinguished 
 for excellence in its kind — as a deer for its speed, a fox for its cun- 
 ning, a buffalo for strength — in such the ruling deity of the species 
 
LECTURE. 253 
 
 was more particularly manifest, and it thus came of itself to be regarded 
 as a manitto. In such the divinity of the species stood out in its 
 most perfect form, and of such they made their household gods and 
 heraldic insignia ; the amulet or talismanic skin, which gave its super- 
 natural aid to the hunter in the chase ; and the totem or badge, by 
 which each tribe was distinguished in the great movements of their 
 confederacies. 
 
 A badge, or totem, appears to have been adopted in the west by 
 each tribe of the Chippeway, or Algonquin stock, and it may hence 
 be presumed that its use was likewise understood in the east. It 
 seems certain, however, that similar heraldic insignia were used indi- 
 vidually, by the principal chiefs and warriors of the New England 
 tribes. The belt of Philip, or Metacom, wrought of wampum, was 
 ornamented with the representations of animals, reminding one of 
 the embossed jBgures on the shields of the ancient Greeks, and betray- 
 ing their origin in the operation of similar causes. Not that the 
 Indians derived their usage, directly or indirectly, from the Greeks ; 
 but that the human mind in a state of barbarism, spontaneously falls 
 into like habits and customs, and that the Grecian usage was a rem- 
 nant of the savage state. It is believed that some particular animal 
 often acquired with the Narraganset warrior, as well as with his kin- 
 dred of the west, such religious importance as to be regarded as his 
 guardian manitto. Such was the case when it had been presented to 
 him by the Great Spirit in a dream, during the ceremony of his ini- 
 tiation as a chief or warrior, and in such cases the representation of 
 the animal would doubtless become the badge of the individual. 
 
 Yotaanit, or the manitto of fire, among the Narragansets was a 
 wonderful deity — one of useful and, at the same time, very dangerous 
 attributes. Can it be, said they to Williams, but that this fire is a 
 manitto, or divine power, that out of a stone will arise in a spark — 
 that will warm us when we are cold, and, if it be angry, will burn our 
 house — yea, if it fall into the dry wood, sets the forest in a blaze, and 
 reduces the country to ashes ? 
 
 "With the Indians, as with all other portions of the human race, 
 the entire humanity, the whole mind, with all its perfections and im- 
 perfections, seems to have been reflected into the supernatural. Hence 
 we find not merely the good affections impersonated and carried up 
 to. perfection in the supreme Manitto, but the evil propensities, repre- 
 sented as existing in external forms. Therefore, they had a malig- 
 nant manitto — a being whom they supposed to be the very essence of 
 all evil. His wrath they deprecated, and sought to control by incan- 
 
254 LECTURE. 
 
 tations and magical rites. It was the practice of these which excited 
 so much horror in our ancestors, and which they called the worship 
 of the devil. It was at the black dance, where the priest, robed in 
 the habiliments of the sorcerer, and perhaps stained a sable hue from 
 crown to waist, led the magic circle, howling his imprecations against 
 the enemy, that our progenitors supposed the prince of darkness 
 exhibited his visible presence. But I will not try the patience of my 
 hearers by a more particular enumeration of their deities. My object 
 is to interrogate the universal principles of human thought and action, 
 and to ascertain from them, if practicable, in what manner their idea 
 of the supernatural originated. I know that we have an abundance 
 of theories to account for its origin. Whenever an author has made 
 the aborigines his theme, he has seldom failed to trace them to an ori- 
 gin in some European or Asiatic people ; and, in doing this, it has 
 been convenient to consider the mind of the man of America 
 as perfectly passive^as utterly incapable of originating any thing ; 
 and. therefore, as having borrowed all his ideas, particularly on re- 
 ligious subjects, of that parent stock in the old world, from which 
 the author is pleased to trace his descent. I shall occupy what may 
 perhaps be denominated the opposite extreme. I shall hold that 
 he has borrowed little or nothing ; that his ideas of the supernatural, 
 however their expression may have been modified by foreign commu- 
 nications, are mainly of the spontaneous growth of the mind, in its 
 nudest and most uncultivated state ; and that all the forms and 
 fables of tradition are but diversified modes in which the same great 
 ideas are expressed. In doing this, I shall not disturb him who 
 chooses to believe in a communication to man, by an original divine 
 inspiration, of the idea of the supernatural ; but I may go a step far- 
 ther, and insist that, if it be an inspiration, it is inspiration in its 
 most perfect form — that it is one and the same with that breath 
 which breathed into man a living soul, endowed with all the energies 
 necessary for the future development of the great ideas of supreme 
 intelligence and a future state. We have been, I apprehend, disposed 
 to attribute too little to the effect of the inherent energies of the 
 mind. When we exploded the doctrine of innate ideas, we almost 
 forgot that there were innate faculties — original inherent tendencies, 
 which, under appropriate circumstances, must ever give birth to those 
 very ideas which we had correctly denied to be innate. Is it necessary 
 to school the sportive urchin in geometrical figures, before he can make 
 his circles, his squares, and triangles in the sand 1 Are these a por- 
 tion of our traditionary ideas ? Must they be taught as we are taught 
 
LECTURE. 255 
 
 our creeds ? Were the past obliterated from all mind, would not these 
 ideas return of necessity ? The truth is, they need no teacher. They 
 are the spontaneous growth of all mind. The same universal reason 
 which impels the bird to build the circle of her nest, and the bee to 
 construct the six angles of its cell, passes through the incipient mind 
 of childhood out into space, where it of necessity sports in geometri- 
 cal forms ; and the same rational principle, which thus puts on the 
 relations of space, does, when it passes into the mysterious and sub- 
 lime, in like manner resolve itself into ideas of the supernatural — 
 the only ideas appropriate to the region into which it has passed. 
 Tradition is secondary — it comes to its aid — it assists it with a lan- 
 guage ; but it does nothing more. 
 
 What then were the essential elements of the idea designated by 
 the term manitto — a term which we have translated God, or Spirit. 
 From the manner in which this term is invariably used, it seems to be 
 palpable that it signified a vital power, property, or energy, which 
 acted from, and resided within, an external manifestation — as the soul 
 in the body — a self-subsisting and self-acting cause, lying beyond the 
 grasp of the Indian's senses, and exciting his wonder and admiration. 
 
 Action within him he felt proceeded from a vital, voluntary, and 
 conscious cause ; and when he witnessed what appeared to be self-ac- 
 tion elsewhere, he necessarily ascribed to it a like vital, voluntary and 
 conscious agent. He came to this result by no labored train of meta- 
 physical reasoning, but by the spontaneous movement of the mind. 
 Infancy never witnesses motion, but that it involuntarily ascribes to 
 it an intelligent cause. It is a primitive judgment of the mind, formed 
 without an effort, and of which it loses sight only after repeatedly dis- 
 covering that all efi'ects are constantly resolvable into causes, which in 
 turn are but efi'ects of causes still higher. 
 
 But in the unenlightened mind of the savage, a great number of 
 these primitive judgments necessarily remain unchanged. What 
 knows he of the causes which produce the fiux and reflux of the sea ? 
 Who has informed him of the action of gravitation upon the air, and 
 of the efi'ects of various temperatures in producing the tempest and the 
 whirlwind ? Who has rendered him familiar with the electric fluid, 
 so as to take from the peal of thunder and the flash of lightning the 
 special manifestations of an angry God ? Who has placed in his hand 
 the telescope, and thereby robbed the heavens of his deities ? But so 
 long as these primitive judgments remain unchanged, he is forced to 
 regard the ocean, the tempest, the lightning, and the heavenly bodies, 
 
26j5 LECTURE. 
 
 as forms animated by intelligences their own, and as beings vastly- 
 superior to the awe-stricken mortal who contemplates them. 
 
 Let us for a moment look at nature with the eye of one of these her 
 uninstructed children, and we shall the better understand the concep- 
 tions which her energies excite. To his mind the earth is a circle of 
 but a few days' journey over — ridged, indeed, with mountains, cloven 
 with rivers, and beaten by the never-ceasing waves of the ocean ; but 
 $till a circle of very limited dimensions. His view is shut in on every 
 side by the encircling horizon, whilst the blue vault of heaven, propor- 
 tionally defined, closes over him, and confines his range of thought to 
 an universe as limited as the apparent scope of his vision. The sun, 
 the moon, and the stars, are only greater and lesser lights, moving in 
 their circuits, and alternately appearing and disappearing as if en- 
 dowed with a life their own. All around him is likewise motion. 
 The rivers are hastening to the sea ; the ocean, whether in tempest or 
 in calm, is never still, and breeze or storm is constantly sweeping the 
 bosom of the forest. If he pauses for a moment, and looks within 
 himself, he finds all in motion there ; he feels the greater and lesser 
 motions — the pulsations of the heart and the wrist, and the heaving 
 of the breast — and then those general and all-controlling motions 
 which proceed from the dictates of the will. Of all this he is con- 
 scious — and without reasoning, or pausing to theorize, he feels that 
 the universal agitation around him has, like that within him, a volun- 
 tary or intelligent principle, soul, or ruling manitto ; and that the 
 heaving of the great deep and the rush of the torrent, like the heaving 
 of his breast and the pulsation of his heart, have each a separate soul, 
 manitto, or intelligent principle of action. Thus all around, as well 
 as all within him, has life. 'Tis as if he had found a vast duplicate of 
 himself in the universe which he is contemplating — as if his whole 
 being had swollen to the dimensions of the universal frame — till, in 
 contemplating the stupendous wonder into which his existence seems 
 to be resolved, he loses the consciousness of his own little individuality, 
 and involuntarily worships the dread Supernatural, into whose pre- 
 sence he is thus mysteriously drawn. He salutes the power which 
 rules the whole, and calls it the Supreme Manitto, or Grreat Spirit ; 
 whilst he hails those powers which manifest themselves in the parts 
 of the universal frame as subordinate manittos, and assigns to them 
 appropriate names. 
 
 Thus the Indian did not come to his knowledge of the supernatu- 
 ral by a process of reasoning, but in a much shorter way — he felt it ; 
 and when reason required him to account for the formation of the 
 
LECTURE. 257 
 
 universe, and for his own creation, he found his faith already in pos- 
 session of that which was able to satisfy her demands. 
 
 Though our aborigines were thus surrounded with their deities — 
 though they breathed the air of the supernatural — though it mingled 
 with all their feasts, and dances, and public ceremonies, yet it was not 
 on every occasion that its idea was present in its most imposing 
 form. Some deep emotion, combined with a sense of the mysterious, 
 was ever necessary to bring out an expression of an elevated religious 
 feeling. The sentiment of the sublime is closely allied to the percep- 
 tion of the supernatural. Who is there, that has cast his eye from 
 some promontory that overlooks the boundless expanse of ocean, and 
 beheld the vast mass of moving waters, that has not felt the presence 
 of the invisible power that moves them 1 Who is there that has 
 paused over the brink of Niagara, and beheld its whole western world 
 of waters descending like the ruin of a universe, that has not felt his 
 own being expand with the ingatherings of mysterious thought, until 
 he caught something more than a mere glimpse of the power that 
 presided over and gave its energy to the soul-engrossing wonder ? 
 Such scenes draw deeply on the heart, and touch that part of human 
 nature, whether in savage or civilized man, that approximates the 
 divinity within. It is the attempt to give outward expression to 
 these feelings that induces the voice and attitude of adoration, and 
 the ceremonials of sacrifice. 
 
 When the young prince of the Winnebagoes, who accompanied 
 Carver on his visit to the falls of St. Anthony, beheld that stupen- 
 dous cascade, he recognized in the sublimity of the spectacle the pres- 
 ence of the Grreat Spirit, and began to address him in an audible voice. 
 " He then threw his pipe into the stream ; then the roll that contained 
 his tobacco ; after these the bracelets that he wore on his wrists ; next 
 an ornament that encircled his neck, composed of beads and wires ; 
 and at last the ear-rings from his ears — in short, he presented his 
 god|every part of his dress that was valuable. During the ceremony 
 he frequently smote his breast with great violence, threw his arms 
 about, and appeared to be much agitated." Who is there that does 
 not see in this the expansion of a mysterious sentiment, spontaneously 
 seeking, by every possible avenue, to establish a communication be- 
 tween itself and the Being who inspires it ? Who is there that does not 
 recognize in it the original language of devotion, that comes because it 
 must, and comes in every form it can ? And who, after witnessing 
 such an instance, can think of finding in the ciistoms of a more civi- 
 
 33 
 
258 LECTURE. 
 
 lized people tlie common fountain whence this primitive devotion and 
 its forms are derived ? 
 
 Yet will speculation still urge its theories, regardless of the consti- 
 tution of the human mind and its necessary results. One traces the 
 aboriginal idea of the supernatural to the Hebrews, another to the 
 Tartars, another to the Hindoos — in short, there is scarcely any 
 ancient doctrine known to the old world, to which the primitive 
 inhabitants of the new have not been supposed to be indebted for 
 their religion, and their forms of worship. But who that considers 
 the Indian race as a portion of the common humanity, and as a por- 
 tion that has undergone the least change, that will not be able to trace 
 this idea and its accompanying forms of expression, to the Indian 
 mind alone, inspired and actuated by the image of the supernatural 
 reflected into the works of creation. Give me the mind of man as it 
 is, and give me the works of creation as they are, and I will show you 
 firm believers in the supernatural, though they sprang from the earth 
 like the men of Cadmus. 
 
 We see, from the instance already mentioned, that adoration with 
 the Indian was an attempt to effect a communication with the super- 
 natural Being whose presence was felt, by resolving the inspired feel- 
 ing into sounds and signs. The rites of his adoration were the forms 
 which the feeling took in action — his words those which it took in 
 sound. Both were the expression of the same deep feeling, and both, 
 in the broadest sense of the terms, were its instinctive language. 
 The rites of all adoration are necessarily typical and mystical, and its 
 words of necessity highly metaphorical. In truth, the whole language 
 of devotion, whether in the form of signs or sounds, has been in all 
 times and in all countries the language of poetry. The type and the 
 metaphor go together, and may, when harmoniously combined, express 
 that which, without such union, may be inexpressible. But this mys- 
 tical language could not be equally well used by all — a few would 
 necessarily excel. But these few were no other than the Indian 
 priesthood — a natural order of priests, which spontaneously grew up 
 amongst them, to satisfy the demands of the sentiment of the super- 
 natural, and who, therefore, in all things represented it. They were, 
 in fact, no other than the sentiment itself externized — brought out of 
 the common mind, and bodied forth in the community, as an order or 
 class of men. Hence the duties of the Indian priesthood were far 
 niore various than the term seems to imply. 
 
 With the Indian the supernatural was in every thing. It was 
 n.bove, beneath, around, and within him ; and his priest was not 
 
LECTURE. 259 
 
 merely priest, but prophet, physician, and magician. He sacrificed 
 to the Great Spirit ; he received from Him revelations of the future ; 
 he expelled the malignant demons that afflicted the sick ; and con- 
 jured up spirits from the vasty deep to do his bidding. 
 
 It was in the dreams of a profound sleep, induced by long contin- 
 ued watching and fasting, that the prophet sought a more direct 
 communication with the Great Spirit. It was in this sleep that an 
 interior world was open to his view. There he held high and myste- 
 rious intercourse with the supernatural — there he was sometimes 
 favored with a personal manifestation of the Great Spirit himself — at 
 others with an actual foresight of some impending event, or at least 
 with allegorical imagery expressive of the will of his deity, and the 
 destinies that awaited the tribe. In these allegorical dreams, every 
 animal was a manitto, and every image a type expressive of the fu- 
 ture. In the apt interpretation of this imagery lay the prophetic 
 skill ; and on the termination of his mystical sleep, the prophet rose, 
 full of the inspiration of his visions, to announce the fates, and deliver 
 the mandates of the great Manitto, This was the process on great 
 occasions — as when the council had decided on war, and the chiefs 
 and warriors had assembled preparatory to their march. But on 
 unexpected emergencies, or less important occasions, the prophet had 
 other resorts. He sometimes threw himself into great agitations, 
 mental and bodily, till apparently overcome by the excitation thus 
 voluntarily produced, he paused in a state of seeming insensibility — 
 a state, however, in which the conceptions of the instant seemed to 
 have overpowered all impressions of external objects, till the whole 
 soul, as with the ancient sybil, resolved into a world its own, beheld 
 the future as present, and gave forth the prophetic enunciations from 
 the midst of the rapt visions of the moment. Such, if we may 
 believe Carver, was the manner of the singular prediction made to 
 him by the chief priest of the Killistiuoes. 
 
 The priest thus officiated as prophet ; but wherever manitto, benev- 
 olent or malign, manifested his presence, the mystic office of the priest 
 was put in requisition. Diseases, as before stated, were manittos of a 
 malignant type, and none but the priest could effectually subdue or 
 control them. He used medicines, indeed, but the principal means 
 by which he hoped to cast out the demons, were his charm and incan- 
 tation. He sat day and night by his patient, rattling the chickicone 
 in his ears, and practising other mystic ceremonies, for the avowed 
 purpose of directing the attention of the demon from the work of 
 destruction, and of acquiring a more perfect knowledge of his nature. 
 
260 
 
 LECTURE. 
 
 Such, and the like, were the superstitions Winslow witnessed at tEe 
 time he visited Massasoit in his sickness. There is a consistency in 
 these superstitions, however childish they may appear ; they carry 
 them from the patient struggling with disease, into the great opera- 
 tions of nature. The Senecas believe that an eclipse of the sun or 
 the moon is no other than the act of a bad spirit, that mischievously 
 intercepts the light intended for earth and its inhabitants. G-reat 
 solicitude is therefore felt ; their anxiety prompts them to do some- 
 thing to drive oif or divert the attention of the demon, and for this 
 purpose they do — what is just as efiectual as any thing else that they 
 could do — they fill the air with noise and outcry, until the malignant 
 manitto has departed, and left the sun again to smile on the Senecas. 
 In all this we see nothing but the spontaneous efforts of mind in its 
 infancy, acting as it best can, to relieve itself from its own painful 
 bewilderment and apprehension. 
 
 The life of the savage is a life of danger, and he is oftener under the 
 influence of fear than of hope ; and hence the priest is oftener called 
 to divert the influence of evil spirits, than to solicit the favor of the 
 good. His tricks as a magician doubtless best established his reputa- 
 tion for an interest with the malignant class of manittos ; and he who 
 most excelled therein, generally accj[uired the greatest influence with 
 his tribe. Of the magicians of New England, the most noted was 
 Passaconaway, of Penacook ; he could metamorphose himself into a 
 flame ; he could make water burn and trees dance ; he could raise a 
 green leaf from the ashes of a dry one, and a living serpent from the 
 skin of one that was dead. 
 
 " A wondrous wig-ht, for o'er Siog-ia's ice, 
 
 With brindled wolves, all harnessed three and three, 
 Hig-h seated in a sledg-e, made in a trice, 
 
 On Mount Ag-iochook, of hickory, 
 
 He lashed and reeled, and sung- rig-ht jollily ; 
 And once upon a car of flaming' fire, 
 
 The awe-struck Indian shook with fear to see 
 The King- of Penacook, his chief, his sire, 
 Ride flaming- up toward Heaven, than any mountain hig*her.'' 
 
 In short, his sorcery failed him in but one thing. He acknowledged 
 that he could not, by the utmost stretch of his art, expel the English. 
 I mention not these superstitious practices and customs as any thing 
 new to my hearers, but for the purpose of showing how necessarily 
 they grew out of the aboriginal idea of the supernatural — that they 
 stand to it in the relation of effect to cause, and that they are not a 
 mere medley of usages adopted from some ancient stock — isolated in 
 
LECTURE. 261 
 
 memory or tradition, and representing notliing. Traditionary in one 
 sense they may be, but they are traditionary in that sense only as a 
 language expressive of a pre-existent idea ; an idea unborrowed, and 
 of the spontaneous growth of the Indian mind. The idea exists — 
 therefore the customs — the customs retained by the idea and subsist- 
 ing upon it as their basis. 
 
 There was one article in their creed, which, perhaps, throws more 
 light upon their idea of the supernatural than can be gathered from 
 any other source. I allude to their belief in the immortality of the 
 soul, and their ideas of its nature — a belief which with them was firm, 
 deep and radical, and their notion of its nature seemingly as fixed and 
 definite as that of their bodily existence. The soul was a spirit or 
 manitto ; and by ascertaining what they meant by the soul, we shall 
 the better understand what idea they attached to the term manitto. 
 Nor will the inquiry be without its philosophical use. since in all 
 psycology, it has been an interesting problem to determine what the 
 first teachings of nature are upon this great subject. I say the first 
 teachings of nature ; for that the Indians received and retained their 
 idea of the soul's immortality as a mere tradition, is even less probable 
 than that they borrowed their mythology from Europe or Asia. 
 
 There is no article of human faith more general ; and, divest it of 
 its explanatory theories, there is no one more uniform than the popu- 
 lar belief on this subject. Go back to the most distant epoch in his- 
 tory — there grasp in conception the whole human family, and descend, 
 from generation to generation, through all time, and through all mind, 
 savage and civilized, and you will find the belief in its essential form 
 everywhere and always the same. The attempt to explain the manner 
 Jiow and the place where of a spiritual existence, is an ejffort of the 
 understanding, made after the belief has spontaneously arisen, in order 
 to reconcile it with experience, and the apparent order of things in the 
 external universe. Hence comes the doctrine of the transmigration 
 of the soul — that of its re-absorption by Deity — that of its re-union 
 with the body — and that of its shadowy existence in the Elysium of 
 the Greeks ; and hence, also, to the mind dissatisfied with any expla- 
 nation, comes the belief of its utter annihilation, or cessation of exist- 
 ence. But divest it of these after-thoughts — these vain attempts to 
 make the inward and outward worlds the same — and there is a sur- 
 prising uniformity in the popular belief of all nations, through all time 
 — a uniformity which conclusively shows that it springs from some 
 unalterable principle, or tendency of the human mind, and that it 
 owes nothing to tradition. 
 
262 LECTURE. 
 
 The spirits of the Scriptures — those of the ancient classics — those 
 of Ossian — those of the barbarians of Africa — those of the Indians 
 of this continent, and those of the present age of civilization and 
 refinement, have all the same generic character, the same kind of mo- 
 tion, the same diversity of presence, and the same mode of appearance 
 and evanescence, and all are supposed to be of the same ethereal sub- 
 stance. Compare the ghosts of Ossian, through whose shadowy form 
 the stars dimly twinkled, with tbe spirit mentioned in the Book of 
 Job, and then recollect that the countries of the respective authors 
 were distant from each other nearly two thousand miles, and their 
 respective ages were separated by a space of perhaps three thousand 
 years. Yet none can fail to recognize in both instances the same 
 common faith, or can avoid ascribing to that faith the same origin. 
 
 But where shall we find this origin — the prolific germ of this over- 
 shadowing growth ? I answer, in the active constituent principles, or 
 inherent energies of all mind, bodying forth its imagery particularly 
 in dreams. The faith, therefore, which they generate, is ever essen- 
 tially the same, and comes spontaneously and irresistibly. The first 
 time that the image of a deceased friend visited the slumbers of 
 night, the heavens were opened, and faith in a continued existence 
 descended into the human breast, and there made her lasting abode. 
 It is not my business to inquire whether this effect, resulting from a 
 fixed law of the mind, affords any just foundation for the belief. I 
 here only endeavor to account for the origin of this faith in the abo- 
 riginal mind, and to ascertain its nature. For this purpose, I will 
 inquire, what is the first necessary idea of that imagery, which is 
 arrayed, as by an unseen hand, before the mental eye of the dreamer? 
 Is it his first necessary judgment, that it is made up of independent 
 realities, or that it consists merely of his own vivid conceptions'? 
 To show that the tendency of the mind is to believe in its independent 
 existence, I appeal to the mind of childhood, which not unfrequently 
 mistakes its dreams for realities ; and from this circumstance, per- 
 haps, more than from the tales of the nursery, acquires its dread of 
 the supernatural. And I ask whether a faith of this kind, ingrafting 
 itself in the very germ of existence, can ever after be eradicated ? I 
 further appeal to the established truths of intellectual philosophy, 
 and the uniform tendency of the human mind as revealed by all early 
 history. But in doing this, I ask to be understood as merely endeav- 
 oring to show what was the necessary belief of the Indian, and how it 
 originated, and that beyond this, I am affirming nothing and denying 
 nothing. 
 
LECTURE^ 263 
 
 " It is," says Mr. Stewart, " a common remark, tliat our dreams are 
 in every instance involuntary on our part, and that they appear to 
 obtrude themselves upon us by some external cause." If this be true, 
 and if during our sleep we are irresistibly impressed, particularly in 
 childhood, with a full belief in their separate existence, I ask whether 
 it does not require an effort of the understanding — indeed, a whole 
 system of intellectual philosophy, constructed by each individual for 
 himself, to aid his scepticism, before he can indulge his doubts or pro- 
 nounce them sheer delusions. No such philosophy marks the early 
 ages, or the savage state at any time. On the contrary, the uniform 
 tendency is to believe in perfect accordance with appearances. It 
 would seem that a primitive philosophy taught that all dreams were 
 presented to the mind by some supernatural power. Such is the tes- 
 timony of all Scripture : " In the visions of night, when deep sleep 
 falleth upon men, in slumbering upon the bed, then he openeth the 
 ears of men, and sealeth their instruction." Understand me as refer- 
 ing to the Scriptures only as very ancient writings, for the purpose 
 of showing what the belief was in the age in which they are written. 
 The sacred writers never appear to have doubted the independent 
 existence of the objects of their dreams, or of their supernatural 
 origin. In them they believed that they heard supernatural voices, 
 and saw supernatural forms, distinctly bodied forth to their intellec- 
 tual vision. One of the most ancient dreams upon record is thus 
 given in the Book of Job : " In thoughts from the visions of night, 
 when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, 
 which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my 
 face ; the hair of my flesh stood up ; it stood still ; but I could notj 
 discern the form thereof; an image was before mine eyes ; there was 
 silence, and I heard a voice, saying. Shall mortal man be more just 
 than God ?" Who can doubt that the relater of this dream believed 
 that what was thus seen and heard existed independent of the dream- 
 er's conceptions, and that it really was the spirit that it appeared to be? 
 In perfect accordance with this belief appears to be the popular phi- 
 losophy of Greece and Rome, particularly as announced by their 
 poets. According to their philosophy, all dreams, true or false, were 
 no other than imagery arrayed before the mental eye during sleep, 
 by the agency of good or evil demons. If phantoms, they still had 
 an existence, substantial, independent, and active. They were created 
 by the gods, and they were dispatched by the deity creating them, 
 with all due gravity, upon their deluding messages. Even those 
 dreams that were the manifest results of sensation, were referred to 
 
264 LECTURE. 
 
 a supernatural origin. Thus Diomed and Ulysses, under cover of 
 night, assail and kill the Thracians as they lie asleep in their camp. 
 They find Rhesus, their king, slumbering in his tent. One of them 
 transfixes him with a spear. A present deity instantly supplies the 
 dream that follows the infliction of the wound : 
 
 Just then a deathful dream Minerva sent, 
 A warlike form appeared before his tent, 
 Whose visionary steel his bosom tore ; 
 So dreamed the monarch, and awoke no more. 
 
 What is the allegory, first given by Homer, and afterwards repeated 
 by Yirgil, of the two gates of sleep — the one of polished ivory, and the 
 other of transparent horn — but an attempt to reconcile the doctrine 
 of a supernatural origin of all [dreams, with the dictates of a more 
 mature reason 1 Does not the gate of transparent horn represent a 
 region of mind above the senses, through which true visions from the 
 supernatural world might pass, unmixed with sensation ? and does not 
 the gate of ivory represent the region of the senses, through which the 
 same imagery might pass, but in passing, must become mingled with, 
 and falsified by, excited sensation ? (If so, Virgil very properly makes 
 his hero return from his vision of Elysium, through the ivory gate. 
 He brings him back to the region of the senses.) 
 
 But be this as it may, in the doctrine of a supernatural origin of 
 dreams, we see nothing but the suggestions of mind in its infancy — 
 and they belong equally to the infancy of the individual, and the in- 
 fancy of the species. They are primitive judgments, which mature 
 reason itself never completely eradicates. In fact, the belief of the 
 ancients on the subject was so nearly the same with that of the Indi- 
 ans of this continent, that, regarding them both as the result of the 
 same primitive philosophy, we may use either as illustrative of the 
 other. 
 
 It was in the world of visions, where the dreamer's self appeared to 
 himself, that he often met with his departed friends. They came in 
 the same form as in life — robed in the same garments, and speaking 
 in their well known voices. They conversed as they had conversed a 
 thousand times before ; and how could he doubt that they still lived ? 
 Deeming all the objects of his dreams realities, how could he doubt the 
 reality of these ? The dream of Achilles, in the Iliad, as translated 
 by Pope, presents a strong illustration of the truth of our position ; 
 and however familiar it may be to my hearers, I must be excused for 
 repeating it, on account of its general application to the whole subject 
 
LECTURE. 265 
 
 of this lecture : for it lias its basis in ideas that spontaneously arise in 
 all mind, whether Grecian or aboriginal American. 
 
 Achilles, having slain Hector and dragged his body three times 
 around the walls of Troy, and thus appeased the offended spirit of his 
 beloved Patroclus, throws himself down upon the sea-shore and falls 
 into a profound slumber. When lo ! the ghost of Patroclus rises be- 
 fore him in the robe he was accustomed to wear ; the same as in life 
 seemed the beauty of stature and melody of voice. 
 
 The form familiar hovers o'er his head ; 
 " And sleeps Achilles," thus the phantom said, 
 " Sleeps my Achilles, his Patroclus dead ? 
 Living", I seemed his dearest, tenderest care, 
 But now forg-ot I wander in the air. 
 Let my pale corse the rites of burial know ; 
 And give mc entrance to the realms below ; 
 , Till then the spirit knows no biding- place ; 
 But here and there the unbodied spectres chase 
 The vag-rant dead around the dark abode ; 
 Forbid to cross the irremeable flood. 
 Now g-ive thy hand, for to the further shore, 
 When once we pass, the soul returns no more ; 
 When once the last funereal flames ascend, 
 No more shall meet Achilles and his friend." 
 
 The phantom vanishes — Achilles rouses — the body of Patroclus was 
 then lying dead in his tent ; but the following burst of astonishment, 
 uttered with uplifted arms, at the moment he starts from his slumber, 
 shows how completely the ideal semblance of his friend had triumphed 
 over the conviction of his senses : 
 
 'Tis true ! 'tis certain ! man thoug-h dead retains 
 Part of himself, the immortal mind remains ; 
 The soul subsists without the body's aid ; 
 Aerial semblance and an empty shade ! 
 This night my friend, so late in battle lost, 
 Stood at my side, a pensive, plaintive g-host. 
 E'en now familiar as in life he came ; 
 Alas ! how different, yet how like the same ! 
 
 True, these are but the imaginings of the poet ; but they are im- 
 aginings addressed to minds that could comprehend them, and feel 
 their force. They are true to nature ; and they as readily find their 
 home in the mind of a Narraganset chief as in that of the leader of 
 the myrmidons of Greece. 
 
 There were two terms in the Narraganset dialect by which the soul 
 was designated ; and both seem to indicate the source from which their 
 
 34 
 
266 LECTURE. 
 
 idea of it originated. Cowewoftk, one of those terms, was derived 
 from cmveiie^ to sleep ; because, said these simple children of the forest, 
 the soul works whilst the body sleeps, and thus more completely 
 develops her powers. There is a striking coincidence between this 
 opinion and that of some of the ancient G-recian philosophers. If we 
 receive this as their belief, (and Williams's Key is my authority,) it 
 will be apparent that the Narragansets recognized in themselves a 
 twofold existence. It was during their waking moments that the body 
 Avrought, and it was during the sleep of the body that the soul wrought, 
 in a world peculiarly her own. Their idea of the nature of that world, 
 may be farther illustrated from the derivation of another term, by 
 which they expressed their notion of the soul in her most elevated 
 mode of being. This term, micliachurik^ was of affinity with a word 
 signifying a mirror — "a clear sight or discerning" — and may it not 
 bo inferred, that in their primitive philosophy, the soul, that vital and 
 intellectual mirror — that visual essence, or " clear discerning," like 
 some glassy lake embosomed in their own native forests, received the 
 image of the material universe, and externized its glories in substantial 
 forms around her — existing herself in her own world of visions, and 
 at the same time being its active and moving centre. But it is not 
 necessary for my purpose to labor for an inference. It is enough that 
 the Indians regarded the world of dreams as the peculiar world of the 
 soul ; and that they must have believed that visionary world, to be no 
 less a reality than the world of matter — that they regarded it as pecu- 
 liarly the world of the supernatural — a world to which they resorted 
 for all prophecy — for all spiritual communications, and for intercourse 
 with their gods. 
 
 What then is the inference to be drawn from these undoubted facts ? 
 Simply this : that as they believed the world of dreams to be a world 
 of realities, whenever the image of a deceased friend appeared to them 
 in a dream, as a distinct and independent present existence, they spon- 
 taneously and undoubtingly believed it to be his veritable soul, spirit, 
 or manitto. Hence a belief in a continued existence and future state 
 was with them a necessary and primitive belief — derived not from tra- 
 dition, but arising from, and supported by, an unchangeable law of the 
 human mind. 
 
 Grreat consequences of mingled good and evil resulted from this 
 belief. It inspired the dying and his friends with consoling and con- 
 fident hopes. It gave form and character to their funeral ceremonies, 
 and it gave fury and long enduring strength to the spirit of vengeance. 
 
 The Indian had his Elysium, or place of the soul. But in his 
 
LECTURE. 267 
 
 attempts to locate his Elysium we no longer witness the spontaneous 
 action of the mind ; but the efforts of the inventive and reflective 
 powers of individuals and communities. They agree only in one 
 thing, and that is, in an endeavor to identify their inward world of 
 the soul with the outward world of the body ; and in doing this, each 
 community followed its own fancy. The tribes that rove the prairies 
 of the west provide a home for the spirits of the departed on the fer- 
 tile banks of some beautiful river, where buffalo and deer are found 
 in never-failing abundance. Those that occupied the margin of the 
 great lakes, assigned them an island equally fruitful, encircled by the 
 waters of the Huron, or Lake of the Woods. Whilst those in the 
 proximity of tlie ocean, among whom were the Narragansets, gave to 
 the spirits of their kindred dead the ever-blooming island of Sowanui, 
 whence came the refreshing breezes of the southwest, and where their 
 great god, Cawtantowit, made his lasting abode. In that blissful 
 region, reigned a perpetual summer. There the leaf of the forest 
 never died, and the herbage of the field never faded. There earth 
 and flood teemed with all living forms. There herds of deer, and 
 moose, and buffalo, of stateliest shape and in never-failing numbers, 
 quietly grazed the fertile lawns, or browsed the perennial forests. 
 There the hunter never tired in the chase, and the angler never 
 dropped the net in vain. There the spirits of their chiefs and v/arri- 
 ors, and all who had performed their parts well in life, partook of the 
 banquet provided for them by the Grreat Spirit, or danced round their 
 council fires, and recounted their deeds done in the service of their 
 country. But there were those who, though they might view thin 
 blissful region from afar, were yet excluded from a participation in itsi 
 joys. Such were the idle and the vicious ; and such were the unhappy 
 spirits of those who had died by the hands of their enemies, and 
 whose deaths v/ere yet unavenged. These still lingered around the 
 abodes of their friends, and, in the deep sleep of night, rose in the 
 dreams of the slumberer, with a form all gashed with the still 
 freshly bleeding wounds, and pointing at them, called aloud for 
 vengeance. 
 
 We may hence the better understand whence vengeance in the 
 Indian breast derived its never dying flame. Something of a kindred 
 sentiment we sometimes witness even in civilized life. It is not un- 
 frequently said that the blood of the murdered victim cries for ven- 
 geance from the ground. But with the Indian this sentiment took 
 even a more solemn form. To him the image and voice of his dream 
 was no mere effect of imagination. It was the veritable spirit and 
 
268 LECTURE. 
 
 voice of his deceased friend. The work of death was urged on by 
 the cries of the offended ghost of the deceased, and vengeance thus 
 became a sort of religious obligation. It was this sentiment and 
 belief that sustained the protracted war between the Mohegans and 
 Narragansets, and which brought about the subjection and eventual 
 extermination of the latter. 
 
 The funeral rites of the Indians were in perfect accordance with 
 their notions of the nature of the soul. Death, meaning thereby an 
 utter extinction of all life, is not an idea that gains ready access to 
 the mind. It is long before childhood can be made to understand 
 that it is any thing more than a profounder sort of slumber. Brutes 
 know nothing of it. The dam lingers around the carcass of her 
 young until it excites other than the accustomed sensations, and then 
 leaves it without repining. Something of the same nature appears 
 even in the human mind, however civilized and well instructed. The 
 association is so strong that it requires some effort to separate the idea 
 of a vital and intelligent energy from that of the form of a recently 
 deceased friend. And, in the excitement of grief, how frequently 
 does the mind, involuntarily ascribe to the lifeless body some lin- 
 gering portion of intelligence, and mentally, if not vocally, address it ! 
 True, we at length yield to the stern and unrelenting dictates of rea- 
 son ; but after the idea is expelled from the head, does it not settle 
 into the central regions of the heart, and there, as a sort of instinct- 
 ive feeling, does it not continue to abide, along with a glimmer of 
 faith that this deep sleep is not without its consciousness? Else, 
 wherefore the eulogy pronounced over the dead? Wherefore the 
 mournful dirge, sighing affection to the breathless form ? Wherefore 
 the sombre pomp of the procession, and the apostrophic inscriptions 
 of the tomb ? Are these addressed to the dead 1 Rather, are they 
 not addressed to him who, the feeling heart ivill believe, does but 
 sleep in the midst of a mute consciousness of all that is done ? With 
 the Indians this tendency of mind is peculiarly deep and strong. On 
 such occasions they imposed no restraints on their feelings. This 
 (faith of the heart may I call it) led them, as it did the ancients, to 
 believe that the spirit still retained some mysterious connection with 
 the habitation which it had recently abandoned, and that it still lin- 
 gered round the organs of sense. In the first paroxysms of griefj 
 they placed the dead in a sitting posture upon a mat, in the midst of 
 the lodge. They arrayed it in its finest apparel. If it was that of a 
 chief or great warrior, they decorated it with the belts, girdles, and 
 plumes, which had bu often glanced in battle ; and they placed at its 
 
LECTURE. 269 
 
 side, and in its hands, the bow, arrows, and tomahawk, which had been 
 so many times stained with the blood of their enemies. They then 
 addressed it, as if still living, with an account of the achievements 
 which had distinguished its life. They supposed that the semblances 
 of that apparel, of those decorations, and of those arms, passed to 
 and invested the yet tarrying spirit, just as they supposed that their 
 voices reached it, through " the dull, cold ear," that they addressed. 
 And as the deceased was now about to depart on the path of the dead, 
 to the far country of kindred souls, they deposited in the grave, with 
 the body, these articles, together with food, as the indispensable 
 accoutrements and supplies for the three days journey of the spirit. 
 There was no effort to reason in this — there was no theorizing : it 
 was the spontaneous action of deeply excited feeling, modified by 
 their belief in the soul's immortality, giving free and uncontrolled 
 expression to itself. They saw, and they felt, that the soul, in the 
 world of dreams, had its wants and desires. Death was a sublime 
 and profound sort of sleep, which had its sublimer dream. And as 
 the living did not dream of hunger when abundantly fed, nor of cold 
 when warmly clad, nor of flying from their enemies when completely 
 armed, so the body in its eternal sleep was abundantly provided with 
 food, raiment, and arms, that the soul, now in her eternal dream, 
 might go cheerfully and securely to the abodes of her kindred dead. 
 They were doubtless confirmed in the propriety of these rites, and 
 in the necessity of making ample provisions for the departed spirit, 
 not only by ordinary dreams, but by the protracted trance of sus- 
 pended animation. Two amusing instances of the latter are recounted 
 among the traditionary tales of the Chippeways. In one, it is repre- 
 sented that a famous hunter chief, by name Gitshee Gauzinee, after a 
 state of apparent death of four days continuance, revived, and gave 
 to his astonished hearers an account of the wonders he had witnessed 
 while journeying toward the village of the dead. According to this 
 tale, and doubtless their belief, he arrived on the fourth day within 
 sight of the habitations of the blest. But the herds of deer and buf- 
 falo, which he now saw grazing quietly on the borders of the paradi- 
 saical forests, and the keenness of his appetite, after so long a fast, 
 induced him to return for his rifle ; for his friends had unluckily de- 
 termined not to bury that valuable instrument with him. On his 
 way back he met multitudes of disembodied spirits, journeying slowly 
 toward the dwelling of the dead. They were heavily laden, and 
 sweating under the burdens which the well intended bounty of their 
 kindred had imposed upon them. They complained to him, bitterly, 
 
270 LECTURE. 
 
 of this excess of generosity. One offered him a kettle, another an 
 axe, another a gun ; but he was determined to return for his own 
 rifle. All this, and many other equally remarkable incidents of his 
 sojourn in the region of the dead, Gitshee Gauzinee did not fail to 
 recount to his friends, when he awoke from his long trance ; but he 
 particularly advised them no longer to encumber the spirits of the 
 dead with such heavy burdens. " The dress," said he, " which the 
 deceased was fond of while living, he should always be clothed in 
 when dead. His feathers, his head-dress, his ornaments, are but 
 light, and will be very agreeable to his spirit. His pipe, also, will 
 afford him a pleasant amusement on the road. If he has any thing 
 more let it be divided among his nearest relatives." 
 
 The Chippeways have ever since remembered the trance of their 
 famous hunter chief, and not doubting the realities of his vision, have 
 modified their customs according to his advice. 
 
 Such is a brief and imperfect examination of the nature and origin 
 of the Indian idea of the supernatural. I have pursued the investiga- 
 tion upon facts drawn from very accessible sources. I well know that 
 I have made no addition to those already in possession of my hearers. 
 I have merely added to them the results of some reflection upon an 
 idea which to me seems to form an important element in the Indian 
 mind, and which I apprehend must be studied in order properly to 
 appreciate his character, or thoroughly to understand his history. 
 
 It was this idea that Christianity required the Indians of New 
 England to renounce, in all its immediate and far results ; to renounce 
 the self-taught belief in the influence of their good and evil manittos ; 
 to forego all their religious festivals ; to forsake the priest who offici- 
 ciated at them, and who knew how to draw down the blessings of the 
 good, and to avert the malevolence of the evil, manittos ; to turn from 
 their prophets who held communication with their gods and revealed 
 the future, as from impostors ; to renounce the physician who cured 
 their sick ; to relinquish their definite and positive ideas of a future 
 state ; to abandon the sacred ceremonies of the burial of the dead ; 
 and more than all, to turn a deaf ear to the call of vengeance from the 
 ghost of a slaughtered brother. Against these requirements their 
 whole nature, from its very foundations, rebelled, and they were 
 annihilated. 
 
 With regard to the origin of their idea of the supernatural, we may, 
 I think, safely conclude, that with the Narragansets and their kindred 
 tribes, it was the genuine offspring of their own mind, wrought into 
 action by the sublime and mysterious around and within them. That 
 
LECTURE. 271 
 
 it was an idea naturally drawn out by the circumstances and manner 
 of their life, and in some respects varying with them ; and that it bor- 
 rowed little or nothing from a more civilized people ; that the same 
 essential idea was and is, in fact, a necessary, a constituent intellectual 
 element of the wide-spread Tartar barbarism of the earth — a barbar- 
 ism coeval with the most ancient civilization — a barbarism which is 
 the wild offspring of primeval forests, and which necessarily makes 
 those forests its home — a barbarism, however, which from the most 
 ancient epoch has been receding before civilization, as darkness re- 
 cedes before light. 
 
 However stern, then, the destiny which awaits the Indians of this 
 continent, it is still a destiny in the order of Divine Providence. It 
 is a law of the Grand Mind — the total humanity — that its inferior 
 should be subjected to its superior nature — that barbarism should 
 yield to civilization, just as the brute submits to the dominion of man, 
 or retires beyond it. With us, the contest is still going on in all its 
 unmitigated severity. At every advance of civilization, this ancient 
 barbarism is still receding ; and it will continue to be subdued, or to 
 recede, until the notes of the last aboriginal death-song shall mingle 
 with the murmurs of the Pacific. 
 
DISCOURSE, 
 
 DELIVERED BEFOBE THE 
 
 EHODE-ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY, 
 
 ON THE EVENINO OP 
 
 WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1847. 
 
 35 
 
DISCOURSE. 
 
 Gentlemen of the Historical Society : 
 
 In consequence of my compliance with the request of your commit- 
 tee — a compliance, perhaps, unfortunate both for you and me — it has 
 become my duty to address you, and our fellow citizens generally, up- 
 on a purely Rhode Island theme. I shall, accordingly, speak to you 
 of that idea of government, which was actualized, for the first time in 
 Christendom, here in this State, by those who described themselres as 
 " a poor colony, consisting mostly of a birth and breeding of the Most 
 High, formerly from the mother-nation in the bishops' days, and lat- 
 terly from the New England over-zealous colonies." I shall speak to 
 you of the origin of this idea — of the various forms which it took, in 
 its progress toward its realization here, in minds of much diversity of 
 character and creed ; and of that " lively experiment," which it subse- 
 quently held forth, that " a most flourishing civil state may stand, and 
 be best maintained, with a full liberty in religious concernments"— 
 a liberty which implied an emancipation of reason from the thraldom 
 of arbitrary authority, and the full freedom of inquiry in all matters of 
 speculative faith. 
 
 To the founders of this State, and particularly to Roger Williams, 
 belong the fame and the glory of having realised, for the first time, 
 this grand idea, in a form of civil government ; but we should honor 
 them at the expense of our common nature, should we say that they 
 were the first to maintain that Christ's kingdom was not of this world, 
 and that the State had no right to interfere between conscience and 
 Grod. The idea must, undoubtedly, have had its historical origin in 
 him who first endured persecution for conscience's sake. " Saul ! 
 Saul ! why persecutest thou me ? " is a voice, implying a denial of 
 right, which comes with a sudden shining round about of light, not 
 only from Heaven, but has come, and shall ever come, from the depths 
 of persecuted humanity, through all time ; and, in proportion to the 
 violence and spread of the persecution, has been, and shall be, the 
 depth and extent of the cry. It Ib the protest of that all-present rea- 
 
276 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 son, whicli is at once the master of the individual and the race against 
 the abuse made by the creature of its own delegated authority. And 
 that time never was, and never shall be, when humanity could, or can, 
 recognize the right of any human power to punish for the expression 
 of a mere conscientious belief. 
 
 By what fraudful craft or cunning, then, was it, that this power 
 to punish in matters of conscience came to be established throughout 
 all Christendom, and has been continued down, in some countries, to 
 the present day ? — and how happened it that the odious office of pun- 
 ishing heretics and enforcing uniformity of opinion fell, both in Roman 
 Catholic and Protestant countries, on the civil magistrates? This 
 question is fully answered by history. 
 
 When men had been brought to believe that they had found a divine 
 and infallible teacher in the Bishop of Rome, it was not difficult to 
 induce them to think that whatever opinion they might entertain 
 which he thought proper to condemn as heretical, was, in truth, a sin, 
 which they were bound to renounce, on the peril of their salvation ; 
 and that then, on having renounced it, upon undergoing a voluntary 
 penance, directed by some ecclesiastical authority, they might be as- 
 sured of an absolution, and full restoration to the bosom of the church. 
 Thus far it was believed that the spiritual power might proceed. But 
 then, there were frequently those who were much more confident in 
 the truth of their opinions than in the infallibility of the Pope, or their 
 priestly advisers ; and such persons, on their opinions being adjudged 
 heretical, were, after all suitable admonition, condemned as incorrigi- 
 ble heretics, and excommunicated. 
 
 Yet this was not an extirpation of the heresy ; and the Roman 
 Church held that she had a divine right to extirpate heresy ; and yet 
 she also adopted the maxim, Ecclesia abhorret a sanguine — the church 
 abhors blood. The holy church then could not take the life of the 
 heretic ; and, therefore, she contrived to shift off this odious office 
 upon the secular authority, by imposing an oath upon the princes of 
 Europe, generally, to sustain the Catholic faith, and to extirpate heresy 
 out of the land. It was thus that it fell to the lot of the kings of 
 Europe, and their subordinates, to become the executioners of the 
 Church of Rome. And when the Reformation was established over 
 a part of Europe, national churches took the place of the Roman 
 Church, and laws were passed to enforce uniformity ; and thus, even 
 in Protestant countries, the ungrateful task of punishing non-conform- 
 ity and heresy fell on the civil magistrate. 
 
 It was by such craft that the power to punish for matters of con- 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 277 
 
 science came to be established, both in Roman Catholic and Protestant 
 countries, and that in both, the odious office of inflicting the punish- 
 ment fell on the secular authorities. 
 
 But though the subjects of the Roman Church may have tacitly 
 conceded to the Pope his claim to infallibility, and have submitted to 
 an authority in the civil magistrate thus usurped over conscience and 
 reason, yet it is not hence to be inferred that the inborn consciousness 
 of soul-liberty — of the title of reason to be free — became, thereupon, 
 utterly extinguished and lost. Indeed, long before the Reformation — 
 long before the time of Luther — there were great numbers in Europe 
 who had themselves acquired some knowledge of the Scriptures, and 
 had, consequently, adopted opinions quite inconsistent with the doc- 
 trines and traditions of the Church of Rome ; and they appeared to 
 be opinions in which they had abundantly more confidence than in the 
 infallibility of the Pope. Now when these people came to be con- 
 demned as heretics, and consigned to the secular authorities, to undergo 
 the sentence and punishment of death, can any one suppose that the 
 appearance of the civil magistrate deceived them into the belief that 
 they had indeed committed a crime 1 Can any one doubt that they 
 questioned his right — as they had questioned the infallibility of the 
 Pope — to come in with the sentence of death between their consciences 
 and their God, for a matter of faith in which their eternal hopes were 
 grounded ? Indeed, their deaths were the strongest possible protest 
 against the legitimacy of the power ; since no one can be supposed to 
 adhere to an opinion as right, for which the magistrate may rightfully 
 put him to death. The actual denial of the right of the civil power 
 to interfere in matters of conscience, must, therefore, be coeval with 
 the assumption of the authority. 
 
 But men sometimes act on a truth wliich they feel, though they do 
 not clearly express it in words ; and how was this denial of the claims 
 of the secular authority put forth in language, and taught as a doc- 
 trine 7 History is not silent on this point. By a mere glance at its 
 pages, we may follow the progressive development of the inborn idea 
 of the rights of conscience and reason in the express denial of the 
 legitimacy of the authority usurped over both, from the earliest dawn 
 to the broad day of the Reformation. Time will not permit me to 
 dwell on this point. I am now hastening to the political manifesta- 
 tions of this idea, and I can do little more than say, that its protesta- 
 tions, against the exercise of secular power in the concerns of con- 
 science, may be traced down to their results in the Reformation, more 
 or less distinctly, in the dootrines of the Waldenses and Albigenses. 
 
278 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 These were names designating persons of a great variety of opinions, 
 on minor points, and by which dissenters from the Roman Church 
 were generally distinguished, long before the appearance of Luther. 
 The doctrines of these dissenters, when first noticed, strongly resem- 
 bled those of the primitive Christians. I cannot enumerate them ; 
 but, like the first settlers of this State, they seem to have regarded 
 '• Christ as king in his own kingdom ;" and, by separating the church 
 from the world, and by repudiating the Roman Church on account of 
 its assumption of secular authority, they manifestly denied the right 
 of the civil magistrate to interfere in the concerns of conscience. 
 These people were early found in the valleys of Piedmont, and, at a 
 later period, in the south of France. A crusade was, however, insti- 
 tuted against them by Innocent III., and they were driven from their 
 homes, with conflagration and slaughter, into almost every European 
 kingdom. Rome thus undesignedly scattered the seeds of the Refor- 
 mation broadcast over Europe, and with them, those principles and 
 doctrines which expressly separated the church from the secular power. 
 
 The doctrines of the Waldenses had been widely diffused at the 
 dawn of the Reformation, and when Luther appeared, the number of 
 dissenters from the Roman Church, who had adopted these, or doc- 
 trines similar to these, were great in every country in Europe, but 
 particularly in Grerman}^ Europe was, in fact, thus made ripe for an 
 insurrection in favor of soul-liberty against soul-oppression, in every 
 form, and particularly against that despotism which the church 
 asserted, and which it maintained in the last resort, by the agency of 
 the secular power, over the reason and the consciences of its subjects. 
 And, indeed, the Reformation was nothing less than an effort made by 
 this reason for its own emancipation. 
 
 But to break down its prison walls was not to build its own house ; 
 to emancipate itself, was not to secure and establish its own freedom ; 
 and, therefore, in the very effort which it made for its emancipation, 
 it necessarily kept this end in view — namely, the ultimate establish- 
 ment of its own proper asylum, its own free home — so fortified, as to 
 secure it against every attempt to enslave it. Let me endeavor to 
 give this idea a more philosophical expression. This reason exists in 
 humanity, only in and through the individual mind. Now, nothing 
 could secure and establish its freedom but tlie realization of the indi- 
 vidual mind itself— free as its Creator had made it — hi a congenial, 
 social mind, standing out, fully developed and expressed, in corres- 
 •pondently free political institutions. This was the idea — this was 
 the then deeply-involved coflceptiott, to which the general mind of 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 279 
 
 Protestant Europe gravitated, unconsciously, but of its own law, as to 
 a common centre. I say unconsciously ; but it had its vague and 
 indeterminate aspirations and hopes. It ever had its object dimly 
 and indistinctly before it, though receding at every approach. It 
 was this idea which, for generations, shook Europe to its centre ; it 
 was this idea which, when the spiritual domination of Kome was over- 
 thrown, and Protestant Europe stood forth in renovated institutions, 
 still haunted the minds of our English ancestry, as a great conception 
 which had not been, but might yet be, realized ; it was this idea 
 which brought them " from the mother nation in the bishops' days," 
 and finally, "from the New England over zealous colonies," here, to 
 the forest-shaded banks of the Mooshausick, where they, at last, fully 
 realized it, in the social order and government of a State. 
 
 It may not be inappropriate to trace this idea, through the several 
 stages of its progress, to its realization here. It will, at least, give us 
 confidence in that which may follow, and will, I flatter myself, show 
 that we are not dealing with a phantom of the imagination, but with 
 a sober historical reality. 
 
 When the several Protestant governments of Europe had thrown 
 off the spiritual dominion of the Pope, great was the expectation of 
 their subjects that the individual mind would be no longer held in 
 spiritual bondage. This expectation, however, was destined to a con- 
 siderable disappointment. These governments had indeed thrown off 
 the dominion of the Pope, but they substituted, in the place of it, a 
 dominion of their own. Each established its own national church — - 
 Lutheran, Calvinistic,or Episcopal. The king, or head of the nation, 
 became the head of the established order; and laws were enacted, or 
 ordinances promulgated, to enforce uniformity and punish heretics. 
 It is evident, however, that there had been a progress toward the reali- 
 zation of the idea which had caused the Reformation. In Continen- 
 tal Europe,, the Lutheran and the Calvinist, under their respective 
 Church and State governments, were in the full enjoyment of that 
 soul-liberty which would have been denied to them by the Pope. 
 Each of their minds found its place in a congenial social mind : their 
 idea of soul-liberty was realized. But how was it with those who 
 could not conform to the established church? They were obnoxious 
 to the laws ; they were disfranchised, or punished for non-conformity, 
 or heresy. That soul-liberty, for which they had struggled and suf- 
 fered so much, during the trials of the Reformation, had not been 
 realized; and they were, in respect to conscience, out of legal protec- 
 tion,, and, objects of persecution- Aii4 t^^is was particularly the case 
 
280 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 in England, the father-land of our ancestors. The Reformation had 
 there been commenced, not "by the people — not by a Luther and his 
 associates — hut by the government itself, and for the interest and the 
 purposes of the government. It was commenced in the reign of 
 Henry YIII. ; and, after a sanguinary struggle during the reign of 
 Philip and Mary, was at length recognzied as fully established in the 
 reign of Elizabeth. 
 
 This event terminated, for ever, the spiritual dominion of the Pope 
 in England, and established Episcopacy as an integral part of the mon- 
 archy, with the sovereign at its head. Here, too, was a progress 
 toward the realization of the great idea, but it was a progress made 
 only for the benefit of the Episcopalian ; and, indeed, for his benefit 
 only while he continued to adhere to that particular faith. The mo- 
 ment that reason or conscience carried him beyond the prescribed 
 limits, he fell under the ban of Church and State, as a non-conformist 
 or heretic. Nor did he find himself alone. Many there were, who, 
 from the first establishment of the Church of England, thought that 
 the Reformation had not been carried to a sufficient extent ; and that 
 the soul-liberty, for which they had endured so much, ha<i not been 
 realized. They were comprehended under the general name of Non- 
 conformists, and consisted of those called Brownists, Puritans, Con- 
 gregationalists, Independents, &c. Neither of these denominations 
 felt that their idea of religious liberty had been realized in an Epis- 
 copal Church and State. On the contrary, they felt that how much 
 soever of liberty there might be for the Episcopalian, there was but 
 little for them. A part of those called Puritans, formed themselves 
 into associations or churches, crossed the Atlantic, and established 
 themselves at Plymouth, Salem, and Boston, and became the first set- 
 tlers of New England. 
 
 They sought these shores, to establish here, far from English bish- 
 ops and their tyranny over reason and conscience, religious liberty for 
 themselves and their posterity. This, at first, certainly seems to 
 promise the final accomplishment of the great object of the Reforma- 
 tion — even the entire emancipation of the individual mind from spir- 
 itual thraldom, and the establishment of its freedom in the bosom of 
 a congenial community. But, in fact, it proved to be only another 
 step toward that end. "What they meant by religious freedom was 
 not the freedom of the individual mind from the domination of the 
 spiritual order, but merely the freedom of their particular church ; 
 and just as the English government had thrown ofi" the tyranny of 
 the Pope, to establish the tyranny of the bishops, they threw ofi" the 
 
I 
 
 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 281 
 
 tyranny of the bishops, to establish the tyranny of the brethren. 
 But still, a small community, under the rule of brethren, is nearer to 
 an individual than a nation under a monarch ; and the establishment 
 here of these churches or religious associations, even under their eccle- 
 siastical and civil forms, proved to be a great approximation toward the 
 realization of the full freedom of the individual mind in congenial social 
 institutions. True, they established nothing but the liberty of Church 
 and State corporations, and of their respective members ; but it was 
 easier to break from the restraints imposed by a petty community, 
 than from those imposed by the government and people of England, 
 especially when the daring adventurer had the wilderness before him. 
 And the form which these religious associations took was particularly 
 exposed to the liability of provoking disaffection, even among them- 
 selves. 
 
 Their Church and State governments were essentially the same 
 institution, under different names. The spiritual power was brought 
 down to earth, and into all the relations of private and public life. 
 It appeared in their laws — their judicial proceedings — in the admin- 
 istration of the government, and in all the movements of the State. 
 Nothing of importance was done without the advice of the minister 
 and ruling elders ; and we may well suppose that, under such a form 
 of government, politics and religion were identical. It was designed 
 to make men religious according to law, and there could not be two 
 parties in the State, without there being also two parties in the 
 Church ; and to question the authority of either, was to provoke the 
 resentment of both. The brethren were, indeed, free as long as they 
 were brethren ; but reason was, at that time, moving on to its eman- 
 cipation, and it could dilate on nothing which did not bring it, 
 directly or indirectly, into conflict with the church. It, therefore, 
 soon happened, and particularly in Massachusetts, that numbers of 
 the brethren, of diverse minds in matters of faith, lost their place in 
 the church, were cast out, and exposed to the penal inflictions of the 
 civil authorities. 
 
 Among the earliest, if not the very earliest, of these, was Roger 
 Williams, the founder of this State. He had sought New Eng- 
 land (A. D. 1631) in the expectation that he might here enjoy that 
 religious liberty which was denied him in the mother country. He 
 was a minister of the gospel. He at first preached in Plymouth, and 
 afterwards became a minister of the church at Salem. He freely 
 expressed his opinion on various subjects. He affirmed that the king's 
 patent could not, of itself, give a just title to the lands of the Indian.^. 
 
 36 
 
282 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 He maintained that the civil magistrate had no right to interfere in 
 matters of conscience, and to punish for heresy or apostacy. He 
 contended that " the people were the origin of all free power in gov- 
 ernment," but that "they were not invested by Christ Jesus with 
 power to rule in his church ;" that they could give no such power to 
 the magistrate, and that to " introduce the civil sword " into this 
 spiritual kingdom, was " to confound heaven and earth, and lay all 
 upon heaps of confusion." In eflfect, he called upon the church to 
 come out from the magistracy, and the magistracy to come out from 
 the church ; and demanded that each should act within its appropri- 
 ate sphere, and by its appropriate means. It was then, for the first 
 time, that the startling thought of a complete separation of Church 
 and State was uttered on these western shores ; and it was then, also, 
 for the first time, that the individual mind, free in the sovereign attri- 
 butes of reason, stood forth before the Massachusetts authorities, and 
 boldly claimed its emancipation, in the realization of its own true 
 idea of government. 
 
 Such a mind was manifestly too large for the sphere of a Church 
 and State combination. It had already broken from its bondage, and 
 now stood out, independent, individual, and alone. Roger Williams 
 was necessarily banished by the Massachusetts authorities. He was 
 sentenced to depart from their jurisdiction within six weeks. But 
 he went about, " to draw others to his opinion," and he proposed " to 
 erect a plantation about the Narraganset bay." The rumor of this 
 reached the ears of the magistracy ; and, to defeat his intent, which 
 had for them a most alarming significance, they proposed to send him 
 to England, by a ship then lying in the harbor of Boston. He eluded 
 their quest ; plunged into the forest-wilderness ; and, after spending 
 the winter among its savage, but hospitable, inhabitants, attempted to 
 form a plantation at Seekonk ; but, defeated in this, came at last into 
 the valley of the Mooshausick, and here, with a small number of asso- 
 ciates, of like aspirations, realized that idea of government, in its first 
 form, which had so long allured, but still evaded, the pursuit of 
 nations and men. 
 
 We have thus traced this idea of government, from the first indis- 
 tinct expressions of itself in the doctrines of the Waldenses, through 
 the struggles of that revolution known as the Protestant Reformation ; 
 we have next noticed the imperfect realizations of itself, in the Church 
 and State governments of Europe ; we have then seen it cross the 
 Atlantic, in the form of small religious associations, to be again repro- 
 duced, imperfectly, in a combination of ecclesiastical and civil institu- 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 283 
 
 tions ; but wo have now seen it, impersonated in tlie individual man, 
 breaking from these restraints, and going forth into the wilderness 
 there to establish itself in an infant community, as the last result of 
 centuries of effort. 
 
 We start, then, with this important fact, well worthy of being for 
 ever fixed in every Rhode Island mind, namely : that it was here that 
 the great idea^ which constituted the very soul of that religious move- 
 ment which so long agitated all Europe, first took an orgmiicform in 
 a civil community, and expressed itself in a social compact. 
 
 Let us for a moment attend to the words of that compact ; let us 
 hearken to this, its first free expression of itself We ought not to 
 expect it to announce itself in the clear, strong tones of manhood ; for 
 it can speak, at first, only through an infant organization ; it will only 
 make known its advent into the material world, by lisping its earliest 
 wants ; but then, it will lisp them so clearly and distinctly, as to leave 
 nothing to be misunderstood. 
 
 " We, whose names are hereunder, desirous to inhabit the town of 
 Providence, do promise to subject ourselves, in active and passive obe- 
 dience, to all such orders or agreements as shall be made for public 
 good of the body, in an orderly ivay^ by the major assent of the 
 present inhabitants, masters of families, incorporated together into a 
 town-fellowship, and such as they shall admit unto them, only in civil 
 things.^'' * 
 
 Here the great idea resolves itself, manifestly, into two elements — 
 Liberty and Law — the one, necessarily implied ; and the other, clearly 
 and determinately expressed. Liberty, soul-liberty, they take from no 
 earthly power or being. It is the gift of Grod, in that reason which is 
 within them, as His law, and which human authority can neither right- 
 fully enlarge or diminish. In this, its exalted and exalting element, 
 the reason is left to deal freely, and according to its own method, with 
 the Divine, the Eternal, the Infinite, the Absolute, and all that pertains 
 thereto, without let or hindrance. But in the region beneath, in this 
 oiieum and tuum world, the proper sphere of the common-sense under- 
 standing of mankind — ^where man may jostle man, where each may 
 claim to occupy the same space, to possess the same thing, to do the 
 same act — they each joyfully accept law at the hands of their fellows, 
 cautiously requiring that it should be 07ily in these their civil things. 
 
 * In this compact, we have a g-overnment founded on the relations of domestic 
 life — a Patriarchal Republic, ruled by the " masters of families.'' What Bill of 
 Rig-hts ever so effectually secured soul-liberty as this single phrase, " only in civil 
 things 1 " 
 
284 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 We have now this idea, with its two elements, as it first manifested 
 itself in the infant community of Providence ; but it was destined to 
 extend thence, and organize itself in several towns. And, indeed, fully 
 to try its capacity for government, it should take form in a population 
 of a great variety of religious creeds, and exhibit itself in a diversity of 
 human elements — elements antagonistical, and, in some respects, even 
 irreconeileable ; for if they be perfectly homogeneous, such as Church 
 and State require, they cannot give this idea the slightest development. 
 Now, in point of fact, what were these elements ? 
 
 Why, they were made up of men and women, of a diversity of creeds, 
 who, flying from the soul-oppression of the governments of Europe, and 
 the neighboring colonies, came hither to enjoy soul-liberty. Shortly 
 following the settlement of Providence, the town of Portsmouth and 
 the town of Newport were formed, and the settlement of Warwick was 
 commenced, each with the same object, namely : the enjoyment of soul- 
 liberty, in security from the soul-oppressors of Massachusetts and other 
 colonies. In proof of this diversity of faith, we might cite Dr. Mather, 
 if he could be considered trustworthy authority for that purpose. He 
 represents us to be, at this period, " a coUuvies of Antinomians, Pa- 
 milists. Anabaptists, Anti-Sabbatarians, Arminians, Socinians, Quakers, 
 and Ranters ; every thing in the world but Roman Catholics and real 
 Christians ; so that if a man," continues he, " had lost his religion, he 
 might find it at this general muster of opinionists." Well, the Rhode 
 Island idea may readily accept all the diversity which the Doctor has 
 given it ; for it knows how to organize it, and subject it to order and 
 law. But we must lay the venerable Doctor aside ; he lovingly deals 
 too freely with unrealities and monstrosities of all sorts, to be reliable 
 authority in spiritualities of any kind. Of what, then, did this diver- 
 sity mainly consist ? 
 
 Why, here were the plain matter-of-fact Baptists, ever the unyielding 
 lovers of religious freedom — ever the repellers of State interference in 
 the concerns of conscience — tracing their genealogy back through the 
 Waldenses, even to the great original Baptist, John. Here, chiefly at 
 Newport, were the familistical Antinomians — so called by their perse- 
 cutors — the highly-gifted Ann Hutchinson for a season at their head, 
 confiding in the revelations of the indwelling spirit, and a covenant 
 of free grace. Here, too, chiefly at Warwick, was the mystical Gor- 
 tonist, dimly symbolizing his doctrines in cloudy allegory. Here also 
 was the Fifth Monarchy man, preparing for the Second Advent, and 
 the New Reign on earth. Here, every where, was the Quaker — a 
 quiet, demure, peace-loving non-resistant, in the world of the flesh ; 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 285 
 
 but who, on taking fire in the silence of his meditations, became in- 
 domitable in the world of spirit, and gave the unresisting flesh, freely 
 to bondage and death, in vindication of his faith. And here also it 
 is true, were free-thinkers of all sorts ; some who had opinions, and 
 some who had none. Surely, even before other denominations had 
 established themselves within our borders, here were elements of diver- 
 sity, all-sufficient to try the capacity of the Rhode Island idea of gov- 
 ernment. 
 
 Amid such variety of mind, there was little danger that men would 
 melt down into one homogeneous mass — a result to which a Church 
 and State combination ever tends — and lose their moral and intellect- 
 ual individualities. Such variety of mind could not fail to be active, 
 and to beget action, and to promote and preserve original distinctiveness 
 of character, in all its diversity. And such, we find, was the fact. I will 
 endeavor to delineate the characters of a few of the leading minds of 
 the colony, at this time, that we may form some faint conception of the 
 orginality and diversity of character which marked those who consti- 
 tuted the undistinguished numbers that they led. 
 
 Roger Williams and William Harris were the heads of two distinct 
 political parties in Providence. Two marked and prominent traits of 
 intellect gave a strong and decisive outline to the character of Wil- 
 liams, namely, originality of conception in design, and unyielding 
 perseverance in execution. These, every noted fact of his life clearly 
 indicate and prove. He could assert the right of the natives to the 
 soil that contained the bones of their ancestors, and maintain it 
 against the patent of England's sovereign, though he roused the 
 wrath of a whole community against him. He could conceive a new 
 idea of government, and contend for it against church and court, with 
 the penalty of banishment or death before him. He could be " sorely 
 tossed for fourteen weeks in a bitter cold winter season, not knowing 
 what bed or bread did mean," rather than renounce this new idea. 
 He could seat himself down amid savage nations — study their lan- 
 guage, sooth their ferocious dispositions, make them his friends — that 
 he might actualize, in humanity, his yet untried conception. He could 
 write tracts in defence of this peculiar conception, while engaged at 
 the hoe and oar, toiling for bread — ^while attending Parliament, in a 
 variety of rooms and places — and sometimes in the field, and in the 
 midst of travel. He could, at the age of three score and ten, row 
 thirty miles in one day, that he might engage in a three days' discus- 
 sion with G-eorge Fox, on some knotty points of divinity. He was, 
 indeed, a man of the most unyielding firmness in support of his opin- 
 
286 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 ions ; but no one can say that lie ever suffered his firmness to degen- 
 erate into obstinacy. Whatever his doctrines were, he was sure to 
 practice upon them to the utmost extent ; and if further reflection, or 
 that practice, showed that they were erroneous, he cheerfully aban- 
 doned them. He was, indeed, a remarkable man, and one of the most 
 original characters of an age distinguished for originality of conception. 
 
 Harris was a man of ardent temperament, of strong intellectual 
 powers — bold, energetic, ever active, and ever persevering to the end, 
 in whatever cause he undertook. Nature seems to have supplied the 
 deficiencies of his early education. Without having made the law a 
 study, he became the advocate of the Pawtuxet purchasers, in their 
 suit against the towns of Providence, Warwick, and others ; and of 
 Connecticut, in her claims against Khode Island to the Narraganset 
 country. He was rather fitted for the practical than the speculative ; 
 for the sphere of the senses than for the sphere of the ideal. He 
 could not, like Williams, contemplate both spheres at the same time, 
 in their mutual relations ; and the consequence was, that the moment 
 he passed into the ideal, he became a radical, and was brought at 
 once into violent collision with Williams. Basing his theories, for a 
 time at least, on conscience, he contended that any person who could 
 conscientiously say that he ought not to submit to any human author- 
 ty, should be exempt from all law. He asserted and defended this 
 position in a book ; yet he was by no means a non-resistant himself. 
 When he obtained political power, he wielded it with such effect 
 against his adversaries, that they called him the Fire-brand. Like 
 most men of genius, or eccentricity, who lead an active life, he has a 
 touch of romance in his history. He had several times, in the prose- 
 cution of the complicated controversies in which he was engaged, 
 crossed the Atlantic to the mother country. Upon the eve of em- 
 barking on his last voyage, as if seized with a presentiment of his 
 destiny, he made his will, and had it forthwith proved before the 
 proper authorities. He then left port for England ; but, on the voy- 
 age, he was taken by a Barbary corsair, carried into Algiers, was 
 there sold into bondage, and detained, as a slave, for one year. He 
 was then ransomed ; and, after travelling through Spain and France, 
 he reached London, and there died shortly after his arrival. The 
 mind of Harris was strong — that of Williams comprehensive. 
 
 Samuel Gorton, the chief man of the settlement of Shawomet, (or 
 Warwick,) was a person of the most distinctive originality of charac- 
 ter. He was a man of deep, strong feelings, keenly alive to every 
 injury, though inflicted on the humblest of God's creatures. He was 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 287 
 
 a great lover of soul-liberty, and hater of all shams. He was a learned 
 man, self-educated, studious, contemplative ; a profound thinker who 
 in his spiritual meditations amid ancient Warwick's primeval groves 
 wandered off into infinite and eternal realities, forgetful of earth and 
 of all earthly relations. He did indeed clothe his thoughts, at times 
 in clouds ; but then it was because they were too large for any other 
 garment. No one, who shall rivet his attention upon them, shall fail 
 to catch some glimpse of giant limb and joint, and have some dim 
 conception of the colossal form that is enshrouded within the mystic 
 envelopment. Yet, in common life, no one was more plain, simple, 
 and unaffected than Gorton. That he was courteous, affable, and elo- 
 quent, his very enemies admit, and even grievously complain of his 
 seducing language. He was a man of courage, and when roused to 
 anger, no hero of the Iliad ever breathed language more impassioned 
 or effective. Nothing is more probable than that such a man, in the 
 presence of the Massachusetts magistracy, felt his superiority, and 
 moved and spoke with somewhat more freedom than they deemed 
 suited to their dignity. Far more sinned against than sinning, he 
 bore adversity with heroic fortitude, and, if he did not conquer, he 
 yet finally baffled every effort of his enemies. 
 
 William Coddington and John Clarke, two of the leading charac- 
 ters of the island towns, were both men of well-balanced and well-ed- 
 ucated minds ; less remarkable for originality of thought, than for 
 clear understanding and practical judgments. They constituted a 
 very fortunate equipoise against the eccentricity and enthusiasm of 
 such original geniuses as Williams and Grorton. The former fur- 
 nished the ballast, and the latter the sails of the ship. Each was 
 necessary to the other, and both were indispensable to the whole. 
 
 Coddington, before he left Boston, was one of the chief men of 
 Massachusetts. He was an assistant, re-chosen several times ; treas- 
 urer of the colony, and a principal merchant in Boston. He was 
 grieved at the proceedings of the court against Mr. Wheelwright and 
 others, and came to befriend and assist them on their removal to 
 Newport. He was a common-sense, sober, staid, worthy man. The 
 political difficulty into which he was brought, is as likely to have 
 sprung from his virtues as his failings. He had in him a little too 
 much of the future for Massachusetts, and a little too much of the 
 past for Rhode Island, as she then was. He died governor of Rhode 
 Island, and a member of the Friends' Society. 
 
 Clarke was a man of more active and effective zeal in the cause of 
 civil and religious liberty than Coddington, and was highly competent 
 
288 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 to have charge of its interests in the highest places. He was mainly 
 instrumental in procuring the charter of 1663. Though originally a 
 physician in London, he became pastor of the First Baptist Church 
 in Newport. He was a man of learning, the author of some tracts 
 touching the persecutions in New England, and left, in manuscript, a 
 Concordance and Lexicon—" the fruit of several years' labor." To 
 do full justice to Portsmouth and Newport, it should be added, that 
 their first settlers were, generally, men of more property and better 
 education than those of Providence. But — 
 
 * * * Fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium * 
 ***** Omnia Jupiter Arg-os 
 Transtulit. 
 
 Such were the leading minds of this State, while yet in its rudi- 
 mental condition, awaiting a transition to a more perfect form. And 
 I might now say something of the impress which these characters and 
 their like have manifestly left on their posterity ; but this would be 
 foreign to my present purpose. I have described them as they exist 
 in the conceptions given by history, that we may have some notion of 
 the diversity and originality of the contemporary moral and intellect- 
 ual forces which were brought into action by them. 
 
 Now let us recollect that all this diversity and distinctive original- 
 ity of character was to be found within four little neighborhoods, 
 consisting at first of a few families, and as late as 1663 — the utmost 
 range of my present view — of not more than three or four thousand 
 souls. Upon minds thus diverse, original, enthusiastic, active, and, in 
 some respects, conflicting — each bent upon the enjoyment of the 
 most perfect soul-liberty consistent with a well-ordered community — 
 the Rhode Island idea, subsisting the same in each and all, took 
 form, stood out in a constituted people, lived, breathed, and thought, 
 in an organization of its own. 
 
 When you look for the constitution of this State, in its essential 
 form, go not to compacts subscribed by men ; go not to charters 
 granted by kings ; go not to constitutions given by majorities — they 
 are but faint and imperfect expressions of the great reality ; but go 
 to this grand idea, coming down from the distant past — struggling 
 through the blood and turmoil of warring nations — passing through 
 the fiery ordeal of Church and State persecution ; and here, at last, 
 find it — standing out — realized — incarnated — in its own appropriate 
 and peculiar people. 
 
 This idea, thus realized, consisted, as already stated, of two ele- 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 289 
 
 ments — ^liberty and law— the pure reason above, and the common- 
 sense understanding beneath. There is no necessary conflict between 
 these two elements ; on the contrary, each is necessary to the proper 
 existence of the other. Yet we shall find, as we follow the internal 
 development of the idea, that these two elements frequently encoun- 
 ter, and sharply contend for victory. The idea being thus given, 
 every new occasion will call for a new application, which will infallibly 
 bring these elements into action And now let us follow it in some 
 of its manifestations here in Providence, then a small village on the 
 banks of the Mooshausick. 
 
 Would that it were in my power, by a mesmeric wave of the hand, 
 to bring Providence before you as she then was. You would see the 
 natural Mooshausick, freely rolling beneath his primeval shades, unob- 
 structed by bridge, unfringed by wharf, or made land, still laving his 
 native marge, here expanding in the ample cove — there winding and 
 glimmering round point and headland, and, joyous in his native free- 
 dom, passing onward, till lost in the bosom of the broad spreading 
 Narraganset. You would see, beneath the forest of branching oak 
 and beech, interspersed with dark arching cedars and tapering pines, 
 infant Providence, in a village of scattered log huts. You would see 
 each little hut overlooking its own natural lawn, by the side of foun- 
 tain or stream, with its first rude enclosure of waving corn ; you would 
 see the stanch-limbed draught-horse grazing the forest glade : you 
 would hear the tinkling of the cow-bell in the thicket, and the bleat- 
 ing of flocks on the hill. You would see the plain, home-spun human 
 inhabitants — not such as tailors and milliners make, but such as G-od 
 made — real men and women, with the bloom of healtli on their 
 cheeks, and its elasticity and vigor in every joint and limb. Somewhat 
 of an Acadian scene this — yet it is not, in reality, precisely what it 
 seems. A new occasion has arisen in this little community, which 
 requires a new application of their idea of the State. 
 
 Oddly enough — or, rather, naturally enough — this occasion hag 
 arisen out of the most interesting of domestic relations. Joshua 
 Verin, that rude, old-fashioned man, with jiis Church and State idea 
 still clinging to him, has been putting restraints upon the conscience 
 of his wife. Yes, she is desirous of attending Mr. Williams' meet- 
 ings, "as often as called for," and hearing his Anabaptistical dis- 
 courses ; and her husband has said, " she shall not ;" and the conse- 
 quence is, that the whole community is in a buzz — the fundamental 
 idea has been infringed. A town meeting is called on the subject, 
 and a warm debate ensues ; for Verin has his friends, as well as his 
 
 37 
 
290 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 wife. The proposition is, that " Joshua Yerin, for breach of covenant 
 in restraining liberty of conscience, be withheld the liberty of voting^ 
 till he declare the contrary." " And there stood up," says Winthrop, 
 '• one Arnold, a witty man of their company, and withstood it, telling 
 them that when he consented to that covenant, he never intended it 
 should extend to the breach of any ordinance of God, such as the 
 subjection of wives to their husbands, &c.; and gave divers solid rea- 
 sons against it. Then one Greene, he replied, that if they should 
 restrain their wives, all the women in the country would cry out upon 
 them. Arnold answered thus : ' Did you pretend to leave the Massa- 
 chusetts because you would not offend God to please men^ and would 
 you now break an ordinance and commandment of God to please 
 
 tfomen 
 
 pj J) 
 
 Winthrop, naturally enough, gives the best of the argu- 
 ment to Arnold ; but he may not be fairly entitled to it. 
 
 It is the earliest record of a struggle in this State between new- 
 born liberty and ancient law. If the facts were, that Mrs. Yerin, 
 after faithfully discharging all her duties as a wife and mother, felt 
 herself in conscience bound to attend Mr. Williams' meetings, and 
 her husband restrained her, it was just such a restraint on conscience 
 as was inconsistent with the new idea of government ; and the ques- 
 tion, on this supposition, was correctly decided. Liberty won the 
 victory ; and Joshua Yerin, for a breach of covenant in restraining 
 liberty of conscience, was properly withheld the liberty of voting, till 
 he declared the contrary. 
 
 But there was another occasion for the application of the funda- 
 mental idea, not more important in principle, but far more serious in 
 its consequences. It arose from an attempt of Liberty to come down 
 upon earth, and realize herself entire, to the complete overthrow and 
 destruction of all law and order. It was an idea given by pure rea- 
 son — an idea subsisting only by relation to the Universal, the Abso- 
 lute, the Infinite, the Divine — that sought to come down into a special 
 form of humanity, and supplant the plain common-sense understand- 
 ing of mankind. It was one of those ideas which propose to nav- 
 igate the ship by plain sailing, over an ocean vexed with winds, and 
 waves, and varying currents, and perilous with islands, and banks, 
 and ledges, and rocks, where nothing but traverse sailing, aided by 
 the chart, will do. It has been the fortune of Rhode Island, from 
 her infancy to the present hour, to balance herself between liberty 
 and law — to wage war, as occasion might require, with this class of 
 ideas, and keep them within their appropriate bounds. And before 
 certain other States — some of them not fairly out of their cradles — 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 291 
 
 undertake to give her lessons of duty in relation to such ideas, let me 
 tell them that they must have something of Ehode Island's experi- 
 ence, and have, like her, been self-governed for centuries. 
 
 William Harris, as already stated, published and sent to the several 
 towns of the colony, a book, in which he maintained that he who 
 could say in his conscience that he could not submit to any human 
 legislation, ought to be exempt from the operation of all human laws-. 
 You will perceive that he bases this proposition upon the liberty ele- 
 ment of the fundamental idea — that he would transmute the relation 
 which subsists between the secret conscience and God, and with whicli 
 no human law should interfere, into the relations between man and 
 man, citizen and State, and thereby dissolve the government, establish 
 the sovereignty of each individual, and terminate all law. 
 
 We may well suppose that on such a proposition being announced — 
 and announced in such a manner — ^by a man so considerable as Harris, 
 the excitement in this little community was violent. The very exist- 
 ence of the fundamental idea was threatened, and the art with 
 which the popular element was supported by free quotations from 
 Scripture excited no little alarm. Williams harnessed himself for 
 the contest, and came forth in vindication of his idea. He made the 
 distinction between the absolute liberty of conscience and the civil 
 government clear, by a happy illustration. The crew of a ship might 
 consist of all varieties of creed, and each individual worship God in 
 his own way ; but when called upon to do their duty in navigating the 
 ship, they must all obey the commands of the master. Againts his or- 
 ders, given to that end, they must set up no pretence of soul-liberty — 
 no affected conscientious scruples — do their duty they must, each as 
 one of the crew enlisted for the voyage, on peril of suffering the pen- 
 alties of mutiny. And he accordingly indicted Harris for high trea- 
 son. The indictment, however, was not prosecuted to effect. Harris 
 gave bonds for his good behavior, and a copy of the charge and accom- 
 panying papers were sent to England ; thus ended the indictment, but 
 not the consequences of the discussion. 
 
 The principles of the government had, indeed, become better under- 
 stood ; the limits of liberty, and the limits of authority, were doubtless 
 more clearly fixed ; but the feuds which the agitation generated did 
 not stop here. Two parties were created by the controversy ; and, 
 passing from questions of liberty, to questions of law, touching the 
 limits of the town, they used against each other whatever weapons 
 they were able to command, and carried on their hostilities for twelves 
 or thirteen years. The town was disorganized in the strife. Two 
 
292 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 sets of municipal officers were chosen, and two sets of deputies were 
 sent to the G-eneral Assembly ; nor were the dissentions composed 
 until the Legislature, by a special act, appointed commissioners, whose 
 iiltimate determinations appear to have restored the old order of 
 things. 
 
 Such were the developments which the new idea of government 
 received here in this town, in the infancy of the State. The first, 
 bearing on the relations of domestic life, and the second on the rela- 
 tions of citizens to each other and to the State. But we are now to 
 consider it in its applications to municipalities — to distinct corpora- 
 tions ; and to show how it developed itself when it gave law to a num- 
 ber of independent communities and resolved them into unity and 
 organic form. 
 
 A free and absolute charter of civil incorporation for the inhabit- 
 ants of the towns of Providence, Portsmouth, and Newport, to be 
 known by the name of the Incorporation of Providence Plantations in 
 Narraganset Bay in New England, was brought by Eoger Williams 
 from England, in 1644 ; but, owing to the claims of Massachusetts, or 
 other obstruction, it did not go into effect until May, 1647. This 
 charter granted the most ample power to the said inhabitants and such 
 others as should afterwards inhabit within the prescribed limits, to 
 establish such a form of civil government as by voluntary consent of 
 all or the greater part of them should be found most suitable in their 
 estates and conditions j and to that end to make and ordain such civil 
 laws and constitutions, and to inflict such punishments upon trans- 
 gressors, and for the execution thereof so to place and displace officers 
 of justice, as they or the greater part should by free consent agree 
 unto. I omit the proviso, as of no account here. Under this charter 
 guarantee of the mother country, the Rhode Island idea of government 
 was called upon to organize itself with the most perfect freedom, on 
 the four distinct and independent municipalities — Providence, Ports- 
 mouth, Newport, and Warwick. And in what manner do you suppose 
 it did develope itself on these distinct and independent bodies politic 1 
 Why, it developed itself in a manner the most natural, if not the most 
 effective. It organized for itself a general form of government which, 
 if not precisely, was at least strongly, analogous to the organization of 
 these United States, under their present Constitution. I will give 
 you a brief abstract of their form of government, from the " Annals 
 of Providence" — a magazine of facts, from which I take the liberty to 
 draw copiously. 
 
 The whole people, forming the G-eneral Assembly, met annually, for 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 293 
 
 the enactment of general laws, and for the choice of general officers • 
 
 as President — an assistant for each town, nominated by the town 
 
 General Recorder, &c. A general code of laws, which concerned all 
 men, was first approved by the towns, (as the States adopted the Con- 
 stitution, and still adopt amendments,) but before it could go into 
 eifect, it was ratified by the General Assembly of the whole people. 
 All legislative power was ultimately in the whole people, in General 
 Assembly convened. Towns might propose laws, (as States amend- 
 ments to the Constitution.) and the approval of a General Court of 
 Commissioners might give them a temporary force ; but it was only 
 the action of the General Assembly (the General Government) which 
 could make them general and permanent for all persons within the 
 colony. But the towns had their local laws, (as the States have theirs,) 
 which could not be enforced beyond their own limits ; and they had 
 their town courts, (as the States have State courts.) which had exclu- 
 sive original jurisdiction over all causes between their own citizens. 
 The President and Assistants composed the General Court of trials. 
 They had jurisdiction over all aggravated ofi"ences, and in such matters 
 as should be referred to them by the town courts as too weighty for 
 them to determine ; and also of all disputes between different towns ^ 
 and between citizens of differetvt towns and strangers. " It is appa- 
 rent," continues the same authority, " that the towns, as such, parted 
 with no more power than they deemed the exigency of the case required. 
 They can scarcely be said to have consented to any thing more than 
 a confederation of independent governments. If they intended a 
 complete consolidation of powers, their acts fall far short of it. He 
 who carefully peruses the whole proceedings of the original assembly 
 of towns of this infant colony, will be struck with the resemblance 
 there is between those towns, after that assembly had closed its labors, 
 and the several States now composing the United States of America, 
 under the Constitution," Yes, it is true, that at this early period, 
 whilst Rhode Island was yet in her rudiments, this her idea of liberty 
 and law, took form in an organization that already foreshadowed the 
 Constitution of this Union, and foreshowed its practicability. 
 
 But do I say that the framers of the Constitution of the United 
 States found their model here 1 No ; but this I do say, that when 
 the several States of the old confederation, following our lead, had 
 gradually abandoned their Church and State combinations, and adop- 
 ted the Rhode Island idea of government, that then this idea thus 
 given her, did but repeat itself in its most natural and efl^ective form 
 in the Constitution of the United States, and the organization of the 
 
294 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 Union. Conceive, if you can — I will not say the practicability — but 
 the possibility, of the Constitution of this Union without that idea of 
 government which Rhode Island was the first to adopt, and, against 
 fearful odds, through long years of trial and tribulation, to maintain. 
 Conceive, if you can, thirteen distinct and diverse Church and State 
 governments taking form under one common Church and State gov- 
 ernment — and if you cannot, then do not deem that assertion extrava- 
 gant which declares that without lihode Island's idea of liberty and 
 law, this Union would have been impossible. True, others might have 
 adopted it, had there been no Rhode Island. So others might have 
 given us the theory of gravitation, had there been no Newton ; yet 
 the fame and the glory of the discovery, nevertheless belongs to him. 
 Let Rhode Island claim her own laurels, and we shall see how many 
 brows will be stripped naked, and how many boastful tongues will be 
 silenced. 
 
 But let us follow this idea in its further developments. I can speak 
 only of the most prominent ; and am under the necessity of speaking 
 of them with all possible brevity. 
 
 The government went on under the charter, all the towns participa- 
 ting, until 1651, when a commission was granted to Coddington, by 
 the Council of State, to govern the island with a council chosen by 
 the people, and approved by himself. This is properly called an 
 obstruction — and an obstruction to the free development of Rhode 
 Island's peculiar idea of government it certainly was. She loved 
 liberty, and she loved law and legal authority ; but here was too much 
 of the latter — it trenched too far on the liberty element. The main- 
 land towns recoiled from it — fell back upon themselves, and, in the 
 midst of intestine broils and dissensions, often fomented by Massa- 
 chusetts, continued their government under the charter. The island 
 towns submitted, but submitted with deep murmurs and invincible 
 repugnance. Roger Williams and John Clarke were immediately 
 dispatched by the several towns of the colony as their agents to Eng- 
 land ; and they soon procured a revocation of Mr. Coddington's 
 commission, who, without reluctance, laid down the extraordinary 
 authority conferred upon him. After some delay, owing to a misun- 
 derstanding between the island and main-land towns, all returned to 
 the old form of government, which continued until the adoption of 
 the charter of 1663. 
 
 In the meantime, Rhode Island, (" the Providence Plantations,") 
 notwithstanding all untoward circumstances, continued to prosper, 
 and her inhabitants to multiply. She was the refuge of the persecuted 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 295 
 
 of all denominations, but particularly of those who suffered from the 
 hands of her New England sisters. She was their shelter — their ark 
 of safety in the storm. Here were no hanging of Quakers or witches — 
 no scourge — no chain — no dungeon for difference of opinion. Still it 
 was not, as yet, a place removed from all apprehension, or even from 
 very great annoyance. It, for a season, seemed but as a raft, formed 
 from the fragments of diverse wrecks, and tied together for temporary 
 security, upon the bosom of a raging deep, and which, but for the 
 utmost care and diligence, might, at any moment, be rent in pieces. 
 
 But the struggles and trials through which Rhode Island passed, 
 with her sister colonies, did but give additional strength to her own 
 love of liberty and law ; and some notice of them belongs as truly to 
 the history of her great idea, as the account which we are giving of 
 its most important developments. In these struggles, whether carried 
 on at the court of the Stuarts, in the camp of Cromwell, or here in 
 these western wilds, it might be shown that she still baffled her adver- 
 saries, and triumphed alike over their diplomacy abroad and their 
 menaces and violence at home. I shall confine my remarks to the 
 latter, and name some few prominent facts. They will afford a mel- 
 ancholy interest, but without, I trust, awakening any unkind feelings 
 between the sisters, as they now are. It will serve to mark the dis- 
 tinctive character of our State, and to confirm her identity. This is 
 an important object to a State of such small territorial extent, and of 
 such a limited and fluctuating population. 
 
 Here, then, was Rhode Island in the midst of three great colonies, 
 Plymouth, Massachusetts, and Connecticut — all bitterly hostile to the 
 heretic — all anxious to rid themselves of her presence, and all regard- 
 ing her as their natural and legitimate prey. And they, accordingly, 
 fell upon her like three wolves upon the same lamb; and had not 
 God been her shepherd, they must have torn her in pieces. Plymouth 
 claimed the island of Rhode Island ; Connecticut, the Narraganset 
 country ; and Massachusetts claimed Providence and Warwick. They 
 would not have left the poor heretics a single rod of ground, on which 
 to rest the soles of their feet, or to bury their dead. Connecticut, 
 repeatedly, asserted her claim to the Narraganset country, appointed 
 ofiicers at Wickford and other places, and often resorted to violence 
 for the enforcement of her laws. Plymouth was ever a more quiet 
 and tolerant colony than either Massachusetts or Connecticut. She, 
 indeed, insisted on her claims to the island of Rhode Island with 
 such earnestness, that Mrs. Hutchinson, a woman of remarkable intel- 
 lectual endowments and the kindest sympathies, apprehensive that she 
 
296 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 might again fall under the jurisdiction of Church and State, fled, 
 with a number of her friends, to Long Island, where they were mas- 
 sacred by the Indians. Plymouth, however, never resorted to force. 
 Her pretence to Shawomet she transferred, or yielded to Massachu- 
 setts, rather than attempt to enforce the claim herself But Massa- 
 chusetts rested not herself, and gave Rhode Island no rest. Her 
 claims to jurisdiction over Providence and "Warwick, on various pre- 
 tences, were unremitted. During the village quarrels in Providence, 
 several of its citizens applied to Massachusetts for protection ; and 
 she induced them, by some writing of theirs, to pretend to put them- 
 selves and their lands nnder her jurisdiction ; and, on this pretence, 
 she actually assumed to exercise her authority, and to enforce her 
 laws, here, in the town of Providence. Thus there were here, in the 
 same municipality, two distinct codes of laws, brought to operate on 
 the same persons and property ; and this state of things was effected, 
 according to Winthrop, with the intent of bringing Rhode Island into 
 subjection, either to Massachusetts or Plymouth. You may easily 
 conceive the confusion into which things were thrown, by this atro- 
 cious interference in the concerns of this little community. Gorton, 
 who was then at Providence, thought that it had a particular significa- 
 tion for him ; and he and a few of his associates left Providence, and 
 settled at Shawomet, afterwards called Warwick. There he pur- 
 chased a tract of land of Miantonomi, the chief warrior sachem of 
 the Narragansets, and built and planted. But Massachusetts did not 
 allow him to escape so. She assumed the claims of Plymouth, and 
 procured from her an assignment or concession of her pretended 
 jurisdiction over Shawomet. After this, two of Miantonomi's under- 
 sachems, of that place, submitted themselves and lands to her juris- 
 diction ; and then three or four of the English inhabitants, who had 
 made purchases of these sachems, imitating the example of a few at 
 Providence, feigned to put themselves and property under her protec- 
 tion. Thus trebly fortified with pretences, Massachusetts entered the 
 settlement ^t Warwick, with an armed force of forty men, accompanied 
 by many of her Indian subjects, seized Gorton and his friends, and 
 carried them prisoners to Boston. There they were tried for blas- 
 phemy, and for " enmity to all civil authority among the people of 
 God, and were sentenced to imprisonment in irons during the pleas- 
 ure of the court — Gorton himself narrowly escaping sentence of 
 death. This imprisonment was continued through the winter, and 
 they were then discharged, on condition, that if after fourteen days 
 they were found within Massachusetts, Providence, or Shawomet, (the 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 297 
 
 place of their homes,) they should suffer death. These proceedings, 
 far from inducing the people of Rhode Island to renounce their idea 
 of liberty and law, did but strengthen their attachment to it. But 
 the government of the entire colony was soon called upon to defend 
 its peculiar principles by direct action. 
 
 During the year 1656, a number of the people called Quakers 
 (more properly Friends) arrived in Boston, and began to preach and 
 practice their doctrines. No experience had yet been sufficient to 
 teach Massachusetts or her confederates the folly of interfering 
 between God and conscience ; and she began to fine, imprison, banish, 
 whip, and hang the Quakers. But these people could find, and did 
 find, a place of refuge in Rhode Island, whence they occasionally 
 issued forth, as the Spirit prompted, into the neighboring colonies, 
 and startled them with revelations from above. Whereupon the 
 commissioners of the united colonies of New England addressed a 
 letter to the president of this place of refuge — the Plantations here — 
 and urged him to send away such Quakers as were then in the colony, 
 and to prohibit them from entering it. With this request our gov- 
 ernment promptly refused to comply, alledging their principle of 
 soul-liberty as the ground of their refusal. And they went even fur- 
 ther — apprehensive that their adversaries might attempt, in England, 
 where this sect was particularly obnoxious, to effect indirectly what 
 they could not directly accomplish here — they charged John Clarke, 
 their agent at Westminster, to have an eye and ear open to their 
 doings and sayings ; and if occasion were, to plead the cause of Rhode 
 Island in such sort, as that they " might not be compelled to exercise 
 any civil power over men's consciences, so long as human orders, in 
 point of civility, were not corrupted and violated." Indeed, the love 
 of their peculiar idea of government seems to have grown with the 
 trials through which it passed, and strengthened with its growth. 
 And what will prove that this love had become one and identical with 
 the spirit of this people, and their peculiar idea dearer than life 
 itself, are the facts to which I will now call your attention. 
 
 The first settlers at Providence and Warwick were, at the com- 
 mencement of their settlements, on the most friendly terms with their 
 Indian neighbors. The Wampanoags, once a powerful people, though 
 now considerably reduced, were on one side, and the Narragansets, who, 
 it is said, could number four or five thousand warriors, were on the other. 
 A formidable array of savage strength, this ! And, indeed, at that time, 
 the red man may be said to have held all Rhode Island's blood in the 
 palm of his hand, the slightest agitation of which would have con- 
 
 38 
 
298 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 signed it to tlie dust. Eoger Williams, sensible of the perils of his 
 position, early " made a league of friendly neighborhood with all the 
 sachems round about." But this league with savages was necessarily 
 very precarious. They were all alike jealous of the Whites ; and if 
 any one provoked a war, it would be, of necessity, an indiscriminate 
 war of extermination — race against race — and Rhode Island would 
 bo the earliest victim. Now the Indians were at war among them- 
 selves ; and the united colonies knew how to play off one hostile body 
 against another to^ their own advantage ; and they appear to have 
 done so with little regard, to say the least, to the critical position of 
 the heretic colony. Indeed, it so happens that its particular Indian 
 friends were the particular objects of their unremitted hostility. 
 Miantonomi, and the Narragansets generally, were (as has been said) 
 on the most friendly terms with Williams and Gorton, Providence 
 and Warwick. They cherished and fostered those infant settlements, 
 as savages best could ; and it was against this chieftain and his peo- 
 ple that the united colonies chose to excite Uncas and his Mohegans. 
 Frequent strifes, and ultimately war and battle and slaughter, were 
 the consequences. Miantonomi was taken prisoner, and Uncas was 
 advised by the united colonies to put him to death. Acting on this 
 advice, Uncas murdered his prisoner. The whole Narraganset people 
 were thereupon deeply agitated — ^hostilities were frequently threat- 
 ened ; nor did the memory of the atrocious deed die out of the Nar- 
 raganset mind, ere the Wampanoags rose in arms, and the whole 
 body of Indians raised the tomahawk against the Whites, without dis- 
 crimination. Now in 1643, previous to the death of Miantonomi, 
 the four New England colonies, Plymouth, Massachusetts, Connecti- 
 cut, and New Haven, formed a confederation for their better security 
 against Indian hostilities. This confederation was, indeed, a castle of 
 safety to them, but not to Rhode Island. She was obliged to stand 
 out exposed to every peril. Between the death of Miantonomi and 
 the outbreak of Philip's war, again and again did the fearful cloud of 
 Indian hostility darken the land, and again and again did Rhode 
 Island apply for admission into this confederation, and was refused. 
 Refused ? No ; not absolutely. If she would renounce her idea of 
 government, and come in under the Church and State combination, 
 then, indeed, they would take her under their protection ; but until 
 she did, she must stand out exposed to all the horrors of Indian war. 
 Rather than accept such conditions, she chose the exposure. She 
 stood out ready to brave the terrors of Indian ferocity — the midnight 
 conflagration, and the indiscriminate butcheries of the tomahawk and 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 299 
 
 scalping knife. Did she not love her idea ? Was it not dearer to 
 her than life 1 Did she not feel it to be one and identical with her- 
 self, and that to renounce it would be to commit treason against the 
 Most High, and to terminate her own existence ? 
 
 By this, her unconquerable love of her own glorious principles, she 
 proved herself worthy of the charter of» 1663. Than that charter, no 
 greater boon was ever conferred by mother country on colony, since 
 time began. No grant ever more completely expressed the idea of a 
 people. It at once guarantied our ancestors soul-liberty and granted 
 a law-making power, limited only by the desire of their Anglo-Saxon 
 minds. It gave them the choice of every officer, from the commander- 
 in-chief down to the humblest official. It gave to the State the pov/er 
 of peace and war. It made her a sovereignty under the protection, 
 rather than the guardianship, of England's sovereign; so that the 
 moment that protection was withdrawn, she stood independent and 
 alone, competent to fight her own battles under her own shield. I 
 shall say nothing more of the powers conferred by this charter ; v/e 
 have too recently put off, and hung on the castle walls, that Vulcanian 
 panoply, still unscathed, glorious and brilliant with nearly two centu- 
 ries wear. We know what it was — G od bless its memory ! 
 
 There are those who are weak enough to think that they degrade the 
 State by calling this charter the grant of a profligate king. The 
 fools ! As well might they think to degrade a man, by declaring that 
 the garment which he wears was made by a profligate tailor. But 
 those who are endowed with this high wisdom, have yet to learn 
 something of the manner in which Divine Providence operates its 
 results in the great humanity, and that even this charter is not the 
 work of mere man. They have yet to learn, that there exists, 
 throughout the grand totality, one presiding and all-pervading Mind, 
 which, ever as occasion requires, brings out one element of humanity 
 in opposition to another, balances excess against excess, and makes 
 the best and the worst, the highest and the lowest, of mortals, equally 
 the unconscious instruments of its great designs, and thus moves man 
 steadily onward, to a higher and higher sphere of duties and rights. 
 Whence comes the tyrant's will, unless it be from himself? But 
 whence come the instinct of self-preservation, and deathless hope and 
 faith, that feeling, which knows no master, for the heroic suff'erer in 
 virtue's cause 1 They are all from the Divine Author of humanity, 
 and dwell alike in the beggar and the king. 
 
 When Charles II. heard the tale of Rhode Island's woes — of the 
 wrongs inflicted upon her by her giant sisters — when he heard of the 
 
300 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 scantiness of her territory, of the smallness of her numbers — of the 
 perils to which they had been exposed, and of those which they must 
 still encounter, in these distant wilds, could he have been accounted 
 subject to the common laws of humanity, had he refused her feeble- 
 ness a single demand ? Was not this Divine Power his master 1 — and 
 did he not-grant the charter because he could not do otherwise than 
 obey it? Yes — save as an instrument, neither Charles, nor Claren- 
 don, nor Howard, nor other noble, gave that charter. On the con- 
 trary, that very law of humanity which gave Rhode Island's idea of 
 government ere Rhode Island was a name, and after passing it from 
 generation to generation, gave it first to take form here in an infant 
 people — that very law now clad it in the panoply of the charter, and 
 bade it suddenly stand out in the midst of New England's colonies, 
 like another Minerva flashed from the head of Jove. 
 
 Well might the surrounding colonies recoil from the splendid vision, 
 and still look on in wonderment at its strange apparition. But be ye 
 not too fearfully astonished, ye simple ones ! There is no witchcraft 
 here. It is but an ordinary prodigy of that " Wonder-working Provi- 
 dence," of which ye have spoken so much, and know so little. John 
 Clarke, our agent at Westminster, has not been dealing with the wicked 
 one — he has simply performed his duty as a part of the organization 
 of the great humanity, and that, operating under the laws of its Divine 
 Author, has accomplished this grand result. 
 
 Here, then, was Rhode Island in the midst of them — after all, some- 
 thing more than the peer of her sisters. Her form has still the con- 
 tour and softness of youth, and something more than a century of 
 growth and discipline must roll away ere the heart of the young sove- 
 reignty shall beat high in the maturity of its vigor, and her bone be- 
 come hardened, and her muscles strong, to execute the purposes of her 
 unconquerable will — and then — she shall march ! — Yes, she shall 
 MARCH ! — and her banner shall stream daringly over Ocean's wave, 
 and be rent in shreds on many a battle-field. 
 
 But there is some one who thinks, or says to himself : " This is ex- 
 travagant language for Rhode Island — a little State." My indulgent 
 hearer, whoever you may be, do you know what that word little means 
 when thus applied to a social power — to an integral part of the grand 
 social and moral organization of the race ? Do you think that the 
 greatness of a State is to be measured by the league or the mile 1 
 Are you really in the habit of estimating moral and intellectual great- 
 ness by the ton and the cord ? Do you weigh ideas in a balance, or 
 measure thoughts by the bushel? If you do, and your method be the 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 301 
 
 true one, you must be decidedly right, and Rhode Island is « a litth 
 State." But if the intellectual and moral be above the material and 
 physical, and if that State be great which actualizes a great central 
 truth or idea — one congenial to the whole nature of man — one that must 
 develope itself in a manner consistent with the order of Divine Provi- 
 dence, the great course of events, and leave everlasting results in hu- 
 manity — then Rhode Island is not a little State, but one of such vast 
 power as shall leave an ever-enduring impression on mankind. Give 
 but the transcendent mind — the great idea, actualized — and whether 
 it appear in an individual of the humblest physical conformation, or 
 in the organization of a State of the smallest territorial extent, and 
 the most limited population, it shall tend to raise all mankind up to 
 its own standard, and to assimilate men and nations to itself The 
 principle of the hydrostatic balance has its reality in the mass of hu- 
 manity, as well as in Ocean's flood ; and give but the great fundamen- 
 tal idea, brought out and embodied in the ever-enduring form of a 
 State, and it shall act through that form, from generation to genera- 
 tion, on the elements beneath it, until it raise the enormous mass up 
 to its own exalted level. 
 
 This, all history proves. The States which have produced the 
 greatest effect on mankind, are not those which are of the greatest 
 material dimensions; but, on the contrary, they are States which, 
 though of small territorial extent, and often of very limited population, 
 have actualized great fundamental truths or ideas. Take Athens, for 
 example ; with a ruling population of about twenty thousand, and with 
 a territorial domain of about the extent of our own State, what a do- 
 minion did she hold, and holds she still, over the rising and risen civil- 
 izations of the earth ! Barbarism took light from her lamp ; infant 
 Rome organized herself upon the basis of her laws ; and surrounding 
 nations were educated at her schools. Her ruling idea was given by 
 the aesthetic element of the mind — strong in the love of the beautiful ; 
 and she carried this grand idea into all her social institutions — her 
 religion, her philosophy, her science, her art, and into the athletic dis- 
 cipline of her youth. It reflected itself from the physiognomy and 
 physical conformation of her people ; from the statuary of her temples, 
 and from her unnumbered monumental structures. She established 
 an empire of her own, which shall out-last the pyramids — which shall 
 be as enduaing and as broad as human civilization. She still teaches 
 by her example, and rules in the truth of her precepts. 
 
 Take ancient Judea — a state of small domain, and an outcast among 
 the civilizations of old. The fundamental idea, or great truth, upon 
 
302 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 whicli her government was based, and which she carried into all her 
 institutions and sacred literature, was the Idea of the Unity of the 
 Divine. What an influence has this single idea, as derived from her, 
 had upon all mankind ! You may trace its influence, through history, 
 from her fall to the present day. It has brought down with it, to all 
 Christian, to all Mahometan nations, a knowledge of her institutions, 
 and the influence of her laws ; and, regarding Christianity merely in 
 a secular point of view, as necessarily springing from her in the order 
 of Divine Providence, what a power does she now exert throughout all 
 Christendom ! We can put our eye on nothing to which she has not 
 given modification and form. She lives in our laws and institutions — 
 the very current of thought now passing through our minds, and every 
 hallowed sentiment by which we are now moved, may be traced back 
 to the fundamental truth on which her legislator based that little State. 
 
 To say nothing of Tyre, or Carthage, let us take Rome — a single 
 municipality, that was called, by the state of the world, to propagate 
 her own idea of order and law, among the barbarous nations of the 
 earth. Rome and the Roman Empire date their origin from the or- 
 ganization of the fugitives and outlaws, that were gathered within the 
 narrow compass of the trench struck out by the hands of Romulus. 
 Within this small space, the roots of an empire, such as the world had 
 never before, and has never since seen, were planted ; and thence they 
 shot forth, assimilating to themselves every thing that they touched. 
 Rome went forth in her legion, and did but repeat, on the barbarism 
 of the earth, her own great idea of order and law. She everywhere 
 established her distinct municipal order — assimilated divers rude na- 
 tions to her own civilization, and thus enstamped an everlasting image 
 of herself on the race, 
 
 I might name many other republics of very limited territorial extent 
 and population, but whicli actualized ideas that transcended the ordi- 
 nary standard of their age, which have performed a noble part in his- 
 tory, and left an abiding impression on mankind ; I might name the 
 small Italian republics of modern times, and particularly of Venice — 
 that Venice who, with no boast of territorial extent, built her domain 
 in the sea — drove down her piles in the Adriatic, and enthroned her- 
 self thereon as Ocean's Queen. But I will not consume your time ; 
 enough has been said to show that we must not estimate the capacity 
 and destiny of states by the extent of their territory or the figures of 
 their census — these are but contingent results, which may or may not 
 justify claims to the honor and gratitude of mankind. But, on the 
 contrary, would you truly determine the genius and destiny of a State, 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 303 
 
 ascertain what part — what function in the grand organic order of 
 humanity, is hers — ^what that principle is which has given her being, 
 informed her with its own life, and actualized itself in her social and 
 political organization ; and, if that principle gives a contingent and 
 secondary idea — one inferior to the general mind of the age in which 
 it is called to act a part, such a State, however large its territory or 
 population, cannot be great — it will ever be little, and will become 
 less and less, until it die, and pass out of the system. The order of 
 Divine Providence, the course of events, and the progress of the race, 
 are against it. On the other hand, if that principle give a great fun- 
 damental idea or truth — one congenial to the immutable laws of the 
 whole social humanity — one germinating from the inmost soul of man, 
 and transcending the general mind of the age in which it is to take 
 form — such a State cannot be little ; however small its beginnings, 
 its destiny is to act a high part in the grand course of events, and to 
 become greater and greater in the worlds both of matter and mind, 
 until, in the fullness of time, it has reflected its image entire, into the 
 bosom of every civilized nation on earth. 
 
 Such was Rhode Island's idea, and such was Rhode Island's destiny, 
 (yet to be fulfilled,) the moment she took organization under the char- 
 ter of 1663. 
 
 Brevity requires that I should now pass from the history of the in- 
 ternal action of this idea, in order to take some notice of its external 
 action, and of the exhibition it made of itself, in the grand theatre of 
 the world. For this purpose, I shall inquire what part Rhode Island 
 acted in the sisterhood, at a memorable period in her and their his- 
 tory ; and we can thereby the better determine whether there be or 
 be not that in her conduct which will give us confidence in these large 
 promises and exalted hopes. 
 
 We must suppose, then, that from the adoption of her charter, more 
 than a century of growth and discipline has rolled away, and brought 
 us to the verge of the Revolution. 
 
 And where is Rhode Island now ? — that young sovereignty, so roy- 
 ally armed in her charter, that she seemed like a goddess suddenly 
 shot down among wondering mortals, from a celestial sphere. Where 
 is she now ? There she stands — one of the banded sisterhood — among 
 the foremost, if not the very foremost of the thirteen. But on whom 
 does she flash the lightnings of that well-burnished helmet and shield, 
 and level that glittering lance with the aim of her yet more glittering 
 eye? It is on "the Mother Nation" — on Parent England ! What 
 cause has she for this hostile attitude, and most unfilial ire ? Is not 
 
504 HISTORICAL DISCOURSK. 
 
 her Eden Isle still the resort of England's gentry? And what favor 
 has been denied her 1 Or what decision, on the numerous controver- 
 sies between her and her sister colonies, has indicated a single unkind 
 feeling in Mother England's breast 1 Why, then, does she now band 
 with those sisters, and raise the hostile lance against England's pro- 
 tecting arm ? Ah ! she has come on a great mission ; not sent by 
 England, but by England's Lord ; and she is here, in obedience thereto, 
 to perform her part in a great movement of the progressive humanity. 
 She felt her own idea of liberty and law threatened in the wrongs 
 inflicted on her sisters ; and, oblivious of the past, she stands here, 
 banded with them, in vindication of her idea. She has, moreover, 
 assimilated them to herself She has conquered by her example. 
 They have adopted, or are adopting, her own just idea of government ; 
 and to defend it, has become the common duty of all. 
 
 But let us come out of allegory, into plain matter-of-fact history, 
 that spurns all embellishment. Khode Island, according to her high 
 promise, should take a foremost part in this great movement, both in 
 counsel and in action ; and now let us see whether she disappoints our 
 expectations. 
 
 Do not understand that I mean to give even a general historical 
 outline of her services and sufferings ; I propose merely to name some 
 prominent facts. But in order that these should be duly appreciated, 
 it is necessary to state that Rhode Island, at the commencement of 
 our struggle with Great Britain, did not contain a population of more 
 than fifty thousand, of which, probably, one-fifth part was on the islands 
 of the bay and coast ; and these were in the occupation of the enemy, 
 for nearly three years of the war ; that the State treasury was already 
 exhausted, and largely in debt, by reason of the expenses incurred 
 during the French war ; that she was extensively engaged in commerce, 
 to which her beautiful bay and harbors invited her enterprising people, 
 at the same time that they exposed them to the depredations of a na- 
 val power. Now, under all these disadvantages, in what was it that 
 Rhode Island was foremost 1 Doubtless each of the Thirteen may 
 claim to be foremost in some things ; but I speak only of those first 
 steps which manifested great daring, or were followed by great results. 
 In what great movements, then, bearing this impress, was she the 
 first?* 
 
 She was the first to direct her officers to disregard the Stamp Act, 
 and to assure them indemnity for doing so. 
 
 ♦ See the Annals of Providence. 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 305 
 
 She was the first to recommend the permanent establishment of a 
 Continental Congress, with a closer union among the colonies. 
 
 She was among the first to adopt the Articles of Confederation, 
 and, it may be added, the last to abandon them. 
 
 She was the first to brave royalty in arms. 
 
 Great Britain was not then here, as at Boston, with her land forces 
 in the field, but with her marine — behind her wooden walls — on the 
 flood ; and before the casting of the three hundred and forty-two 
 chests of tea — the East India Company's property — into the harbor 
 of Boston, and before the battle of Lexington, men of Newport had 
 sunk His Majesty's armed sloop Liberty, and men of Providence — 
 after receiving and returning ivith effect the first shots fired in th e 
 Revolution — sent up the G-aspee in flames. 
 
 She was the first to enact and declare Independence. 
 
 In May, preceding the declaration of the Fourth of July, by the 
 Continental Congress, the General Assembly of this State repealed 
 the act more effectually to secure allegiance to the king, and exacted 
 an oath of allegiance to the State, and required that all judicial 
 process should be in the name of the State, and no longer in His 
 Majesty's name ; whereby Rhode Island, from that moment, became, 
 and is at this day, the oldest sovereign and independent State in the 
 western world. 
 
 She was the first to establish a naval armament of her own ; and 
 here, on the waters of her own Narraganset, was discharged, from it, 
 the first cannon fired in the Revolution, at any part of His Majesty's 
 navy. 
 
 She was the first to recommend to Congress the establishment of a 
 Continental Navy. The recommendation was favorably received, and 
 measures were adopted to carry it into effect ; and when that navy 
 was constructed, she gave to it its first commodore, or commander-in- 
 chief — Esek Hopkins, of North Providence. She furnished three 
 captains and seven lieutenants, they being more than three-quarters 
 of the commissioned officers for the four large ships, and probably the 
 like proportion for the four smaller craft. Under this command, the 
 first Continental fleet — the germ of our present navy — consisting of 
 eight sail, proceeded to New Providence, surprised that place, took 
 the forts, made prisoners of the governor and other distinguished 
 persons, and seizing all the cannon and military stores found there, 
 brought them safely into port, as a handsome contribution to the ser- 
 vice of the American army. On our alliance with France, this arma- 
 ment gave place to the French navy. 
 
 39 
 
306 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 But this was not the only kind of naval warfare adopted. The 
 harbors of our State swarmed with armed vessels. Our merchants 
 constructed privateers, or armed ships already on hand, and our sai- 
 lors manned them, and in spite of the utmost vigilance of the British 
 cruisers, they escaped to the ocean, and were wonderfully successful. 
 British property to an immense amount was brought into port, by 
 which the wants of the people and army were supplied, thus produ- 
 cing a double effect — invigorating their country, and enervating her 
 foe. A questionable mode of warfare this, it may be said ; and so it 
 may be said that every mode of warfare is equally questionable. 
 Nothing but the direst necessity can, in any case, excuse war ; but 
 our ancestors seem to have thought that, when once the war was com- 
 menced, the shortest way, to conquer peace and secure their independ- 
 ence, was the best ; and believing that the sensorium of the enemy 
 might be found in his purse, they struck that, and not without tre- 
 mendous effect. At any rate, in this business, it must be conceded 
 that Rhode Island was foremost. In fact, this port, here at the head 
 of the bay, so swarmed with this terrible species of insect war-craft, 
 that the enemy called it "the Hornet's Nest."* 
 
 But whilst she was thus engaged in carrying war over the ocean, 
 she was not behind her sisters in carrying it over the land. She 
 raised two regiments at the commencement of the war — twelve hun- 
 dred regular troops — she furnished her quota to the Continental line 
 throughout the war. In addition to these, from the 16th of December, 
 1776, to the 16th of March, 1780, she kept three State regiments on 
 foot, enlisted for the State or Continental service, as occasion might 
 require. They were received as a part of the Continental establish- 
 ment, and one of them, at least, was in the Continental service under 
 Washington. 
 
 To characterize the Rhode Island officers who served in that war, it 
 will suffice to name a few of them. 
 
 There was G-eneral Greene, second only to Washington — perhaps 
 his equal in the field. There was Hitchcock and Yarnum, distinguished 
 members of the bar, who did honor to the profession of arms. Hitch- 
 cock commanded a brigade, consisting of five regiments — two from 
 Massachusetts, and three from Rhode Island — at the battles of Tren- 
 ton and Princeton ; and " for his signal gallantry received the special 
 thanks of Washington, in front of the college at Princeton, and 
 which he was requested to present to the brigade he had so ably com- 
 
 * For thi3 fact I am indebted to the venerable William Wilkinson. 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 307 
 
 manded.* Varnum commanded a division of Washington's army on 
 the Delaware, which included within it the garrisons of Fort Miflain, 
 and Fort Mercer, or Red Bank. There were, also. Col. Christopher 
 Greene, Col. Jeremiah Olney, Col. Lippitt — I merely give their 
 names — Major Thayer, the true hero of Fort Mifflin ; Talbut, that 
 amphibious Major, sometimes on the deep in some small craft, board- 
 ing His Majesty's galley, (the Pigot,) sometimes on land, driving at 
 once into camp three or four British soldiers, whom he, alone, had 
 captured — many were his daring adventures and hair-breadth escapes ; 
 General Barton, the captor of Prescot, and Captain Olney, the fore- 
 most in storming the first battery taken at Yorktown. Many others 
 might be named ; but what a host of recollections rise in the mind, 
 on the bare mention of these ! 
 
 As to the services of our troops in the Continental line, it is suffi- 
 cient to say that they were engaged in every great battle fought under 
 Washington during the war ; and there are instances in which they 
 sustained the whole shock of the enemy ; as at Springfield, and at 
 Bed Bank, where twelve hundred Hessians were repulsed with great 
 slaughter, by the five hundred Rhode Island men there, under the 
 command of Col. Greene. These, together with the State regiments, 
 were with Sullivan in his -expedition against the enemy at Newport, 
 and were, it is believed, the rear guard of the retreating army. The 
 battle on Quaker Hill has never been appropriately noticed in history. 
 *' It was the best fought action during the Revolutionary War."t I 
 use the language of Lafayette. There it was that this rear guard 
 checked the pursuing forces of Britain, and sustained an orderly 
 retreat ; there it was that our black regiment, with their cocked hats, 
 and black plumes tipped with white, moving with charged bayonets as 
 a single man, twice or thrice rushed on the banded force of British 
 and Hessians, and as often drove them from the ground. J The esti- 
 mation in which the Rhode Island regiments were held, both by the 
 commander-in-chief and the Continental army, may be shown by a 
 short conversation between Washington and Col. Olney. There was 
 some disturbance in the Rhode Island line, and Washington, riding 
 up to Olney's quarters, said, in a state of excitement not usual for 
 him, " Col. Olney ! what means this continued disturbance among the 
 Rhode Island troops ? They give me more trouble than all the rest of 
 tlve armyP " I am sorry for it," said Olney, composedly ; " but, Gen- 
 
 * See the letter of Mr. J. Rowland, the venerable President of the Rhode Island 
 Historical Society, as quoted by Mr. Updike in his " Memoirs of the Rhode Island 
 Bar," p. 148. 
 
 t Annals of Providence, p. 256. % Tradition. 
 
308 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 eral, that is just what the enemy say of them." A smile lit up the 
 face of Washington, and the cloud passed from his brow. The free- 
 dom of this reply could have been warranted by nothing but the 
 known estimation in which the Rhode Island troops were held, both 
 by Washington and his army. 
 
 For nearly three years, during the time that Rhode Island was 
 making these efforts, the territory occupied by one-fifth part of her 
 inhabitants was, as I have said, in possession of the enemy, and one- 
 half of the remaining portion of her people may be said to have slept 
 within range of his naval cannon. The shores were guarded ; artillery 
 companies were stationed in every town bordering on the bay ; the 
 militia were constantly either under arms to repel assaults, or ready 
 at a moment's warning for that purpose ; and in Sullivan's expedi- 
 tion they were called out in mass. Such were the trials through 
 which she passed, and such the efforts which she made, that, on the 
 return of peace, both State and people were utterly bankrupt. All 
 the property within the State, both real and personal, would not have 
 paid the debts of either. The subsequent laws, making paper money 
 a tender, were, in fact, bankrupt acts. Massachusetts, by , not adopting 
 this course, forced the oppressed debtors into a resistance of the exe- 
 cution of her laws, and finally into rebellion and civil war. I say not 
 which was the better course. It was, in fact, a choice between great 
 and unavoidable evils ; but the course of each State was perfectly 
 characteristic. Rhode Island dissolved the contract, and saved the 
 debtor ; Massachusetts saved the contract, and ruined the debtor. 
 In Rhode Island, mercy triumphed over justice ; in Massachusetts, 
 justice triumphed over mercy. 
 
 Such was the conduct of Rhode Island — that young sovereignty — 
 when called upon to act out of herself, and upon the world around 
 her. And has she fallen, in any thing, short of the high promise 
 given by her fundamental idea ? Have our expectations been in any 
 degree disappointed ? Is she not, thus far, first among the foremost 
 in the great cause of liberty and law ? In this struggle, she has acted 
 under the liber iy element of her idea, and it has triumphed over 
 illegal force. 
 
 But she is now called to another trial, in which the law element, by 
 force of circumstances, is destined to predominate. She is called to 
 adopt a new constitution, prepared by the sisterhood for themselves 
 and her ; and she shrinks from it, as repugnant to her idea of govern- 
 ment. She had been the first to propose the permanent establish- 
 ment of a Continental Congress. She had been among the first to 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE* 309 
 
 adopt the Articles of Confederation under which it was held, and she 
 was now to be the last to abandon them. She had ever felt and acted 
 as a sovereignty, even under England: and every freeman in the 
 State felt her sovereignty and glory to be his own. His own individ- 
 uality — his own conscious being was identified with her idea, and he 
 lived, moved, and breathed, as if he were one and identical with her, 
 or she one and identical with him. Under the old confederation this 
 sovereignty would have been continued, and with it, the same free in- 
 dividuality — the same glorious conceptions of liberty and law that had 
 come down from of old. But under the new constitution — " through 
 what new scenes and changes must she pass — through what variety of 
 untried being," under constraint and limitation to which she had 
 hitherto been a stranger — exposed, perchance, to the annoyance of a 
 new brood of States 1 or of States, at least, that shared not in her sym- 
 pathies, and which might become hostile for imputed political, if not 
 religious, heresies — she paused — she hesitated. If her sisters, with 
 something of their Church and State ideas still clinging to them, 
 and with their royal governors just cast off, could put on this straight 
 jacket, why let them do it — it might be natural enough for them — but 
 she would hold to the old confederation whilst she could — she could 
 use her arms and her hands under that ; but under this they would 
 be tied down : and she must pass her helmet and shield and lance 
 into other hands, and trust them for the defence of her own glorious 
 idea — she determined to cling to the confederation — and who can 
 blame her ? I do not — and she did cling to it, until she stood alone, 
 and was obliged to abandon it. 
 
 If Rhode Island lost something of the freedom of her sovereignty, 
 by the adoption of the constitution of the United States, it must be 
 admitted that she gained much, by the new position into which she 
 was brought with her sister States. She, in fact, acquired a new 
 stand-point, and vantage ground, from which the influence of her idea 
 of government, and of her enterprising and inventive genius has been 
 transmitted and is continually passing into every portion of the 
 Union. The constitution of the United States, itself, had adopted 
 her own original idea — indeed, without it, as I have said, it could not 
 have been established ; and whatever remnant there was of old Church 
 and State ideas, has, under its influence, long since passed away. In 
 the constitution and government of the Union, her own conceptions 
 of liberty and law have been conspicuously exemplified to the nations 
 of the earth, and have produced, and are still producing on them, 
 their legitimate and necessary effects. 
 
310 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 From this new vantage ground she has made her enterprising and 
 original genius more sensibly felt by all. Having cast aside her shield 
 and her lance, Minerva-like, she turned to the spindle and the loom, 
 "Without abandoning agriculture or commerce, she gave her attention to 
 the manufacturing arts. The first cotton, spun by water in the Uni- 
 ted States, was spun in North Providence. The first calico printed 
 in America, was printed in East Greenwich. It was from these be- 
 ginnings that the cotton manufacturing business of this country 
 sprung, and soon came to give a most important direction to the leg- 
 islation and policy of the Union. It was in 1816, that the manufac- 
 turing interest, chiefly of this State, presented to Congress the great 
 question of protection to American industry, in the most effective 
 form. And from that time to the present, it has been a question upon 
 which the policy of the government has turned, and in reference to 
 which administrations have been established and displaced, as this or 
 that party prevailed. 
 
 But she has given occasion to a question more important still — 
 a question touching her own original conception of regulated liberty — 
 a question, however, which she settled for herself, by direct legislative 
 enactment, and almost by judicial decision, nearly two centuries ago ; 
 but which now comes back upon her, by reason of the new relations 
 and immature influences into which she is brought. I allude to that 
 question which has grown out of events too recent for a particular 
 discussion here, and at this time, but which I mention because it 
 forms a necessary part of the history of her idea of government. It 
 is a question which, when raised under the constitution of the United 
 States, it was well should be first raised and decided here, in a State 
 which has been so long accustomed to preserve a due eqviipoise be- 
 tween liberty and law, and be then presented to those States who are 
 yet vernal in the enjoyment of that liberty which has been so long 
 her own. Upon their ultimate decision of this great question, may 
 turn the destinies of this nation. Yet if Rhode Island continue 
 true to her own just conceptions of government, we need not despair 
 of the final re-organization, even of the elements of anarchy and mis- 
 rule. By force of her own example, shall she restore them to order. 
 The future is big with fates, in which she may be called to enact a 
 higher part than any that has yet been hers. Let her gird herself 
 for the coming crisis, whatever it may be. Let her recollect her glo- 
 rious past, and stand firm in her own transcendent idea, and she 
 shall, by that simple act, bring the social elements around her, even 
 out of anarchy, into order and law. 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 311 
 
 We have thus reviewed the history of Rhode Island's idea of gov- 
 ernment — of its internal development, and of its external action ; and 
 I now ask you, fellow citizens, all, whether there be not that in its his- 
 tory which is well worthy of our admiration ; and that in it which is 
 still big with destinies glorious and honorable ? Shall the records 
 which give this history still lie unknown and neglected in the cabinet 
 of this society /or the want of funds for their publication? Will you 
 leave one respected citizen to stand alone in generous contribution to 
 this great cause ? I ask ye, men and women of Rhode Isjand ! — for 
 all may share in the noble effort to rescue the history of an honored 
 ancestry from oblivion — I ask ye, will you allow the world longer to 
 remain in ignorance of their names, their virtues, their deeds, their 
 labors, and their sufferings in the great cause of regulated liberty ? 
 Aye, what is tenfold worse, will you suffer your children to imbibe 
 their knowledge of their forefathers from the libelous accounts of them 
 given by the Hubbards, the Mortons, the Mathers, and their copyists? 
 Will you allow their minds, in the germ of existence, to become con- 
 taminated with such exaggerations, and perversions of truth, and in- 
 spired with contempt for their progenitors, and for that State to which 
 their forefathers' just conceptions of government gave birth ? Citi- 
 zens ! be ye native or adopted, I invite ye to come out from all minor 
 associations for the coercive development of minor ideas, and adopt the 
 one great idea of your State, which gives centre to them all, and, by 
 hastening it onward to its natural developments, you shall realize your 
 fondest hopes. Let us form ourselves into one great association for 
 the accomplishment of this end. Let the grand plan be at once struck 
 out by a legislative enactment, making immediate, and providing for fu- 
 ture appropriations ; let the present generation begin this work, and let 
 succeeding ones, through all time, go on to fill up and perfect it. Let 
 us begin, and let our posterity proceed, to construct a monumental his- 
 tory that shall, on every hill and in every vale — consecrated by tradi- 
 tion to some memorable event, or to the memory of the worthy dead — 
 reveal to our own eyes, to the eyes of our children, and to the admira- 
 tion of the stranger, something of Rhode Istand's glorious past. Let 
 us forthwith begin, and let posterity go on, to publish a documentary 
 history of the State — a history that needs but to be revealed and truly 
 known in order to be honored and respected by every human being 
 capable of appreciating heroic worth. Let a history be provided for 
 your schools that shall teach childhood to love our institutions, and 
 reverence the memory of its ancestry ; and let myth and legend con- 
 spire with history, truly to illustrate the character and genius of ages 
 
312 HISTORICAL DISCOURSE. 
 
 gone by, and make Rhode Island all one classic ground. Let a liter- 
 ary and scientific periodical be established that shall breathe the true 
 Rhode Island spirit — defend her institutions, her character, the mem- 
 ory of her honored dead from defamation, be it of the past or present 
 time — and thus invite and concentrate the -efforts of Rhode Island 
 talent and genius, wherever they may be found. Let us encourage 
 and patronize our literary institutions of all kinds, from the common 
 school to the college ; they are all equally necessary to make the Rhode 
 Island mind what it must be, before it can fulfil its high destinies. 
 Let this, or other more hopeful plan, be forthwith projected by legis- 
 lative enactment, and be held up to the public mind for present and 
 future execution, and we shall realize by anticipation, even in the pre- 
 sent age, many of the effects of its final accomplishment. It will fix 
 in the common mind of the State an idea of its own perpetuity, and 
 incite it to one continuous effort to realize its loftiest hopes. If Rhode 
 Island cannot live over great space, she can live over much time — 
 past, present, and to come — and it is the peculiar duty of statesmen to 
 keep this idea of her pepetuity constantly in the mind of all. 
 
 Legislators op Rhode Island :* 
 
 The State which you represent is not an institution for a day, but 
 one for all time. G-eneration after generation passes away, but the 
 State endures. The same organic people still remains ; the places of 
 those who pass off are filled by those who come ; and the same sove- 
 reignty still lives on and on, without end. Every particle of the hu- 
 man body is said to pass off out of the system, once in seven years ; 
 yet the same organic form still continues here to act its part — to be 
 rewarded for its good, and punished for its evil deeds. It is just so 
 with that body which constitutes the State. The organized people 
 continues ever the same. The individuals which compose it are its 
 ever-coming and ever-fleeing particles, animated within it for a time, 
 and then passing off to be seen no more : but unlike our own frail struc- 
 tures, it is qualified to endure through all time, and therefore, in all 
 that is done, this idea of its perpetuity should be ever kept before it. 
 A great object is accomplished when once a people is fully impressed 
 with this idea ; it almost secures the immortality of which you thus 
 oblige it constantly to think. One great curse of all popular institu- 
 tions has ever been, a resort to paltry, temporary expedients — to legis- 
 
 * The members of the General Assembly, then in session at Providence, were 
 invited to attend at the delivery of this discourse ; and most of them, it is believed, 
 were present. 
 
HISTORICAL DISCOURSE, 313 
 
 lation that looks only to the day, or the petty requirements of the 
 present. But once impress the people with the idea of its own perpe- 
 tuity, and induce it to act thereon, and you change its character — you 
 humanize it — you make it a being " of large discourse, that looks be- 
 fore and after." Once ingraft this idea upon the minds of the people 
 of this State, and they will live in it — they will love it. They have 
 now a boundless future before them, but " shadows, clouds, and dark- 
 ness rest upon it." Vague and indefinite hopes they indeed cherish, 
 but they can not anticipate what is to be realized. Strike out, then, 
 the grand plan for the future — give some distinctness to the object of 
 the State's high aim — to the elevated stand, in distant ages, to which 
 she aspires — and even now they shall live in that future, just as they 
 already live in the past. They will enjoy it by anticipation, and cheer- 
 fully urge the State on to that high destiny which the God of Man 
 and Nature designed should be hers. 
 
 40 
 
THE INFLUENCE OP SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY AND INVENTION ON 
 SOCIAL AND POLITICAL PROGRESS. 
 
 ORATION, 
 
 DELIVEBKD BEFORE THE 
 
 PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY 
 
 BROWN UNIVERSITY, 
 
 SEPTEMBER 6, 1843. 
 
ORATION 
 
 Gentlemen of the Society : 
 
 The influence of discovery in science, and of invention in art, on 
 social and political progress, may certainly form an appropriate theme 
 for an occasion like the present ; and if, during the short time which 
 has been left to us by the preceding exercises of the day, I should 
 endeavor to draw your attention to this subject, rest assured that the 
 attempt will not be prompted by a confidence in any peculiar qualifi- 
 cation of mine for the task, but from a desire, in some manner, to ful- 
 fil a duty which, perhaps with too little caution, I undertook to 
 perform. 
 
 We are disposed, I think, to ascribe too much of human progress to 
 particular forms of government — to particular political institutions, 
 arbitrarily established by the will of the ruler, or wills of the masses, 
 in accordance with some theoretic abstraction. And this is natural 
 enough in a country where popular opinion makes the law. But, to the 
 mind that has formed the habit of penetrating beyond effects into the 
 region of causes, it may, I think, appear that the will of the one, or 
 the wills of the many, equally are under the dominion of a higher law 
 than any that they may ordain ; and that political and social institu- 
 tions are, in the end, drawn or constrained to all their substantial 
 improvements, by an order of mind still in advance of that which 
 rules in politics, and flatters itself that dominion is all its own. 
 
 If it be true that knowledge is power, then it would seem to follow 
 that any change in the arts or sciences, favorable or unfavorable, 
 must be followed by corresponding changes in society. And such, in 
 fact, we find to be the result. When the arts and sciences become 
 stationary, all social and political institutions become stationary; 
 when the arts and sciences become progressive, all social and political 
 institutions become progressive. The universality of this fact clearly 
 demonstrates the necessary connection of cause and effect between 
 scientific and social progress. And if the form in which this state- 
 
318 ORATION. 
 
 uieut is made be correct, it does as clearly show which is the cause, 
 and which the effect, and that we are not to seek for the causative 
 energy of human progress in the wisdom of the political, hut in that 
 of the scientific and inventive mind. Let it moreover "be recollected, 
 that, at least in these our times, the scientific and inventive genius 
 ]ias a universality which elevates it above all human jurisdictions ; 
 that it belongs to the whole humanity ; can be monopolized by no 
 government ; and that its discoveries and inventions walk the earth 
 with the freedom of God's own messengers. 
 
 This is an important position, which I shall presently endeavor fur- 
 ther to confirm by some brief references to history. 
 
 But though we may find the cause of human progress in the scien- 
 tific and inventive genius of the race, still we may question the extent 
 of its power over those institutions that are created and sustained by 
 the social or political will. I shall ascribe to it, on the present occa- 
 sion, none but the power of ordaining for those institutions their only 
 true law of progress. It prescribes to them no particular form of 
 government ; but requires that every government, whether in theory 
 despotic or liberal, should be so administered as to enable the human 
 mind to put forth, in a manner consistent with order, all its powers 
 for the benefit of humanity. It forces upon government, whatever be 
 its form, ^the necessity of extending practical freedom to all. It 
 requires it, upon the penalty of ceasing to exist, to carry out to the 
 utmost extent, both in the social and political spheres, every import- 
 ant discovery or invention, and thus coerces, by a process its own, 
 obedience to its supreme authority. 
 
 But what is this progress 1 It may be a short, but it is a sufficient 
 answer for the occasion, to say, that it is the elevation of mind over 
 matter ; in the material universe it is the extension of the dominion 
 of man over the powers and forces of natui'e ; in humanity it is the 
 orderly elevation of the high moral and intellectual energies over the 
 brute force of passion, prejudice, and ignorance. 
 
 In the realm of science and art, the most exalted geniuses and the 
 irightest intellects that it contains are ever at the head of affairs. 
 They are there, not by the appointment of government, nor by the 
 election of the masses, but by a decree of the supreme Intelligence. 
 And, if it be true, as I hope to demonstrate, that their discoveries 
 and inventions rule in the grand course of events, it will afford some 
 consolation to reflect, that, whether government falls into the hands 
 of demagogue or despot, (and it suffers equally from either,) this high 
 order of intellect doth, after all, by setting limits to their follies, 
 
ORATION. 319 
 
 guide and govern in the main. To it we bow with deferential awe 
 
 to it we willingly own allegiance, and are proud to confess ourselves 
 its subjects. 
 
 Time, indeed, was, when this order of mind formed a union with 
 government, and was itself despotic, or was ruled by despotism. 
 Such seems to have been its condition in ancient Egypt — such may be 
 its condition still, under those oriental governments, where every change 
 must operate a social disorganization ; but such, from the earliest 
 date of G-recian freedom, has never been its condition in the sphere 
 of western civilization. It has been subject to restraint, it has suf- 
 fered persecution, but it has formed no necessary part of any local 
 government. It has been under no necessity of limiting its discover- 
 ies, or shaping its inventions to suit particular political or social or- 
 ganizations. At that early date it cut its connection with these, and, 
 by so doing, found the Archimedean stand-point and lever, by which 
 it is enabled to move the world. 
 
 But where and what is this point on which the scientific intellect 
 takes this commanding stand 1 It is not to be found in that space 
 which can be measured by a glance of the eye, or a movement of the 
 hand. It is to be found only in the world of mind ; and even there, 
 only in that perfect reason which is at once a law to humanity and 
 the revealer of all truth. It is a point which lies even beyond the 
 extravagant wish of Archimedes. Perhaps he had unwittingly found 
 it, when engaged in the solution of that mathematical problem which 
 cost him his life ; when, whilst the streets of Syracuse were thronged 
 with bands of military plunderers, and the Roman soldier, amid shouts 
 of triumph, entering his study, placed the sword at his throat, he ex- 
 claimed, " Hold, friend, one moment, and my demonstration will be 
 finished." Far elevated above local interests, far above the petty strife 
 and confusion of the day, it is a point from whose Olympian height 
 all humanity is seen dwindled to a unit. It is in this elevation, above 
 the world and its turmoils, that the scientific philosopher interrogates 
 the deity of truth, and communicates its oracles to the whole nether 
 humanity ; confident, tliat as they are true, whatever may be their 
 present eff'ect, they will ultimately promote the progress of the race. 
 
 Nor is he at liberty to abstain from interrogating this deity ; to 
 refrain from the efforts to discover, and consequently to invent, when- 
 ever a discovery is to be actualized by invention. That law which 
 prompts the mind spontaneously to search for the cause of every effect, 
 and for the most effectual means for the accomplishment of the end, 
 is not superinduced by education. It comes from a source above man ; 
 
320 ORATION. 
 
 it is constitutional, therefore irresistible ; and he makes his discoveries 
 and inventions because he must make them. 
 
 Now the sciences and arts, comprehending not merely the liberal and 
 and fine, but the physical and useful, consist of a logical series of dis- 
 coveries and inventions, commenced at the earliest date of human pro- 
 gress and continued down to the present time, the last grand result being 
 the sum of all the labors that have gone before it ; nay, not unfrequently 
 the sum of the blood and sufi'erings of the ignoble masses, as well as of 
 the labors of the exalted philosophic mind. I mean not to say that this 
 law of reason, which impels man to discover and invent, conducts him 
 from step to step, from truth to truth, in a direct line to the far result ; 
 for he has his liberty, and he often deviates, not for a day merely, but 
 for a generation ; nay, sometimes for a whole epoch. But, however 
 widely he may err, he at last discovers the error of the first false step 
 that he has made ; his false premise is brought to its reductio ad ob- 
 surdum ; and, with the benefit of all the experience, discipline, and 
 knowledge that he has acquired by pursuing it to this result, he returns 
 to the point of departure, and, with redoubled energy, follows out the 
 demonstration direct, to its quod erat demonstrandum. 
 
 Grentlemen, excuse me, whilst on an occasion so purely literary, I 
 draw an illustration of this idea from a thought suggested by an inven- 
 tion in a branch of mechanic art. 
 
 I lately visited an establishment, perhaps in some respects the first 
 of the kind in our country, for the manufacture of iron into bars. I 
 stood by, and for the time, witnessed the operation of its enginery. 
 I saw the large misshapen mass of crude metal taken blazing from the 
 furnace, and passed through the illumined air to the appropriate ma- 
 chine. I saw it there undergo the designed transformation. It was 
 made to pass repeatedly between two grooved revolving iron cylinders, 
 of immense weight. At every turn of the wheel it took new form ; it 
 lengthened, stretched, approximating still its intended shape, till at the 
 end of the operation it came forth a well-fashioned fifteen or twenty 
 foot bar of iron, ready for the hand of the artizan, or the machine 
 that was to resolve it into forms for ultimate use. 
 
 When I had witnessed this process, I thought I did not want to go 
 to the banks of the Nile to be assured either of the antiquity or the 
 progress of the race. An older than the pyramids was before me ; 
 one which, though voiceless, told a tale that commenced before the 
 Pharaohs, before the Memnon, before the Thebes. Here was a material 
 which had been common to the historical portion of the human family 
 for the space of five or six thousand years. Millions on millions of 
 
ORATION. 321 
 
 minds had been tasked to improve the process of its manufacture. I 
 went back, in imagination, to that primitive age, when the first unskil- 
 ful hand — some fur-clad barbarian or savage — drew a mass of the raw 
 material from the side of some volcanic mountain. He constructed a 
 vessel of clay for its reception, and, somewhat in imitation of the pro- 
 cess he had witnessed, he placed it over a heap of blazing combustibles. 
 With long and patient labor and care, he reduced it to a liquid mass ; 
 and then cast it into the shape of some rude implement of husbandry 
 or war. Exulting in his success, he brandished the instrument in 
 triumph, and deemed it the Tie plus ultra of human improvement. 
 
 He disappeared ; but he left a successor. I followed him, in imag- 
 ination, and saw him take the art at the point at which his predecessor 
 had left it. He had discovered that the material was not only fusible, 
 but ductile ; and with sweat and toil that knew no fatigue, he gradu- 
 ally beat the heated mass into the shape of something like a hatchet, 
 or a sword. At this point he also disappeared ; but his successor 
 came, and still improved on the labors of his predecessor. Generation 
 thus followed generation of apt apprentices in the art ; they formed a 
 community of masters skilful to direct, and of servants prompt to obey. 
 They fashioned new implements as their numbers increased, and the 
 wants of advancing civilization varied and multiplied. The master- 
 minds studied, and studied successfully, all the various qualities and 
 susceptibilities of the metal. They became skilful in all its various 
 uses, in agriculture, commerce, manufactures and war. Yes, ye phi- 
 lanthropists ! in war ! For humanity actually armed herself against 
 humanity to draw out and discipline the faculties of the human mind, 
 and bring the art to perfection. She instituted a school of her own, 
 and was herself its stern and unyielding preceptress. She chastened 
 her laggard and truant children as with a rod of iron. I saw her 
 force her sons into bondage by thousands — aye, by millions. I saw 
 them sweat and toil at the anvil like so many living machines. They 
 were once free barbarians 5 but they were now in the school of civili- 
 zation. They were learning something of the arts. They would not 
 labor from the love of labor, but only from constraint and fear. Their 
 willing task-masters grew strong and powerful in the labors of the 
 barbarous masses, that superior knowledge and power had subjected 
 to their will. They took counsel together, and still went forth to 
 conquer and enslave. Ages, centuries, epochs passed away, and still 
 the same process was going on. They built up for themselves a bright 
 and glorious intellectual civilization, that extended far and wide over 
 the earth ; yet it was but the gilding of the surface ; for it had its 
 
 41 
 
322 ORATION. 
 
 deep and dark foundations upon mind in bondage, upon masses in 
 slavery ; and their power grew feeble from expansion. The numbers 
 of the free would not suffice to sustain their dominion. And they 
 sought for aid, but could conceive of none, save in the enslaved masses 
 beneath them. And now came, improved by long ages of civilization, 
 the scientific and inventive genius to their aid. She glanced back 
 upon the past ; she discovered the point of departure from the pro- 
 gress direct, and the source of the errors whence this appalling result. 
 She sought, and sought not in vain, to substitute the brute forces of 
 nature for the labor of human hands. Then began the water-wheel to 
 turn at the falls, and the trip-hammer to sound upon the anvil, and 
 the manacles of the slave to fall ofi", as improvement was built upon 
 improvement, in regular consecutive order, till the burning bar shot 
 from the perfected machinery almost unaided by human strength. 
 
 This brought me to the process which I had just witnessed, and I 
 thought I saw in it the grand result of the discipline and labor of the 
 race for thousands of years. I thought I saw in it, not only the real- 
 ity of a progress in the race, but the unquestionable proof of the exist- 
 ence of a law of progress, carrying on its grand process through the 
 whole humanity by a logical series of causes and effects, from its earli- 
 est premises, in far distant antiquity, to its latest result ; and that the 
 law which rules in discovery and invention, is one and identical with 
 that which governs in the progress of the race. 
 
 I speak not here of particular communities or nations — for nations, 
 like men, decay and die — but of the whole humanity, which is as im- 
 mortal as the spirit of man, or, perhaps, as the divinity that rules it ; 
 which feeds and grows in one branch of its existence upon the decay- 
 ing energies of another, and which is thus ever renovating its vital and 
 intellectual energies out of the past, and, amid unceasing decay, enjoy- 
 ing a perpetual rejuvenescence. On such an existence doth this law 
 of progress ever act ; constantly forming and energizing the individual 
 intellect by the unceasingly accumulating wisdom of the past, and by ap- 
 rpropiating the forces of nature to the uses of social man, it is, at this 
 day, carrying on in the world of mind that work of creation which the 
 Divine Author of humanity did but commence in the garden of Eden. 
 
 There may be limits to man's capacities, but to the energies of 
 nature which those capacities, acting under this law, may put in requi- 
 sition, there are no limits. Each new discovery in science suggests 
 the existence of something yet undiscovered ; each new combination in 
 art, on trial, suggests combinations yet untried ; thus revealing, on 
 the one hand, a law of suggestion, which, from the nature of mind. 
 
O K A T I O N* 323 
 
 must ever act; and, on the other, objects and subjects of action 
 which are as boundless and as inexhaustible as the universe. 
 
 Now if this be, and must continue to be the true process of discov- 
 ery and invention ; and if, in its progress, as I hope to prove, it must 
 constantly reflect itself into all social and political organizations, we 
 have an assurance of progress, not dependent, thank Heaven, upon 
 carrying to their results any political abstractions, or any ideas of 
 popular sovereignty drawn from the perversions of revolutionary 
 France ; but upon a law of progress, which God has ordained for the 
 government of humanity, and which is as certain and eternal in its 
 operations as any law which governs the material universe. 
 
 But let US' see, by a brief glance at the page of history, whether this 
 law of progressive discovery and invention, doth, or doth not, rule in 
 social and political progress. 
 
 And here let me premise, that the sciences and the arts, considered 
 with reference to social and political progress, may be divided into 
 two classes ; first, those which are necessary or useful as aids or 
 instruments of thought and sentiment ; as among the sciences, gram- 
 mar, rhetoric, logic, geometry; and among the arts, music, poetry, 
 painting, sculpture, architecture, and the art of writing, or preserving 
 the memory of the past. Second, those whose immediate object it is 
 to enlarge our knowledge of nature, and improve the physical condi- 
 tion of man. These are the physical sciences, and useful arts im- 
 proved by science. In the progress of the race, the first class is nec- 
 essarily brought earliest to perfection. Man must be disciplined to 
 think logically, and to communicate and preserve his thoughts and 
 sentiments, before he can make any considerable progress in the phys- 
 ical sciences and useful arts. Hence it is, that, among the ancient 
 nations of the earth, we find this high order of mind almost exclu- 
 sively engaged in carrying the first class to perfection, whilst it devo- 
 ted comparatively little attention to the physical sciences and useful 
 arts. Indeed, the useful arts seem to have been abandoned almost 
 entirely to slaves. They were carried on by manual labor. Inven- 
 tion had not yet subjected the forces of nature to the human will, 
 and that vast amount of toil, which is required to support a splendid 
 civilization, was urged on by an immense mass of people in bondage. 
 
 I would further observe, that as the scientific and inventive order of 
 mind subsists, generally, independent of any necessary connection 
 with any particular government, so its influence is not to be traced in 
 the history of this or that people or community merely, but rather in 
 that of a common civilization ; such as that of classical antiquity, or 
 
324 ORATION. 
 
 modern Christendom, consisting of a community of nations, in whicli one 
 government or society acts upon another, and from which, through this 
 very diversity, that order of mind derives its power to cserce. It acts 
 through one government on another, through one society on another, 
 through society on government, and through government on society ; 
 its discoveries and inventions every where inviting the appropriate 
 change, at first from policy, hut if not adopted from policy, compelling 
 its adoption, at last, by force of the principle of self-preservation. 
 
 History enables us to show, in but a few instances, the effects 
 which each succeeding discovery or invention produced on society in 
 the infancy of the race ; but it does enable us to see their combined 
 results in the form which society took under their dominion. 
 
 In Egypt, the sacerdotal order was the depository of all the science 
 and learning of the age ; and that order, in fact, seems to have been 
 the governing power. Now what were its sciences, real or pretended? 
 Geometry, astronomy, astrology, and a mystic theology. These were 
 studied as the great sciences of ancient Egypt, and carried out into 
 their respective arts ; and, to say nothing about their geometry and 
 astronomy, have not the two last left the distinctive impress of their 
 mysticism upon every thing that remains of this ancient civilization ? 
 It appears in the labyrinth, the pyramid, the temple, and the hiero- 
 glyphics with which they were blazoned ; and in the statuary, the 
 sphinx, the veiled Isis, and mute Harpocrates, with which each en- 
 trance was sanctified. Society divided itself, spotaneously, into 
 castes. Where there is progress, the highest order of intellect must 
 lead, and the priesthood of Egypt, with the king at their head, neces- 
 sarily stood first. Next to them the warrior caste, by which all was 
 defended or preserved. Beneath them, the mass consisting chiefly of 
 slaves, or those who were elevated little above the condition of bond- 
 men. These were again divided into castes, corresponding to the 
 laborious arts which they followed, with, probably, each its tutelary 
 deity. The son followed the occupation of his father, and society 
 underwent a sort of petrifaction, from the arts which admitted of no 
 change without destruction. This arrangement could not have re^ 
 suited from the designs of a cunning priesthood, establishing;: and,, 
 ordaining the organization for their particular benefit. It must have 
 grown up with the progress of the sciences and arts. Each art, 
 newly invented or introduced, had its artizans, who transmitted, like 
 the sacerdotal order, their peculiar mystery to their particular pos- 
 terity. The governing power, since it embodied within itself all sci- 
 ence, and took its constitution. frp«^ it>.. ni;gh,t^>. a^ft^j^, the arts had. 
 
reflected themselves into society, have very naturally interfered to 
 protect that social organization, into which, as mysteries, they spon- 
 taneously fell. 
 
 But let us pass to Greece. No one doubts that Grreece owed her 
 civilization to her literature and arts. But to what was she indebted 
 for the successful cultivation of these? It has been ascribed to the 
 freedom of her political institutions. But, again it may be asked, to 
 what were they indebted for that freedom ? Is it not plain that they 
 were indebted for it to the fact that her literature and arts early took 
 root in the vigorous barbarism of distinct and independent commu- 
 nities, and that as her political institutions settled down into definite 
 and fixed forms, they took their complexion and shape necessarily 
 from the arts and literature cultivated by society? In Lacedaamon,, 
 the art of war alone was cultivated, and she was, for longj exclusively 
 a martial State, but was finally obliged to give way to the influences 
 operating around and within her. As to all the rest of Grreece, it 
 was under the dominion of the fluctuating wills of the many, or the 
 few, and there was nothing permanent to give regular progression and 
 tendency to political and social institutions, but the arts and sciences 
 cultivated. 
 
 Greece commenced her civilization with colonies from Egypt and 
 Phoenicia. They brought with them the arts and sciences^ and some* 
 thing of the wealth of the parent countries, and ingrafted all on her 
 active barbarism. And here, again, the immediate influence of the 
 newly introduced sciences and arts, or of any particular discovery or 
 invention, rarely appears in history, and is but dimly shadowed forth 
 in the myths of the golden and heroic ages. But until they were 
 introduced, Greece was peopled by bands of roving savages. Piraey 
 was an honorable profession ; the coast could not be safely inhabited ; 
 one savage band was continually driven back upon another. Attiea- 
 was spared for its poverty. The Corinthians made the first great im* 
 provement in naval architecture. They invented the war galley of 
 three banks of oars ; they constructed a navy of like craft. This was 
 followed by great results; they cleared the Grecian seas of pirates; 
 nations settled on the coast, and by like means kept them clear. The 
 Mediterranean was laid open to honest traffic; commerce flourished ; 
 the arts flourished. The Grecian communities took the longest stride 
 in the infancy of their progress from this simple improvement in naval 
 architecture — the longest with the exception of that made by the Tro- 
 jan war. That war did for the Greeks what the crusades in modern 
 times did for the nations of Europe — it made them known to each other; 
 
326 ORATION. 
 
 disciplined them in a common art of war ; made them acquainted with 
 a higher civilization and its arts, and restored them to their country 
 with a common history, and themes for their bards of all time. 
 
 Grreece, it is believed, presents the first instance of a civilized people 
 in which the exercise of the powers of government and the almost 
 exclusive cultivation of the sciences are not to be found in the same 
 hands. The sacerdotal corporation in Greece did not embrace all 
 learning, as in Egypt, and did not, as there, control the state. Science 
 and art, absolved from political connection, stood then and there, on 
 the same independent ground, as in our own age and country. Philos- 
 ophy, it is true, was held in check by superstition ; but government 
 did not assume to restrain, control, or direct improvement in art and 
 science. And now, what was the result of this independent and iso- 
 lated existence of the scientific mind upon the social and political 
 organizations of Grreece? It seems to me to have been immense. 
 Whatever of art or science was introduced from Egypt found no cor- 
 responding social organization in G-reece, and the bondage of caste 
 there never appeared — and for this reason it is that of all the races of 
 men the Grecian is the first to present us with an intellectual people ; 
 a people intellectual and progressive by force of its own internal and 
 all-pervasive action. Science was no mystery, and each Greek was at 
 liberty to cultivate whatever branch of knowledge or art it to him 
 seemed meet ; and therefore it was that the Grecian society necessa- 
 rily became free to the extent to which this cultivation could be car- 
 ried, and there freedom stopped — there slavery commenced. Those 
 who were consigned to the labors of the industrial arts, if it had been 
 permitted, had neither the means nor the power to cultivate the sci- 
 ences ; and they were slaves. 
 
 Every free Greek did or might cultivate grammar, logic, rhetoric, 
 music, and geometry. And what was the product of these sciences ? 
 The fine arts. They improved language ; they improved the power 
 of expressing thought and sentiment ; and they produced philosophers, 
 poets, historians, orators, sculptors, painters, and architects. These 
 produced an ever-enduring literature, and specimens in the fine arts 
 destined to become models for all time. The sciences and arts of 
 Greece became the sciences and arts of Rome and the Roman Empire, 
 and were diff'used to the full extent of Roman conquest, 
 
 I will not indulge in any common-place rhetoric about Grecian civ- 
 ilization. You know what it was. The only point to which I would 
 here call your attention is, that the arts and sciences of classical an- 
 tiquity were not effects of the improved character of the social and 
 
ORATION. 327 
 
 political institutions of the epoch ; but, on the contrary, that their 
 improved character was the result of the scientific progress of the 
 common mind, which progress went on in obedience to no law, save 
 that which God has ordained for its government. 
 
 But it was the liberal sciences and the fine arts that were mainly 
 cultivated in this ancient civilization. Man had not yet learned to go 
 abroad out of himself into nature to search for facts. He found the 
 elements of the sciences and arts, which he almost exclusively culti- 
 vated, within his own mind, or within his immediate social sphere. 
 He was preparing the necessary means, the instruments, by which he 
 was in after times to explore the universe, and extend the sphere of 
 social improvement by the physical sciences and useful arts. 
 
 And now what was the consequence of this perhaps necessary 
 restriction of discovery and invention? A superficial civilization, 
 grand and imposing it is true, but still a civilization that went no 
 further than the practically free cultivation of the predominant arts 
 and sciences of the epoch ; a civilization that did not penetrate the 
 great mass of human society. The laborious industry by which it 
 was supported, was carried on by an immense mass of unintellectual 
 bondmen, who were to be employed by their masters, lest they should 
 find employment for themselves. The useful arts became mysteries, 
 and the secrets of nature remained secrets still. 
 
 Every where, throughout this ancient civilization, whether Grrecian 
 or Koman, the same horizontal division of society prevailed, and in 
 portions of like ratio. A portion of the social mind, large, it is true, 
 if compared with any thing in preceding history, was cultivated ; 
 but still a very small portion, if compared with the masses in bond- 
 age. In Attica, the proportion of the freemen to the whole enslaved 
 population, was as two to forty ; in the Roman empire, at one time, 
 as seven to sixty ; and the bondmen subsequently so far increased, 
 that armies sufficient for the defence of the State could not be en- 
 listed from the freemen. Beneath this bright covering of civiliza- 
 tion, what a vast amount of intellectual susceptibility lay slumbering 
 in the night of ignorance and bondage ! 
 
 The predominant arts and sciences of this epoch were at last 
 brought to their perfection. They ceased to advance, and society 
 became stationary. The mind of Asia and the south of Europe 
 could go no further. It was the hardy vigor of the north, alone, 
 that was competent successfully to use the instruments which this 
 ancient civilization had perfected ; to go out of the sphere of social 
 man into nature ; to regenerate and multiply the useful arts and sci- 
 
828 ORATION. 
 
 ences, and, by their means, to elevate the masses from the condition 
 of bondage to the freedom of intellectual life. Northern barbarism, 
 therefore, came ; and it conquered, for this simple reason, that the 
 arts and sciences of antiquity had not made the civilization of the 
 epoch sufficiently strong to resist it. 
 
 G-entlemen, we are not dealing with a history of events, but with 
 the causes which produce them, and especially those changes which 
 add permanently to the improvement of the social and political con- 
 dition of man. I know you may follow these changes in the history 
 of events, civil, religious, and military; but I am endeavoring to 
 point out their origin in those causes which gave the institutions they 
 produced shape, consistency, and duration ; and to demonstrate, that 
 they are not to be found in accident, or in the arbitrary dictates of 
 the human will, but in an eternal law of mind, which especially man- 
 ifests itself in the arts and sciences. For this reason it is not neces- 
 sary to cite all history, but merely a number of its facts, sufficient to 
 establish the position. 
 
 And now, lest I should exhaust your patience, I pass the gulf of 
 the middle ages with this single observation, that it was a season 
 during which Christianity was engaged in humanizing and softening 
 the heart of barbarism, and thus qualifying its mind to take form 
 under the influence of mordern art and science ; and landing on the 
 margin of our present civilization, I proceed to discuss the social 
 and political effects of scientific discovery and invention in modern 
 times. And here we have an opportunity of tracing those effects 
 with historical certainty to their causes, and of proving, as I hope, to 
 minds the most sceptical, the truth of our position. 
 
 But, before doing this, I must speak of the social condition of the 
 mass of society on which early modern discoveries produced their 
 effects. Time will permit me to state it only in the most general 
 terms ; and perhaps, on an occasion like the present, and to such an 
 audience, this is all that is necessary, or even proper. 
 
 Guizot, in his admirable history of the civilization of modern Eu- 
 rope, dates the commencement of modern society in the sixteenth 
 century. But modern society came out of a pre-existent state of 
 things, which state of things first manifested itself and became gen- 
 eral in the tenth century, when Europe rose out of the bosom of a 
 chaotic barbarism, and took distinct form in the feudal system. 
 This remark, however, applies more particularly to the north and 
 west of Europe. It was whilst this was the predominant system 
 that she commenced and carried on the crusades, and not only made 
 
ORATION. 329 
 
 herself acquainted with herself, hut with the remnants of civilization 
 in the east and south of Europe. It was not until the thirteenth 
 century that she manifested a decided tendency to her present politi- 
 cal and social organization. And it is to a mere glance at her condi- 
 tion at this period, that I would now invite your attention. 
 
 In the east was the Greek, the remnant of the ancient Roman em- 
 pire, still consisting of the same elements which distinguished it in 
 the time of Constantino, a master clas^ and a servant class. Those 
 of the first class, eclipsed though they were, " had not yet lost all their 
 original brightness." They were still imbued with something of the 
 philosophy and literature of ancient Greece ; and, in point of num- 
 bers, they bore perhaps about the same ratio as their progenitors to 
 the immense mass of slaves beneath them. In Italy, were the Italian 
 republics, exhibiting remnants of the ancient Roman municipal insti- 
 tutions. They cultivated the Latin literature, and were soon to be 
 engaged in renovating the fine arts of classical antiquity, and were 
 already, for the era, extensively employed in commercial enterprise. 
 The ratio of the free to the bond was probably about the same as it 
 had been during the Roman empire. Subject to these exceptions, all 
 Europe fell under the feudal system, and certain corporations, called 
 free cities, which, situated within the fief of some baron, wrested or 
 wrung from him whatever privileges they could, by force or compact. 
 There were no nations — no governments on a large scale. Europe 
 was dotted all. over with baronies and these free cities. Each barony, 
 whatever it might be in theory, was a little sovereignty. Each baron, 
 with his retainers, under a load of armor, and armed with sword and 
 lance, and other offensive weapons of the times, occupied his castle in 
 the country. He willingly submitted to no law, save that of superior 
 force. His kingdom was his fief, and his subjects were his vassals, 
 who followed him in war, or tilled his land, or performed for him 
 other laborious service. The free cities were walled ; the dwelling of 
 the burgher was not merely in law, but in fact, his castle, protected by 
 tower and parapet; and the burgher himself, when he ventured 
 abroad to thread the narrow lanes and crooked streets of his city, 
 went armed with lance, and often under cover of armor. The Romish 
 Church presented the only element which pervaded all these little 
 sovereignties and cities. Except among the clergy and the civilians, 
 there were no scholars ; and, to say nothing about their vassals, per- 
 haps not one in a hundred of the noble barons themselves could either 
 read or write. Nay, they were proud of their ignorance of those ac- 
 complishments. The author of Marmion means to give them their 
 
 42 
 
330 ORATION. 
 
 true character, at a much later period, when he represents the Doug- 
 las as exclaiming — - 
 
 Thanks to St. Bothatn ! son of mine, 
 Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line ; 
 I swore it once, I swear it still — 
 Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. 
 
 It is true, that when the crusades ceased, something of that zeal 
 which had originated and carried them on began to pass into new 
 channels. Those immense masses that had passed out of the north 
 and west of Europe, had made themselves acquainted with the advan- 
 cing civilization of the Italian republics, and with the remnant of 
 ancient civilization in the Greek empire. They had penetrated into 
 Asia, and had heard and credited all the fables that oriental imagina- 
 tion could invent, of the wealth and splendor of the gorgeous east, 
 
 Whose richest hand 
 Showered on her king-s barbaric pearl and g-old. 
 
 And they returned to their respective countries with these fables, and 
 stimulated a thirst for further knowledge ; but above all, they excited 
 the love of adventure and discovery, a yearning for the yet unex- 
 plored and unknown ; breeding a vague but confident faith in a some- 
 thing vast, boundless, mysterious, that was yet in reserve for daring 
 enterprise, or unyielding perseverance — haply a true augury this of 
 the discovery yet to be made on this side the Atlantic — ^yet, however 
 fertile their imaginations, the most ardent of them had not conceived 
 the possibility of the existence of this continent. Here it lay, secre- 
 ted in the western skies, beyond an ocean whose westward rolling bil- 
 low it was then deemed, broke on no shore toward the setting sun, 
 awaiting, in all the grandeur of waving forest, towering mountain, 
 and majestically winding stream, the further discoveries of science, 
 and the future wants of a progressive civilization. 
 
 Now let us for one moment contemplate this condition of affairs 
 throughout Europe — this vast number of scattered petty sovereign- 
 ties and municipal communities — this general pervasive ignorance — 
 this enormous mass of vassals, serfs, and slaves, which underlaid and 
 gave foundation to all ; and then ask ourselves, what process of legis- 
 lation or compact, originating merely in the human will, could have 
 resolved this jumble of conflicting materials into those organized 
 nations and communities of nations, which now constitute the civiliza- 
 tion of all Christendom. We can conceive of no process so origina- 
 ting, that could possibly have brought about this grand result. Yet 
 human legislation and compact were the secondary causes by which it 
 
ORATION. 331 
 
 was accomplished. But what, humanly speaking, was the primary 
 cause? That is the subject of our inquiry. I find it in a necessary 
 result of that law of scientific progress, which I have already pointed 
 out ; I find it in the grand revolution which at this time took place 
 in the science and art of war ; in one word, I find it in the invention 
 of gunpowder. Start not with incredulity and aversion at the annun- 
 ciation ; the cause of causes is there. Tell me not of wars domestic 
 and foreign, of treaties, of parliaments, of councils of state and church. 
 They were the mere external symptoms of the action of the all-suffi- 
 cient internal cause. Yes, the first cannon that projected the ball of 
 stone or iron, announced, in its own voice of thunder, the final doom 
 of the feudal system, the centralization of nations, the ultimate eman- 
 cipation of the enthralled, and the establishment of a christian civiliza- 
 tion on a basis never more to be periled by the inroad of barbarian, or 
 the invasion of Turk. The revival of ancient learning might have 
 done much toward again plating over society with the civilization of 
 classical antiquity ; but neither that nor mere human legislation could 
 have overthrown the feudal system, centralized nations, penetrated, 
 and finally emancipated the nether mass of bondmen, and forever shut 
 out the inundations of barbarism. 
 
 Feudalism gave way either immediately, in anticipation of the 
 results of the discovery, or finally, under the direct operation of its 
 physical force. What availed the Herculean arm, or giant muscular 
 force ? What availed the panoply of helmet, and shield, and coat of 
 mail ? Nay, what availed tower and trench, parapet and battlement, 
 whether of baronial castle, walled city, or burgher's armed abode ? 
 They all crumbled into atoms, or stood scathed and powerless before 
 the blast of this tremendous invention. 
 
 Gunpowder, in the material world, is a most terrible leveller ; it 
 makes no distinction between the strong man and the weak. But in 
 the world of mind, it is a most determined aristocrat. It establishes 
 " in times that try men's souls," none but the aristocracy of intellect. 
 Nay, in the long run, it goes still further ; for, since to command its 
 service it requires national wealth, it perpetuates power in the hands 
 of those only who know how best to use it for the benefit of all. 
 
 The barons abandoned their castles for the court of the sovereign 
 suzerain or lord ; and that lord became the most powerful whose 
 resources were the most abundant. Immense wealth, such only as a 
 people at least practically free, can create, became necessary in order 
 to carry on a war of off'ence or defence. The suzerain, or king, was 
 thus at once converted into the friend, and became the liberator of 
 
332 ORATION. 
 
 bondmen. Vassals and burghers became subjects and citizens, practi- 
 cally free. And their freedom was guarantied to them by no plighted 
 faith of kings ; by no lettered scroll of parchment ; but by an irre- 
 versible law of necessity, enacted by this sovereign invention. "What 
 it did for individuals, it did for nations ; armies could no longer carry 
 on war in a foreign country without keeping up a communication with 
 their own ; and to conquer a new country, was to establish a new base 
 for military operations against others ; and thus, from necessity, was 
 established a community of nations, in which the safety of all found a 
 guaranty only in the independence and freedom of each. Hence comes 
 that law of nations which is recognized by all Christendom, and that 
 sleepless vigilance which guards and preserves the balance of power. 
 
 Gentlemen : After considering these consequences, permit me to 
 ask you whether Christendom be indebted for her progress, thus far 
 stated, to human legislation, guided by some abstract theory merely, 
 or to the sovereign law imposed upon her by this all-controlling inven- 
 tion ? When one nation had adopted this invention, all were obliged 
 to adopt it, and Christendom having thus necessarily received this 
 power into her bosom, shaped her policy by the necessities which it 
 imposed. Indeed, she owed her then, and owes her present condition, 
 not to the foresight of her counsels guided by the speculations of her 
 theorists, but to this law of human progress, which has overruled her 
 follies and sustained her wisdom. 
 
 I have been considering an invention which begins its influence in 
 the world of matter and reflects it inward to the world of mind. I 
 now pass to another discovery or invention, that belongs to the same 
 century, but which begins its influence in the world of mind, and 
 reflects it outward to the world of matter. You will at once under- 
 stand me to refer to the art of printing. 
 
 Were human progress a mere result of fortuitous events, and not 
 the necessary operation of a law of mind proceeding from a designing 
 reason, these two doscoveries, made about the same time, might be 
 inscribed in the list of r(ma';kable coincidences. But they belong to 
 no such list. The inveLtion of printing, like every other, may be 
 traced from its first rude essays down through a logical series of dis- 
 coveries and improvements, urged on by the conspiring action of the 
 whole humanity, to its last grand result, as the necessary consequence 
 of all that has preceded it. It was necessary that a large portion 
 of the human race should be educated to the use of letters ; that the 
 art of reading and writing should become widely diffused ; the mate- 
 rials for copying cheap, and the demancl for copies beyond the capacity 
 
ORATION. 333 
 
 of the penman to supply. You may accordingly trace the growth 
 which produced this invention, from the first symbolic painting of 
 thought on rock or tree, by roving savage, to the mnemonic hiero- 
 glyphics inscribed on pyramid and temple ; then to characters repre- 
 senting words ; then to those respresenting syllables ; till the very 
 element of the human voice at last take representative form in the 
 alphabet. In this form it branches forth beyond the sacerdotal caste, 
 and, like the banyan tree, repeats itself by striking its far-reaching 
 branches into fresh soil. It passes from the Egyptian into the Phoe- 
 nician, thence into the stronger intellectual soil of Greece ; it multiplies 
 itself throughout the Roman empire, at every repetition making still 
 further demands upon the labors of the hand ; it survives the middle 
 ages, that its far-extending root and branch might draw increased vigor 
 from the northern mind, and that nether mass of humanity, which is 
 at length thrown open to more genial influences ; and then it is, that 
 this stupendous growth of all time puts forth, as its last fruit, this 
 wonder-working art of printing. Readers had multiplied with the 
 revival of ancient learning, with the progress of emancipation, with 
 the love of the marvelous in romance, and the mysterious in religion, 
 and demands for copies of great works, and especially for such as were 
 sacred, or were so esteemed, could be satisfied in no way but by the 
 labor-saving machinery of the press. 
 
 Now the military art must date its rude origin at the same distant 
 epoch. It must have grown by force of the same law of suggestion, 
 and therefore must have almost necessarily produced its corresponding 
 invention of gunpowder, during the same century. Thus it was that 
 one and the same law of progress conspired to perfect these two grand 
 inventions at about the same time. Twin sovereigns, the one to com- 
 mence its labors in the world of mind, the other in the world of 
 matter. 
 
 And what were the efi'ects of the art of printing, on social and poli- 
 tical institutions ? Did it take law from the human legislator, or give 
 him law ? Let us see. 
 
 It created, for the first time in history, what may be called a public 
 mind. Cabined and cribbed though it was, within the forms of an age 
 of despotism and bigotry, that mind grew and expanded, till it felt the 
 pressure of those forms as obstructions to its growth. It then reformed 
 the legislator himself, and through him cast off its obstructions, and 
 thereupon expanded, with a broader liberty, into a mightier stature. 
 
 This mind thus shaped itself, not upon general speculative ideas, 
 but upon natural tendencies and habits of thought, coming from the 
 
334 ORATION. 
 
 hoary past, and common to all, and to whicli tlie inspiring influence 
 of the press now gave an all-pervasive life. Society was thus made to 
 feel its existence through its organized entirety through all its insti- 
 tutions and interests ; and on this regenerated feeling, common to all, 
 was established a true sovereignty of public opinion. Do not misun- 
 derstand me. When I speak of public opinion, I do not mean the 
 wild impulse of minority or majority ; I do not mean popular agitation 
 or effervescence. I do not mean a state of mind indicated by mass 
 meetings, barbecues, and the like. These may indicate a feverish state 
 of the public mind, but they indicate no public opinion. On the con- 
 trary, they show that public opinion on the given subject is not yet 
 formed. But I mean that opinion which is a natural, spontaneous 
 growth, or proceeding from the organized whole ; which is therefore 
 in accordance with the political institutions, established interests, and 
 the general moral and religious sense of a community. Until these 
 are endangered, threatened or disturbed, public opinion rests unmoved, 
 and heeds not the angry discussions that are going on among the over- 
 heated partizans of the day. 
 
 If, therefore, you would know what public opinion is, do not look 
 to a party press that is doing what it can to draw forth an opinion 
 favorable to the cause which it advocates, but look to the established 
 interests, the intellectual character, and the moral and religious sense 
 of the people, which the whole press, in all the variety of its depart- 
 ments, has contributed to form, and from them estimate what the 
 common judgment, in the last result, must be. 
 
 Public opinion, in our country, indulges in no abstract specula- 
 tions : it leaves them to the dreams of the theorist. In the full enjoy- 
 ment of its own unobstructed freedom, it is never clamorous, it is 
 never violent. It moves only on great occasions, and under the 
 pressure of some stern necessity ; but, when it does move, it is irre- 
 sistible ; it bears down all opposition before it. The demagogue fre- 
 quently attempts to imitate the incipient stages of this movement, by 
 an artificial agitation of the masses. Yet his imposture is sure to 
 be detected in the end, by the fraudful expedients to which he resorts 
 in order to sustain that continued excitement in which alone he can 
 live. Public opinion neither countenances such expedients, nor 
 desires the agitation which they provoke. To it, all agitation is inci- 
 dental, and results from extraneous causes, or from its partial mani- 
 festations. Sovereign in itself, it seeks not the aid of violently excited 
 feeling, and when it unequivocally manifests itself, all agitation ceases, 
 and the stream of events rolls quietly on. 
 
ORATION. 335 
 
 It is when the course of the waters is obstructed, and they are 
 accumulating behind the obstruction, that this artificial, this counter- 
 feit agitation begins. It is then that every monstrous thing, little 
 and great, which peoples the flood, swells into unnatural dimensions, 
 and each, from the small fry to the leviathan, 
 
 Hug-est that swims the ocean stream^ 
 
 creates for itself its particular whirlpool and circle of bubble and 
 foam, deceiving the inconsiderate spectator into the belief that all this 
 is the agitation of the onward rolling flood, the indication of the 
 natural tendency and pressure of the mighty mass. Yet let but the 
 master-mind, which alone is competent to view the entirety ah extra, 
 open the sluice-way, or the accumulating wave break the obstruction 
 down, and the tide rolls tranquilly on, swallowing up in its prevailing 
 current, whirlpool, bubble and foam, and little monster and great, and 
 bearing them all quietly off" to the ocean of eternal oblivion. 
 
 This is public opinion ; the gravitation of the general mass of mind 
 through all its institutions and interest towards its eternal centre ; 
 and when it so gravitates, it is always right ; but this artificial agita- 
 tion is generally wholly individual, and when it is such, it is always 
 wrong ; since its object, whatever may be the pretext, is wholly 
 selfish. It is only when the agitation is natural, spontaneous, and 
 comes from an eff"ort to express the common wants and desires of a 
 people, and is conducted with a religious reverence for public morals, 
 for good order, and all truth, that it is ever the true harbinger of a 
 genuine and enduring public opinion. A public opinion, based upon 
 the generally received ideas of morality, religion, and law, doth in fact 
 constitute the common conscience of a people ; and it is this con- 
 science which in every great and trying emergency makes heroes or 
 cowards of us all, as we may chance to be right or wrong. 
 
 It was a deep religious and moral feeling of this sort, for the first 
 time brought into general activity by the diff"usion of the Scriptures 
 through the agency of the Press, which in the sixteenth century com- 
 menced and carried on the great work of religious reformation. The 
 obstructions to its eff'orts were mountainous, and a deep and wide 
 searching agitation went before it, often mingling error with truth. 
 It touched, it moved that principle which lies beneath the deepest 
 foundations of all that is human, and at once all social institutions 
 were agitated as by an earthquake. It taught the human to give 
 place to the divine. It dashed government against government, insti- 
 tution against institution, man against man \ and urged on that series 
 
336 ORATION. 
 
 of religious revolutions, which for ages shook all Europe ta its centre. 
 It passed from religion into philosophy ; it took form in politics ; it 
 produced its consequences in this country ; it exploded, with most 
 murderous effect, the combustible monarchy of France, and is to this 
 day, with almost undiminished energy, passing down its tremulous 
 agitations through the present into the boundless future. It changed 
 the aspect of Christendom ; it established Protestantism and Protestant 
 states, and reformed Romanism itself 
 
 Nobody can doubt that all these changes were the necessary results 
 of the discovery of the art of printing. They date from the com- 
 mencement of the reformation ; but the reformation could not have 
 succeeded except by the aid of this art. Before this discovery, it had 
 been repeatedly attempted both in church and out of church, and the 
 attempts had failed ; but after this discovery, it was attempted by a 
 poor obscure monk in Germany, and the attempt did not fail. It 
 began in the social mind, and extended itself, after much agitation, by 
 a regular and orderly process, through the legitimate legislation of 
 each community, out into state and church. 
 
 The creation of means by which the common mind, in every country 
 of Christendom, may in an orderly manner produce every desirable 
 and necessary change in government, is one of the important results 
 of this discovery ; but its general social results have been no less im- 
 portant. 
 
 Let us go back, if we can, to the middle of the fourteenth century. 
 Let us place ourselves in the bosom of that country whence all our 
 political and social institutions are directly or indirectly derived; 
 nay, from which all our ideas of legal right and duty, of liberty and 
 law, proceed ; and now, as in the midst of that century, let us see 
 what the condition of the common mind is without the aid of this art. 
 The first thing, then, that must strike our attention, is the general 
 apathy and indifference of the mass around us, as to all matters of 
 general, social and political importance. There is no press, there are 
 no newspapers, no periodicals, political, religious, literary or scientific. 
 In the place of the light which should come from these sources on the 
 common mind, a profound darkness prevails, beneath which, all 
 thought and action still rest in primeval slumber. But this is not 
 all ; there are no books in circulation or use, save those few that are 
 transcribed on parchment by the slow and tedious operations of the 
 pen. If we enter their public libraries, the precious manuscripts are 
 chained to the tables, or are guarded with the vigilance of armed senti- 
 nels. If we enter their schools, the child is learning his alphabet from 
 
ORATION. 337 
 
 a written scroll furnished him by his master. What a mass of ignorance ; 
 aye, and of necessary bondage ! How eagerly the million multitudes 
 look up to the learned few for light and guidance ! With what inten- 
 sity of attention do they hang on the utterance of their lips, and how 
 carefully do they treasure up, in their memories of iron, the oracles 
 that fall on their ears ! Ah ! these are days when it well behoves the 
 learned to take heed what they say. They are rulers of necessity, if 
 not of choice, and their words are law ; and well may they subject 
 themselves to some general rules of thought and speech, and become 
 a corporate community, sacerdotal or other, that the masses may take 
 organization beneath them. Well is it for humanity and human pro- 
 gress that they have this absolute masterdom, and can hold, in unquali- 
 fied subjection, the blind passions and terrible energies that are slum- 
 bering under them ! Now let us return to this our day and genera- 
 tion, and — 
 
 What a change ! The press is pouring forth its torrents of truth 
 or falsehood ; the land is whitened with its daily sheets ; the labors 
 of a whole literary life may be purchased by an hour's labor of the 
 mechanic ; reading is the pastime of man, woman, and child, of prince 
 and peasant ; and strange voices, laden with strange thoughts, come 
 thick on the classic ear, from cottage, and garret, and cellar. Where 
 is that awful intensity of attention, that necessary and salutary sub- 
 jection of the masses to the learned few ? Gone ! gone never to re- 
 turn ! Every individual has become an original centre of thought ; and 
 thought is every where tending to clash with thought, and action 
 with action. What is it that preserves order in the midst of all this 
 tendency to anarchy ? Why, it is done by that public opinion which 
 subsists from the organized whole, and which the press itself has cre- 
 ated. It is that public opinion, which, by its mere vis inertice^ sustains 
 the law, and holds the struggling demon of discord down. It takes 
 the place of the learned of old ; and how important it is that its gen- 
 uine authority should be sustained, and that no demagogue or insane 
 enthusiast should be permitted to impose on the world its counterfeit ! 
 
 This invention came not from legislation, but on the contrary, from 
 the independent progress of science and art. Unaided by human 
 policy, it organized for itself an empire within the privacy of the hu- 
 man mind ; and, gradually extending its dominion from spirit outward 
 into matter, brought human legislation, at last, to follow reluctantly 
 in the steps of its progress. And when, at length, the old world be- 
 came too limited for the intellectual growth which it had generated, 
 or ancient institutions so incorporated with the life of nations as not 
 
 43 
 
338 ORATION. 
 
 to admit of that change which its irrepressible expansion required, it 
 was then that the excess of this growth sought for and found in the 
 newly discovered western world, an ample theatre for its enlargement. 
 
 A world newly discovered ! and how ? Why, by the progressive 
 improvement of the art of navigation, aided by the then recent dis- 
 covery or application of the virtues of the magnet ; an art which had 
 taken its birth at the first stage of the progressive humanity, and which 
 had proceeded, pari passze, with other arts, under a common law of 
 progress, and which consequently had its corresponding discovery at 
 this very juncture of affairs. Under the government of Divine Provi- 
 dence, all is order and law ; and notwithstanding the occasional out- 
 breaks of human passion, and the perversity of the human will, that 
 government compels its own puny creatures, whatever may be their 
 motives, or however widely they may err, to shape their actions, at 
 last, to its own grand train of events, and to carry out and fufil its 
 own great designs. 
 
 All three of those wonderful inventions, gunpowder, printing, and 
 the compass, were necessary to the successful establishment of the 
 Anglo-Saxon colonies on these shores. A number of tempest-driven 
 Northmen doubtless discovered and colonized them in the beginning 
 of the eleventh century ; but their discovery was premature. It came 
 not in the logical order of progress. The colonists necessarily failed 
 to effect a permanent establishment. Their intercourse with the mo- 
 ther country was fraught with every peril of uncertainty j for, over 
 fog-wrapt surge, or beneath cloud-invested sky, they wandered without 
 compass or guide. The shores themselves were occupied by ferocious 
 savages, and fire-arms were wanting to subdue them. And then, what 
 availed it to add the forest and barbarism of the new world to the forest 
 and semi-barbarism of the old ? The invention of printing was yet 
 wanting to reform the general mind of Europe, and to generate that 
 spirit which in after times was to go forth to establish its emancipation 
 on the.se shores, under the auspices of institutions to be formed from 
 all that was select and glorious in the past. The establishment and 
 development of the institutions under which we live, are due to no 
 arbitrary enactments, suggested by abstract speculations, but are the 
 necessary results of the operations of these discoveries and inventions, 
 on the free growth of the Anglo-Saxon idea of liberty and law. 
 
 Thus the state of the arts and sciences, in the beginning of the 
 eleventh century, was not such as to enable the progressive humanity 
 to discover these shores, and to establish permanent dominion on this 
 side the Atlantic. Their accidental discovery, at that time, yielded 
 
ORATION, 339 
 
 no useful results. But the progress of the arts and sciences in the 
 fifteenth century had been such as to furnish all the necessary means 
 for the purpose ; and the discovery and colonization of this continent 
 followed as a necessary consequence in the consecutive order of events. 
 Its discovery tlien took its place, as a logical result of the grand series 
 of discoveries and inventions that had preceded it, and thus became a 
 new premise, or broader basis for the progressive action of the race. 
 
 I might here dwell on the consequences of the discovery of America, 
 and its settlement by civilized communities. I might show how those 
 consequences reacted on the arts and sciences themselves, on the rela- 
 tions of nations, on their internal polities, their domestic habits, and 
 social enjoyments ; shaping their institutions and controlling their 
 legislation. But I deem further historical illustrations unnecessary. 
 The great truth that human progress is the result of an ever active 
 law, manifesting itself chiefly in scientific discovery and invention, 
 and thereby controlling legislation, and giving enduring improvement 
 to all social and political institutions, cannot be a subject of historical 
 question or doubt. It is a law as palpable in the history of the social 
 mind, as the law of gravitation in the movement of matter. Indeed, 
 I should feel that I owed a serious apology to my hearers for having 
 detained them so long on this point, were it not for certain extrava- 
 gant ideas which seem to be rife in the land. The advocates of those 
 ideas would teach us that there is an absolute, undefinable popular 
 sovereignty, which can, in a manner its own, and at any moment, 
 carry a certain supposed natural equality into social and political life, 
 and tliereby elevate poor human nature, however rude and degraded 
 its condition, at once, as by a sort of magic, into a state of supreme 
 and absolute perfection. When this sovereignty does not itself act 
 to this end, it invokes the legislature, which is supposed to be compe- 
 tent to do nearly as much. No doubt government can do much ; it 
 can suppress insurrection, it can repel invasion, it can enforce con- 
 tracts, preserve the peace, concentrate and protect the existing arts ; 
 but all this is to organize, and sustain organization, and not to estab- 
 lish the statural equality. Yet this is all that government can do to 
 promote human improvement ; but in doing this, it does but act in 
 obedience to that law, by which God governs in the progress of the 
 race. 
 
 The idea that legislation necessarily acts an inferior part in human 
 progress, that this progress is governed by a law that overrules and 
 controls political sovereignty, may be humbling indeed to the dema- 
 gosrue, who would make everything bend to the popular will. But 
 
340 ORATION. 
 
 there this law is, an tindoubted and incontrovertible reality, which 
 will bear with no paltering, but demands the obedience of all, on the 
 penalty of degradation or ruin. The true statesman, the real pro- 
 moter of human progress, at once recognizes, and feels proud to obey 
 it. He feels that in so doing, he is performing the most elevated and 
 dignified of duties. For though by legislation he cannot advance the 
 entire humanity a single step, yet he may, by legislation, materially 
 advance the nation for which he legislates. You may be able to add 
 nothing to the light of the sun, yet you may concentrate his rays in a 
 focus, and thus make a particular point, as bright as the source from 
 which they emanate. The statesman can concentrate the scattered 
 arts ; he may carry out each discovery and invention to all its availa- 
 ble uses, and thus elevate the nation which he serves, to the head of 
 the progressive humanity. Yet if he would do this, he must not wait 
 to be driven to the task, like a galley slave, by the rival and threaten- 
 ing policy of foreign governments. For the very fact that they coerce 
 him, shows that they are already in his advance. 
 
 Supposing that a people has already adopted the common arts and 
 sciences, as far as they are available, there will still remain certain 
 discoveries and inventions of more recent date, which are not fully 
 applied, or carried to their necessary consequences. Among these, in 
 modern times, there has always been some one susceptible of such 
 universality of application, as would seem to merit the particular con- 
 sideration of statesmen. Take, for instance, at the present time, the 
 steam engine. What is susceptible of more universal application? 
 What, bringing out all its powers, can add greater energy and vigor 
 to the arm of government ? What has, or can perform greater won- 
 ders? Not gunpowder, not the compass, nay, not even the press. 
 It may be made to toil in the field, and supplant the labor of the 
 slave. It already works at the spindle, and the loom, and the forge, 
 and the mine. It is even now, whilst I am speaking, moving over 
 earth with the speed of wings, walking up the downward torrent, and 
 triumphantly striding over the roaring billows of the Atlantic. 
 Already, where in use, has it reduced the distance one half between 
 man and man, nation and nation, of extreme islands and continents 
 of the habitable globe. It has brought civilization into immediate 
 contact with barbarism, and Christianity with heathenism. 
 
 Unless all history be false, and the eternal laws of matter and mind 
 nothing but a dream, there can be little dagger in predicting too much 
 for the progress of this invention. Indeed, the danger is, that the 
 most extravagant predictions will fall short of the reality. No matter 
 
ORATION. 341 
 
 what government first applies this invention to all its practical naval 
 and military uses, other governments must follow, however reluctantly, 
 or cease to exist. Nay, should an unwonted apathy seize on all civi- 
 lized governments, society would, at length, do the work to a great 
 extent at their hands. The progress of this invention is ever onward 
 and will not cease until it has filled the world with its consequences. 
 
 Already has it coasted the shores of India, penetrated its interior 
 by river or road, invaded the empire of China, and roused the Chinese 
 mind by its appalling apparition, from the long slumber of centuries 
 past. Ere long it shall bind subject Asia to Europe by bands of iron, 
 and the Cossack and the Tartar, whilst feeding their herds on the 
 banks of the Don and the steppes of southern Kussia, shall start with 
 amazement at the shrill whistle of the locomotive, and the thunder of 
 the rail-road car, as it sweeps on toward the confines of China. Can 
 the monarchies of Europe slumber in security, whilst the immense 
 Russian Empire is thus centralizing and condensing its vast military 
 resources and population at their backs ? Never ; their very exist- 
 ence must depend upon their resort to like means of defence or an- 
 noyance. And, from the heart of every monarchy of Europe, must 
 diverge rail-roads to every assailable extreme ; that when danger 
 comes, and come it must, the whole war force of the nation may move, 
 at a moment's warning, with the speed of wings, to the extreme point 
 of peril. 
 
 The governments of Europe must become stronger internally and 
 externally ; more secure within and more formidable without, maugre 
 the democratic tendencies by which they are threatened. Democracy 
 is strong, but here is a power still stronger, that will have its course. 
 It is a power with which governments will and must organize them- 
 selves, at their peril, whatever may be their form. And when thus 
 organized, their endurance must be as that of adamant. Organized 
 on like basis, our representative democracy itself may be secure ; but 
 if not thus organized, it can only wait, with as much quietude as it 
 may, to be gradually absorbed, and finally swallowed up by the strong 
 organizations that may be brought to bear upon it. Think ye that the 
 military progress of this invention in the old world is to produce no 
 eflfect on the new ; that the breadth of the Atlantic is to set bounds 
 to its effects ? The breadth of the Atlantic ! Why, it has become a 
 narrow frith, over which armies may be ferried in twelve or fifteen 
 days, to land in slave or non-slaveholding States, at option ; and that 
 power, " whose home is on the deep," already transports over her watery 
 empire, on the wings of this invention, her victorious cannon. Other 
 
342 ORATION. 
 
 governments are little behind her in the application of this power. 
 Thus menaced, have we strength to do our duty with dignity ? Can 
 we much longer be governed by factions ? 
 
 I am not suggesting a course of policy ; I am simply carrying our 
 premises to their necessary consequences ; and to that end I ask : If 
 we continue a free and independent people, must we not organize our- 
 selves on the basis which this invention affords ? Can we avoid it ? 
 Have we any choice but to radiate our country with communications 
 for its defence, that the whole war force of the nation may be thrown 
 with railroad speed on any point of danger? This system of defence 
 may not be adopted till the shock of some foreign invasion, or some 
 terrible internal convulsion, forces upon the government the necessity 
 of adopting it ; and then, if it be the will of God that we continue one 
 people, it will, and must be adopted. When it is done, this union will 
 be complete ; its duration will depend on no written scroll of parch- 
 ment ; on no variable popular breath ; its strength on no constitutional 
 constructions changing to suit the temper of the times, but the consti- 
 tution itself, resolved by the law of progress, shall take form, over the 
 whole face of the land, in bands of iron. 
 
 Such must be the political progress of this invention. Government, 
 in this country, has as yet done nothing, but society has done much. 
 True to itself and its highest interests, it has been prompt in obedi- 
 ence to the law of progress. It has already extended, and still con- 
 tinues to extend the application of this sovereign invention. It has 
 contracted, as it were, this country within half its former space. It 
 has made a sparse population dense, and if a dense population has its 
 evils, as in large cities it certainly has, the same invention offers an 
 antidote. It can, without disadvantage, render those populations 
 sparse. It can combine the morality and the occupation of a rural 
 with the intellectual activity of an urban population. It will and 
 must proceed on its mission, by force of the very law which gave it 
 existence, till the civilization of Christendom, on the basis which it 
 affords, has been fully accomplished, and then, by force of the same 
 law, will it bear that civilization into the bosom of barbarism, chris- 
 tianize the nations, and establish the dominion of the arts over the 
 broad face of earth and ocean. 
 
 Such is the nature of the law of progress. Ever adding to the 
 triumphs of intellect, ever expanding the sphere of civilization, ever 
 enlarging the domain of liberty and law, it began its political and 
 social manifestations, as from a central point, in the sacerdotal caste 
 of Egypt. It continued them in Greece, and there, with the fine arts 
 
ORATION. 343 
 
 and liberal sciences, expanded its influence over a wider compass. It 
 reflected its action thence into the yet barbarous Latium. It created 
 the civilization of Rome ; Rome carried that civilization abroad among 
 the nations of the earth, and enstamped her image wherever she set 
 down the foot of her power. Barbarism came to receive the teachings 
 of this civilization, at length christianized, and to open a sphere of 
 action for the physical sciences and useful arts in the nether masses. 
 Then came the era for deepening as well as widening the action of 
 this law, by the aid of physical discovery and invention. Fire arms 
 resolved the feudal system into a community of nations. The press 
 inspired that community with a common soul. The compass revealed 
 this western world, and pioneered to these shores the select mind and 
 choicest institutions of Europe. It still urged on its discoveries ; it 
 has nearly completed the exploration of the globe. And now comes 
 this invention of Watt to perfect what these discoveries have begun, 
 and then to penetrate into every part of the world, and to carry a 
 Christian civilization wherever it penetrates. Sprung, armed for its 
 mission, from the head of the progressive humanity, it cometh forth 
 the genuine ofi'spring of that one Eternal Reason which hath ruled 
 through all ages past. It embraceth within itself, struggling for utter- 
 ance, the history of millenniums to come. It standeth before the portals 
 of the future, but as no veiled Isis, as no mute and motionless Harpo- 
 crates. It hath a language its own ; and as it moveth to its task, it 
 talketh freely of its mission. Thou unambiguous prophet ! what a voice 
 forthe future speaketh from the expanding volume of thy force ! What 
 a tale to the future is foretokened in the movements of thy demon 
 strength ! Great fashioner of the destinies of nations ! Thou hast 
 hardly commenced thy career of victory ; but when it is finished, all 
 lands and all seas shall lie beneath thy feet, at once conquered and 
 glorified by thy conquest ! 
 
 And now, gentlemen, if such be the law of human progress, if it 
 must thus ever operate from the past into the present, and through 
 the present to the future, and as by a sort of logical process, what 
 becomes of those doctrines of social and political reform, with which 
 our land is now so rife, and with which the public ear is so incessantly 
 abused ? What becomes of those ideas of a natural, absolute, unlim- 
 ited and uncontrollable popular sovereignty, which is at once to bring 
 humanity to perfection by establishing a natural liberty and a natural 
 equality in social and political life % There may be a dire clashing 
 among some of the ideas that are thus brought forcibly together ; but 
 the wise advocates of these doctrines see it not, feel it not. They 
 
344 ORATION. 
 
 have sundry naked abstractions, wliicli they have created for them- 
 selves, or others for them, upon which, "by their own unassisted wisdom 
 they hope to build up society anew, on an improved plan. They would 
 cut clear from the past ; they would establish a new theory of human 
 nature, and base a human progress upon ideas and laws their own. 
 Well ! let them do it ; but let them do it, as they must, with material 
 their own. Let them create their world, and their man and woman, 
 after their own image, and then, on their principles, run their course 
 of events in rivalry with that of Divine Providence. But let them not 
 lay their hands on those whom God has created after his image, and 
 who are moving on to their high destiny under his divine guidance. 
 Let them not undertake to substitute their will for His, their laws for 
 His, over any except their own, and we shall then know what that 
 progress is about which they are now so abundantly eloquent. 
 
 In their estimation, all social and political institutions can be re- 
 moved, by their sovereign wills, with the same ease that you take the 
 glove from your hand, and any of their own imaginings substituted in 
 their place. Their abstractions have no reference to the influence of 
 the past on the present ; no reference to the existing social or politi- 
 cal organizations which have grown out of by-gone centuries ; and it is 
 not strange that they are utterly astonished to find, when they attempt 
 to carry them into effect, that they are entering into conflict with all 
 that the past has done for us. And then it is very natural for them 
 to proceed, from lauding their own principles, to the abuse of the past ; 
 to the abuse of all our ancestral institutions and social and political 
 ideas, as antiquated, and as obstructions to human progress. 
 
 G-entlemen, the present state of human progress is a child, of which 
 the hoary past is the venerable father. And the child bears the image 
 and feels the pulsating blood, and enjoys the patrimony of its sepul- 
 chred parent. There is not an institution, or science, or art, of any 
 practical value, nothing of the good or true, in social or political life, 
 that has not come down to us as a creation, or as a result of the labors 
 and achievements of the venerated dead ; the dead, not of modern 
 times merely, but of far distant antiquity. The blood of Thermo- 
 pylae, of Marathon, and Platea, flowed not in vain for us. Homer 
 sung, Plato mused, and Socrates moralized, for our benefit. For us 
 Rome went forth in her invincible legion to conquer and humanize ; 
 for us Roman wisdom planned and Roman valor fought, and laid 
 broad and deep the foundations of Christendom. Aye, something 
 even of our nearer selves appears in the action of the distant past. 
 That blood, which now circulates warm through the Anglo-American 
 
ORATION. 345 
 
 heart, may be traced througli centuries of light and shadow, of 
 triumph and trial, in the Anglo-Saxon line. For us it struggled 
 under the Norman rule, and created our idea of liberty and law ; 
 for us it struck the harp of heaven in Milton, of nature in Shak- 
 speare, and proclaimed the laws of the universe in the philosophy 
 of Newton. ! let us build monuments to the past. Let them 
 tower on mound and mountain ; let them rise from the corners of 
 our streets, and in our public squares, that childhood may sport 
 its marbles at their basements, and lisp the names of the com- 
 memorated dead, as it lisps the letters of its alphabet. Thus shall 
 the past be made to stand out in a monumental history, that may be 
 seen by the eye, and touched by the hand. Thus shall it be made to 
 subsist to the senses, as it still lives in the organization of the social 
 mind ; an organization from which its errors have died out, or are 
 dying, and in which nothing but its Herculean labors do, or are to 
 endure. Yes, let us sanctify the past, and let no hand, with sacrile- 
 gious violence, dare mar its venerable aspect. Change indeed must 
 come, but then let it come by force of the necessary law of progress. 
 So shall the present still ever build and improve on a patrimony 
 formed by the deeds of heroic virtue, and the labors of exalted intel- 
 lect. So shall the great and glorious be added to the great and glori- 
 ous, and the labors of the illustrious dead still be made fruitful by the 
 labors of illustrious living, time without end. 
 
 Such is the nature of that inheritance which has come down to us 
 from the past, worthy to be honored by every philanthropic feeling for 
 the present, and cherished by every hope for the future. And now 
 do these theorists expect us to renounce this patrimony, and go and 
 build on their barren abstractions? — commence a new progress on 
 their empty speculations 1 And shall we do it % No, never, never, 
 whilst humanity, through her grand organization of nations, yields a 
 necessary obedience to the laws of the Supreme Reason, or Nature, 
 through her universal frame of worlds, stands fast in the laws of her 
 God! 
 
THE 
 
 PANIDE A; 
 
 OR, 
 
 AN OMNIPRESENT REASON 
 
 CONSIDERED AS 
 
 THE CREATIVE AND SUSTAINING 
 
 LOGOS. 
 
 And I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thought; a sense sublime, 
 Of something far more deeply interfused. 
 Whose dwelling is the light ot setting suns, 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 And the blue sky; and, in the mind of man, 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things— all objects of all thought, 
 And rolls through all things. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 TJie All resolved into its subjective unity .^ in the Logos^ or Absolute 
 Reason. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 T/ie subjective unity in the Logos^ or Absolute Reason, resolved into 
 its objective all, sensuous and super sensuous. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Spheres sensuous anrJ. supersensuoiis — their correspondence and difer- 
 ence. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 T7w Logos — all present and all assimilative. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The Me, or Homo Individualis. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The Theanthropoid* or Homo Universalis. 
 
 * Theanthropoid is a Greek compound, formed from the words Qtoq, (God) 
 av^qvmog, (man,) and iiSog, (form.) It maybe well here to add that the title Pan- 
 idea is, likewise, a Greek compound, formed from the words nav (all) and idta^ 
 (idea,) and is pronounced with the accent on the last syllable but one, as in pana- 
 cea. 
 
THE PANIDEA 
 
 CHAPTER I, 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Nature, that veiled Isis, ever stands at the portals of existence, as 
 at the gates of her own temple, and puts these questions to every 
 human being that enters : What am I ? Whence am 1 1 and. To what 
 end ? Day and night, ever since the birth of Humanity, she has re- 
 peated these questions without pause, and still, for the want of a per- 
 fect answer, will continue to repeat them through all time to come. 
 Yet it is not the mere image, that visible and palpable form which 
 stands before him who is thus addressed, that is the real interrogator ; 
 but the Divinity — the soul that dwells within it. The image is a 
 mere form, through which the Deity ventriloquizes these queries, con- 
 cerning this particular phase of his existence. When we find our- 
 selves interrogated by such a being, we may well ask what the ques- 
 tions imply, with a full confidence that every one of their necessary 
 implications is a truth. And 
 
 WHAT ARE THEIR NECESSARY IMPLICATIONS ? 
 
 Do they not necessarily imply an ability in him who is interrogated, 
 to return an answer in some sort true ? Do they not necessarily imply 
 a command to answer ? Do they not necessarily imply a duty to obey 
 the command according to the ability of him who is so questioned ? 
 Truly these are the necessary implications of questions propounded 
 by a divine querist. 
 
 Humanity has not neglected her duty, or been slow to obey the 
 implied command. She has freely used her abilities, whatever they 
 may have been, and in her eiforts to answer the questions, she has 
 served herself In what condition would she now be, had she ever 
 turned a deaf ear and stood mute before the divine querist ? She 
 would be without religion, without philosophy, without science, without 
 its resulting art ; without government, without law. The African, 
 who worships the beetle, or fetich, has not been entirely mute : and is 
 
352 P A N I D E A. 
 
 decidedly in advance of the condition of absolute disobedience to the 
 high command. 
 
 Humanity necessarily began her efforts to solve the problem, thus 
 presented, with a blended philosophy and religion. These resulted 
 in scientific discovery ; scientific discovery reflected itself back on re- 
 ligion and philosophy, which, rectified or confirmed thereby, gave new 
 direction or new energy to scientific investigation ; and thus has the 
 progress of the race been urged on, from generation to generation. 
 All have been, consciously or unconsciously, engaged in solving the 
 grand problem. No step has been taken in human progress — no new 
 truth has been revealed, that has not been an advance toward this still 
 ever receding goal. 
 
 The problem itself is, indeed, a theme as ancient as the human 
 mind ; and, if the solution has been attempted from like cause, and 
 with like means of investigation, it certainly cannot be surprising if 
 like ideas have been again and again evolved, and like systems again 
 and again brought forward, with no other claims to novelty than what 
 they might derive from some really new, or pretendedly new combi- 
 nation of the same anciently recognized elements. Therefore, in 
 offering any seeming solution of a problem, which has been thus a 
 subject of scrutiny through all time, no one should flatter himself 
 with the idea that he has any element of thought to present which has 
 not already been a subject of discussion. The most that he can hope 
 to accomplish is, perhaps, to ofter some new mode of illustrating old 
 thoughts, or to reveal some new test of their truth, which shall give 
 combination and unity to ideas hitherto without an approved system. 
 If he can accomplish this, he may thereby be enabled to present, in 
 some sort, (since all truths subsist together in harmony,) a solution 
 not inconsistent with, but supported by the existing state of science, 
 and which shall be so illustrated, so cleared of all mysticism — if in 
 any respect it be obnoxious to the charge — as to render it intelligible 
 to the general mind, on the simple condition of a fixed attention and 
 earnest desire to understand its process. In the chapters which are 
 to follow, there may be few thoughts that fundamentally differ from 
 those which are the common property of the philosophic world. In- 
 deed, he who gives but a little attention to the history of Philosophy, 
 cannot fail to learn how true is the maxim of the wise man of old, 
 who could discover nothing new under the sun. Yet, though there 
 may be nothing new, in the leading ideas of the system which shall 
 be presented for the consideration of the reader, since those ideas may 
 be found scattered in various systems, there may be something new in 
 
P A N I D E A. 353 
 
 their combination. And should this combination be the legitimate 
 result of some one trut\ it will acquire, from that fact, that kind of 
 consistency and unity, which are essential to the clear understanding 
 of, and full faith in, any system. The author will endeavor in the 
 following chapters to shew, not a priori merely, but by an experi- 
 mental process, yielding an appropriate formula, that there is a truth 
 which is competent to produce such a combination. He hopes to 
 show that this truth, on its application to all sensuous and intellectual 
 phenomena, operates as a law of unity, whereby it reveals, in a manner 
 not altogether unlike the Newtonian idea of gravitation, the fact, 
 that one grand order, subsisting from the Absolute Unit, pervades all 
 matter and mind ; and that all existences whether spiritual or mate- 
 rial, subsist as one infinite whole, in the Eternal Soul of all things. 
 
 And now it may be a matter of some interest to the reader, to be 
 informed what this truth or fact is, which promises such results. It 
 is a truth, whose expression or formula, furnishes the author with his 
 method of treating his subject ; and to the end that the reader may 
 more clearly understand the bearing of this truth on the problems to 
 which its formula applies, he proposes, in the first instance, to distin- 
 guish between the method which it gives, and that which is in general 
 use ; in other words, to show where the latter method ends, and the 
 former begins. 
 
 The ordinary method ends, not merely with the phenomena of con- 
 sciousness — that is with perceptions, conceptions, imagination, memory, 
 and generally with the laws of thought — but with the necessary infer- 
 ence of the existence of something distinct from the consciousness 
 whence these phenomena and these laws proceed ; or which, subsisting 
 centrally in the conciousness, is itself the life and the law thereof. 
 Every one, who has attentively observed the facts of consciousness, 
 must have remarked that our thoughts arise and succeed each other 
 without any special act of the will. We may, indeed, arrest a particu- 
 lar thought, or train of thoughts, and examine it in all its relations ; 
 nay, we may, by one of these relations, pass to other thoughts ; but 
 by no act of the will can we pass, as by a leap, from this to that dis- 
 tinct thought, having no connection with the former. Their connec- 
 tion or relation must be felt, and when it is felt, and apperceived, 
 thought succeeds thought spontaneously, and as by a power or energy 
 its own. In this, we witness the acts of the will on one side, and the 
 acts of that which is not of the will on the other ; in other words, of 
 the self or me, and of that which is not the self, or is the not-rae. We 
 thus discover a power within, yet foreign to us, which gives law to 
 
 45 
 
354 P A N I D E A. 
 
 thought, and is in fact the parent of every mental phenomenon, that 
 is not a mere volition. 
 
 Now I may designate this power, as the perfect Reason, the Logos, 
 the Divine Presence ; psychologically considered, it matters not what 
 I call it, provided I ascribe to it no attributes other than those which 
 it reveals in the consciousness. And this, I apprehend, is the utmost 
 limit of the ordinary method, inward or upward. 
 
 But I may be satisfied, from observation and experience, that all 
 other human minds present the like phenomena, and are governed by 
 the same laws, which I observe in my own ; and must I not, then, infer 
 that the same reason, or divine power, or being, is present in all minds 
 just as" it is in my own ? This is an inference which cannot be resist- 
 ed ; and then, if it be Deity that is thus present, does he exist by dif- 
 fusion, or does he multiply himself, and exist as so many distinct beings 
 in the hundreds of millions of human minds that are now acting their 
 distinct parts on this our planet 1 
 
 Here are grave questions, to either of which an affirmative answer 
 involves an apparent absurdity. I am therefore forced to the neces- 
 sity of questioning my ideas concerning space and extension — concern- 
 in g unity and plurality . What are they, and whence ? 
 
 It was during a consideration of this question that a fact was evolved, 
 new at least to me, and which had, as I supposed, a material bearing 
 upon it. It was a fact which gave, or seemed to give, a complete an- 
 swer to the question, and with it, what may be called a new method of 
 investigating, arranging, and of resolving into absolute unity, all spir- 
 itual and material natures, without disturbing their identity, or marring 
 the unity into which they were resolvable — a method which, without 
 interfering with the before mentioned strictly psycholygical method, 
 aided it by giving logical combination and unity to its results. Indeed 
 it seemed to go something further. It seemed necessarily to result 
 in a system in which my own conscious being was resolved into a type, 
 representative of the great whole. It revealed a being, in this not-me 
 within, that seemed to involve all things in self, and to be at once 
 present to my own, and to every other human mind — and that without 
 division or diffusion. The result of this new idea of the Presence was, 
 that it produced combinations its own — perfectly coincident, however, 
 with all that falls within our experience. It bro ught like to lik e, 
 revealed a law of assimilation, and resolved all the infinitude of par- 
 ticulars into en~tireties7ahd then the entireties themselves, in t^e last 
 result, into th e unity of the Reason or Logos. Yet it avoided (pan the- 
 
P A N I D E A. 355 
 
 /Ism ^Aless it were on th e in comprehensi b le scale of the infinite^ by 
 ( repdgnizing a li mited or quasffreedom in the human w ill. "^ ~ " 
 
 And now, what is the fact ^ 
 
 I have no name for it ; but I will endeavor to give the reader some 
 idea of it by an illustration, or proof, drawn from the phenomenon of 
 the single perception of an object from the double images of the retinse. 
 
 Whilst engaged in studying Hartley's theory of vibrations, in refer- 
 ence to this phenomenon, the thought occurred to me that it might be 
 accounted for on the principle that the space between the two images 
 was not, to the percipient faculty, an object of visual perception ; in 
 other words, that two similar images would necessarily be as one, if 
 there were no visible objects between them. The correctness of this 
 conclusion I endeavored to establish by actual experiment — with what 
 success the reader will judge when he has perused the next chapter. 
 
 Upon applying the formula which the experiment gave, I found that 
 any number of similar visible objects was resolvable into unity, by the 
 mere ideal abstraction of their separating spaces ; and it hence followed, 
 that space, abstractly considered, was nothing but the ascription of the 
 Reason or Logos, or of some power operating as a law to the conscious- 
 ness, of geometrical relations to a coexistent plurality of objects. And 
 then, since we determined the extent of bodies in themselves by the 
 relations of part to part, and of each part to the whole, any coexist- 
 ent plurality — say resisting mathematical points or forces, having no 
 dimensions, but by their resistance made obvious to the senses — ^would 
 bring with it the idea of extension. But if this were so, then all 
 objects of sense — the whole material universe, myself included, were 
 resolvable into this Reason, Power or Presence. And I felt no diffi- 
 culty in conceiving that ideas or imagery of the divine mind, subsist- 
 ing from the absolute will, might be to me — a co-ordinate image and 
 a finite will — the stern and unyielding realities which they seemed to 
 be. Matter itself might be but the repetition, ad infinitum in the 
 degree of the infinitesimal, of the absolute unit, and the various forms 
 which it took, but the ultimates of ideas or conceptions in the divine 
 }nind. 
 
 Nor, by the aid of the same formula, was it difficult to show how 
 the Supreme Reason, in the unity of the personal divine, could be pre- 
 sent, even in its entirety^ as the central being of every human soul. 
 For to it, in the absolute esse, there were no separating spaces, and all 
 entities were as one. Nor did it seem difficult to conceive of an order 
 of presence and a resulting law of assimilation, in and by which, like 
 was classed with like, and the each and all, of the individualities of 
 
356 P A N I D E A. 
 
 each class, made to subsist as one idea, one image, in the divine mind. 
 This I hope to make very clear in the following chapters ; but for the 
 present, I draw an illustration from our ideas of number. 
 
 The idiot, according to Hobbes, counts the strokes of the clock, one, 
 one, one, on to twelve ; yet he has no idea of twelve, as an entirety — 
 as a sum, or abstract idea — which embraces within itself all the several 
 units, and sums of which it is composed — that is every unit and every 
 sum which may be formed by any number of them, from two to twelve.* 
 Yet such is the idea which the word twelve represents and expresses. 
 Now, just as this idea involves all the units and sums that compose 
 it, so this Reason or Logos, by virtue of its presence, involves within 
 itself — within its own unity — all individualities, species, genera, orders, 
 classes ; and gives the all to subsist as one idea — one form — ^within it- 
 self And this I hope may excuse, if it cannot justify, the perhaps too 
 ambitious language of the title page. 
 
 In endeavoring to prove the truth of this system, I shall not confine 
 myself strictly to ontological and psychological methods. The point, 
 from which I am to view the great problem, enables me to draw 
 illustrations and proofs from the material world, and even from the 
 history of the race ; and I may at a future period, for the purpose of 
 showing the conformity of the system even to the course of human 
 events, conclude this treatise, by educing from the premises which it 
 affords, a brief philosophy of history which shall appropriate, as a ne- 
 cessary part of it, the essentials of revealed religion. 
 
 Being in possession of a formula which gives a method, and discloses 
 results, thus consonant to our experience, knowledge, and hopes, I have 
 thought that it would, at least, be excusable to obtain from it whatever 
 results it might fairly yield. And if I in doing this may seem to be 
 too daring, let the reader recollect, that I am only following what I 
 deem to be a fact, to its necessary results ; and that I am responsible 
 for those results, only to the extent of my responsibility for the truth 
 of the fact from which they are educed. 
 
 But there may be those who will shrink from the perusal of a trea- 
 tise which recognizes the divine attributes in aught that manifests 
 itself in humanity ; and who will confound the words " The Reason, 
 The Logos," &c., as here used, with those which designate a faculty 
 deemed merely human, and therefore fallible. For there are many of 
 the best minds, who almost unconsciously adopt a sort of mechanical 
 
 * So one may count days, one, one, one, until they amount to a century, and yet 
 form no idea of any combination of them as a unit, such as a week, a month, a year, 
 a century. Each of these embrace their fractional parts, (which are themselves en- 
 tireties,) as well as their combinations. The day, the week, the month, the year, the 
 century, are all equally units and entireties. 
 
P A N I D E A. 357 
 
 system of philosophy, which regards Nature as a whole, and even the 
 mind of man itself as mere machines, which Deity has indeed created, 
 but which he has left to move on to their destinies, under the govern- 
 ment of impulses or laws which he has given them, but from which he 
 has withdrawn his presence, as the essentially vital and actuating 
 power. It is due to such persons — it is due to 'inyself^ on their ac- 
 count — to state, more particularly, in what sense I use these terms. 
 
 The word Logos, is Greek. It is translated, in the first chapter of 
 John the Evangelist, " The Word" — " In the beginning was the Word." 
 But it also signifies the Reason, the Wisdom, and the like. I have 
 adopted it here, following other writers on like subjects, as synonymous 
 with the phrases. The Perfect Reason, The Supreme Reason, The 
 Absolute Reason, the Omnipresent Reason, and others of correspond- 
 ing import, varied to suit the phase, in which the idea is regarded ; 
 and I use the term Logos, frequently in connection with these phrases, 
 merely for the purpose of keeping constantly in the mind of the reader 
 the recollection, that that which these phrases designate, is, although 
 it appear in the mind of man, something distinct from, and infinitely 
 above the mere individual will, or aught that belongs to the individual 
 self, or Me. 
 
 In this Reason, or Logos, we recognize the Divine Unit, from which 
 all things have proceeded, and in which all things are. In it, we re- 
 cognize Deity, as he manifests himself in the microcosm, man. When 
 we recognise this Reason as not human — save when we pervert it — 
 but as the Divinity within us, we recognize Grod in the centre of con- 
 sciousness ; and then we have a right to infer. He being a unit, and 
 every where present, that what He is there. He is, mutatis mutandis, 
 every where. Let me illustrate these ideas, by tracing the manifesta- 
 tions of this being, within the sphere of my own consciousness. 
 
 In the most elevated sphere of cognition or inference, I recognize 
 Him as that absolute or supreme Reason, in which space, extension, 
 and all the forms of the world of the senses are still ever immanent 
 and ever subsistent, as a one continuous thought or conception. In 
 this sphere, his dominion is absolute. But when I recognize the same 
 being, as acting within the limited sphere of my finite self — which he has 
 indeed created, but created finite — I recognize him as a reason which 
 rules according to those partial and imperfect ideas, notions, or forms 
 of thought, that by his presence he causes to arise within me, by occa- 
 sion of the blind groping of the will. This Reason, or Deity, even 
 then, however, still rules, and conducts us logically sometimes to the 
 demonstration direct, sometimes to the redicctio ad absurdum ; as the 
 
358 PANIDEA. 
 
 premises may chance to be perfect or imperfect, true or false — and it 
 thus becomes what may, for the purpose of distinction, be called the 
 reflective reason. 
 
 I will give instances of both forms of this reason, which fall within 
 the sphere of our own observation and decidedly manifest the source 
 from which they emanate. When I witness a change in any object 
 of sensation, I instinctively ascribe it to a cause ; I have no choice 
 but so to do. It is the dictate, the impulse of this reason. Here this 
 reason is absolute — irreflective. But when I go in quest of the cause, 
 this same reason is still my guide, yet it has now passed from the 
 sphere of the infinite, to that of the finite ; and can only refer me, for 
 the cause, to such ideas as are to be found within the sphere of my 
 individual consciousness. In this sphere, it becomes the reflective rea- 
 son, and puts on the appearance of human fallibility. 
 
 In the sphere above — that is, in its essential and absolute being — 
 it is the all-creative energy, ever present at the centre of our conscious- 
 ness ; and that which is to us the material universe, is but one of its 
 conceptions ; in the sphere beneath, or exterior to it, that is, in the 
 perceptive consciousnes, it puts forth the same conceptive power, but 
 puts it forth only in accordance with the blind promptings of the hu- 
 man will ; and then acts on the partial and imperfect conceptions, 
 which it has thus produced, to whatever results they may yield at the 
 demand of individual volition. 
 
 Such is the distinction between what is here called the Reason, 
 considered as the divine unit that comprises all things, and in which 
 all things are ever immanent, as the forms of its thought, and the 
 Reason in its limited relations to the conscious me, or homo individu- 
 alis. And if it be true that this self-subsistent entity gives law to the 
 will conditionally, and thus rules in thought, it must be apparent that 
 what we call the self, is rather an object of its action than a part of 
 itself Accordingly, in this treatise, I distinguish it from that which 
 constitutes the personality or self, by naming it the Not-Me ; mean- 
 ing thereby to embrace all that subsists in, or from it, distinct from 
 the human will ; whilst I designate the will itself as the Me ; meaning 
 thereby, to designate the conscious identity — the indestructible feeling 
 that lam. 
 
 Yet should it be perfectly understood, and the idea should be ever 
 present to the mind, that between the Reason and the Will, the Not- 
 Me and the Me, the union, in some sense, is most intimate, though the 
 entities be most distinct. The moon is not in the ocean ; yet is her 
 presence manifested by the tides, in every drop of the mighty mass, 
 
PAN IDE A. 359 
 
 and at the same time, in the whole, as in every single drop. The 
 Reason or Logos subsists in like manner, by its laws, and the results 
 of those laws, in each and all of the entire man ; but with this differ- 
 ence, — it acts from within outward, and acts in, and on, an entity 
 conditionally free. The Me governs the body as a whole, or entire 
 instrument, but it does so, only by putting in requisition the laws or 
 energies of the internal structure, (as of nerve, muscle, and so forth,) 
 which are of the Reason, Logos, or Not-Me ; and about which it knows 
 no more, than it does of the constitution of the mind. The Me puts 
 in action the soul as a whole, or rather is itself that whole, considered 
 as an active entity; but the internal action of that whole is of the 
 Reason, or Not-Me. It puts in requisition the memory, the imagina- 
 tion, the reflective Reason ; but the action of each of these is of the 
 Reason or Logos. The union of the Me and the Not-Me, or Logos, 
 is so intimate, that what is in the entirety, the Me, is, in its con- 
 stituent elemental power, forces, or laws, the Not-Me, or Logos. The 
 Not-Me is ever the internal law or energy of the Me, even to infini- 
 tesimal degrees. The two entities seem, as it were, to interpenetrate 
 each other, and still to subsist without blending : so that if viewed 
 on one side, the Not-Me, or Logos, alone appears ; if on the other, the 
 Me alone is manifest. 
 
 The system which I shall now endeavor to establish, is, in fact, a 
 doctrine of entireties. The principle, which gives it order and com- 
 bination, is such as to be susceptible of embracing all entities, whether 
 of the world of spirit, or of the world of matter. And, if in this re- 
 spect it be something novel, the reader will find therein some apology 
 for the frequent recurrence of any terms or phrases which may grate 
 harshly on the unaccustomed ear. It will not be in my power, if I 
 would express my meaning, entirely to avoid them. And in regard 
 to style, generally, my sole object shall be to make myself intelligible, 
 in as few words as possible. 
 
 If these introductory remarks be such as to encourage the reader to 
 a perusal of the chapters which are to follow, I still feel it a duty to 
 warn him that he has no holiday work to do. They are, I flatter my- 
 self, intelligible, but if he means to understand them and to compre- 
 hend the system as a whole, he must gird up his loins like a man that 
 has a task before him. He must labor in thought, as well as the au- 
 thor. If he does, his labor, in any event, may not be entirely lost to 
 him. An intellectual exercise upon a doctrine of entireties, in an age 
 so much accustomed to deal in fragments, may do him a service, even 
 though his anticipations may not be realized. 
 
360 P A N I D E A. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ALL RESOLVED INTO ITS SUBJECTIVE UNITY IN THE LOGOS, OR ABSO- 
 
 ^ .^«.>-..„,, £:jj;p£ -•^■^'^'gQ^ " -'— • ' 
 
 Ev dcQ/T] Tjv 6 loyog, xal 6 Uyog rjv nqbg rbv Gsbv, xal Oedg tjv 6 X6yog. 
 n&vxa dl aiwv lyivero- xal ;^w^i? avTOV iytPBTO ovde IV 6 yiyovev. 
 'Ev aviib ^wjy rjv, xal rj t,aTj tjv jd cpibg tcov divd^qtaiKav. 
 
 John I. 1, 3, 4. 
 
 We know nothing of matter, Tbut by tlie agency of the senses. We 
 have, and can have, no knowledge, except by intuition and inference, 
 of any substance separate and distinct from its qualities. Locke has 
 distinguished qualities as primary and secondary. Solidity, extension, 
 figure, and mobility, he considers inseparable from matter in whatever 
 form it may be, and therefore he classes them as primary qualities. 
 His secondary qualities are those that spring from the primary ; that 
 is, qualities which are nothing in the objects themselves, but which 
 are certain sensations in us, produced by the various powers of the 
 primary qualities ; as by the bulk, figure, texture, and motion of their 
 insensible parts. Hence colors, sounds, tastes, &c., are by him de- 
 nominated secondary qualities. 
 
 In the above enumeration of primary qualities, it does seem to me 
 that three names are bestowed on what is essentially but one quality. 
 Figure is but a mode of extension ; and solidity results from extension 
 and figure. If my hands embrace a cannon ball, and I endeavor to 
 bring them together, what is it that prevents their contact but a mod- 
 ified extension in the ball, resisting a modified extension in the hands. 
 Extension acts against extension, and the only new element, which 
 this action reveals, is resistance. This I shall hereafter consider ; 
 and it will, I think, be made to appear that if extension be resolvable 
 into an absolute Reason, resistance, as its correllative, is equally resolv- 
 able into an absolute Will. I may, therefore, now dispose of all these 
 primary qualities, simply by considering two of them, viz : Extension 
 and Mobility. 
 
 But since we cannot have an idea of either of these qualities without 
 the idea of space, I deem it well first to consider our idea of space. 
 Space is not a quality, either secondary or primary. It is not an ob- 
 ject of sensation. Of all our primary ideas, this, without which none 
 other could exist, comes not to us through the medium of any one of 
 the senses. No one ever saw, heard or felt space. Nor is its idea a 
 
P A N I D E A. 361 
 
 product of the reflective reason. The brute creation have as truly 
 a perception of space as we, though they may not make it an object of 
 reflection. Yet, notwithstanding it is neither an object of sensation 
 nor a result of reflection, we have such entire faith in its existence 
 that it is easier to conceive of the non-existence of bodies than of space. 
 But if it come neither from sensation nor reflection, there is but one 
 other source from which it can be derived, and that is from intuition, 
 or (to confine myself to the language of this treatise) from that abso- 
 lute Reason, which I conceive to be Grod's presence within us. I will 
 endeavor to make this position good, by satisfactory proof. According 
 to the common notion, space is a somewhat which extended bodies fill, 
 or by which they are separated ; and which would remain as a vast — 
 as an immeasurable vacuity — if they were all annihilated. Now, as 
 preliminary to the consideration of extension and mobility, I will en- 
 deavor to show what space really is, in the absolute^ whence it comes 
 to MS, and how a conception of it is forced upon the mind. 
 
 There is truly nothing in external creation but ultimate forms called 
 material. Wherever these forms are, we perceive spontaneously, intui- 
 tively, all possible geometrical relations between them ; and space is 
 nothing but this objective geometry, minus the material forms or co- 
 existent plurality which suggests it, or gives it, as it subsists in the 
 geometrical reason, to become objective. Take away then material 
 extension — the coexistent plurality, and space is nothing but this 
 geometry, which a pure mathematical Reason^ of its own spontaneity, 
 has created out of itself ; or rather which exists in itself, and of which 
 the external is only its objective form. 
 
 This position, it is believed, can be established as an incontrovertible 
 scientific truth. It can be proved, by an experimental process, that 
 the space of a body is nothing but the body itself and its geometrical 
 relations, by showing that if you annihilate a portion of the field of 
 vision, you also annihilate a portion of its space. I can best illustrate 
 this idea by the experiment itself ; and as it is one to which frequent 
 reference may hereafter be made, I must beg the reader here to make 
 it a subject of particular consideration and to criticise it closely. I 
 value it for the means which it afl'ords of illustrating ideas in relation 
 to spirit and matter, concerning which we have hitherto had an obscure 
 notion, rather than a definite conception. 
 
 An impression upon the organs of sight is not itself vision, but only 
 the condition necessary to seeing. Now the faculty of sight is one 
 and indivisible ; but it has two distinct organs, with each of which, 
 independently of the other, it can see, and with both which it does 
 
 46 
 
362 P A N I D E A. 
 
 see, when both are in the appropriate condition. But since the same 
 field of vision paints two distinct pictures — one on the right retina 
 and one on the left — ^why is it that two objects are not perceived in- 
 stead of one ? It is not owing to the unity of the faculty of sight 
 only, for distorted eyes see double. The question has been answered 
 in various ways ; but the only answer which appears to me satisfactory 
 is, that the objects are not seen double because the space between the 
 picture on the right retina and that on the left excites no visual per- 
 ception. I will give the answer in another form. You see the object 
 through both the impressions, but through the space between them 
 you can see nothing — ^nothing visual or visible separates them to the 
 internal faculty — and it is for this reason, though we see distinctly 
 with each eye, independently of the other, that both together produce 
 but a single perception of the object. The two impressions are as 
 independent of each other as if each belonged to a distinct person ; 
 but by reason of a common faculty of sight, the object seen by both 
 appears somewhat larger and more distinct. 
 
 But let the reader satisfy himself on this point. If he be under 
 the necessity of using glasses to aid his sight, he can at once realize 
 the truth of our problem. The two glasses will represent the two 
 images produced on the organs of sight by an object, and the bow 
 between them will represent the space which separates the two images. 
 Now apply them in the usual manner to the eyes, and the space be- 
 tween the two glasses will utterly disappear, and the two glasses will 
 be seen as one. Here then are actually two objects — the two glasses ; 
 they are actually separated by the space of an inch — they produce on 
 the retina two distinct images, and why do we not see the two distinct 
 images, instead of seeing both as one 1 I answer that, because the 
 glasses are applied to the eyes in the usual manner, the visible space 
 between them is made to disappear — is annihilated as to the percipient 
 mind ; and hence, as there is no visible extension to separate them, and 
 as they are in all respects similar, they necessarily appear as one object 
 or glass— considerably enlarged, but still as a single object. So if on 
 corresponding portions of the glasses, nearest each to each, circles be 
 drawn, say of the size of half-dimes, or the coins themselves be so 
 placed, they will appear as one. Now here are actually two objects 
 producing their images, yet both seen as one, because the extension 
 between them is annihilated as to the sight of the beholder. But 
 when we look at a single object, it produces two images, one on each 
 retina, and the space between them may be called the Twn-visual^ and 
 these images and this non-visual space precisely correspond, the former 
 
P A N I D E A. 36|vO 
 
 to the glasses, or the coins placed, or the circles drawn, and the latter 
 to the separating space or arch between the glasses. And then since 
 the result is the same, it must be explained on the same principle ; 
 that is, the non-visual space produces no effect on the mind, therefore 
 the two images are to it as one. The geometrical relations of the two 
 images to each other disappear, without leaving even a blank behind 
 them ; and, because they are not separated by other visual images, the 
 mind resolves them into a unit. And the result would be the same, 
 however great the tangible extension between them. Though sepa- 
 rated by a non-visual equal to the distance between the stars, the two 
 images would appear as one. 
 
 But if the perceived distance between any two objects of sight de- 
 pend wholly on the intervention of other visible objects, then it must 
 be true that visual space arises wholly from visible objects, and that if 
 you annihilate any portion of the objects, you do not, as may be the 
 common prejudice, leave a gap or hiatus between the remaining por- 
 tions, but, along with the obliterated images, disappear all the geomet- ; , 
 rical relations, and consequent space, leaving an utter nothingness, or 
 absolute blank of all relations, and distinct objects to become one.* 
 
 But though there be in this case no gap or hiatus left — no apparent 
 space, without visible objects, yet there is a real — an absolute some- 
 what for these visible objects to take form in — something independent 
 of them — self-subsistent, yet becoming extant, and giving the geomet- 
 rical relations to them, which we call their space, the moment that 
 they themselves become extant. For we must not forget that we are 
 not now inquiring merely what space is to us as relative and finite 
 beings, but what it is in itself — what it is in the absolute, or what it 
 would be were there no material forms. Now I think it may be shown 
 that this absolute somewhat, in which objects take form, can be no 
 other than the absolute Reason. Thus : Space, as already shown, is " . 
 but the sum of the geometrical relations of visible forms, yet visible 
 form, in and of itself, has no geometrical relations but those which 
 arise within itself, as from the relations of part to part, or of parts to 
 the whole. Considered abstractedly, and alone, it has relations to 
 nothing — out of or beyond itself it has no attribute, and if it be made 
 to have, it must be done by something other than itself Yet other 
 than the object or form, we may suppose nothing present but the per- 
 cipient mind ; but in the presence of this mind these geometrical rela- 
 tions at once manifest themselves. Whence come they then? They 
 
 ♦ Distorted eyes see double, because each takes in a portion of the field of vision, 
 not common to both. 
 
364 PAN IDE A. 
 
 are not an object of sight or of feeling ; and whence do they come but 
 from the mind itself, or rather but from that pnre Reason which at 
 once creates and perceives all mathematical relations 1 If this be so, 
 then those relations, the sum of which constitutes what we call the 
 space of bodies, are but an ascription of that Not-Me which I call the 
 absolute Reason or Logos, made through the conscious individual to 
 the objects perceived. Hence space is infinite — it can never be filled ; 
 for wherever an object is created, the Logos, through the percipient 
 mind, ascribes to it those geometrical relations which are themselves 
 its space. Withhold this ascription, and all material forms are re- 
 solved into unity — they cease to be extended : bestow it, and the uni- 
 verse is created. 
 
 Indeed, if this subject be considered scientifically, we come to a like 
 result. For if it be true that the particles of matter are inextended, 
 (and it is said to be all but demonstrable that they are,) then, if you 
 take from them those separating spaces, which are the ascription of 
 the geometric reason, that abstraction alone resolves them into unity ; 
 and all matter becomes a mathematical or inextended point ; in other 
 words, a mere conception, or one of the forms of the intellect. But if 
 all matter be resolved into a mathematical point, which is but a con- 
 ception or form of thought, space goes with it, and can exist only as a 
 mere conception or abstract idea of the absolute Reason. 
 
 I now proceed to the consideration of extension. By extension I 
 mean that idea which necessarily arises on the mere perception of the 
 outlines or superficies of bodies. 
 
 Now, if it be true that space is nothing but that which I have called 
 the geometrical Reason, (meaning thereby one of the forms in which 
 the absolute Reason develops itself,) rendering itself objective, then 
 it would seem that this Reason, as objective, embraces within itself 
 those very forms by occasion of which it becomes objective. We have 
 an idea of the immensity of space by contemplating the innumerable 
 stars which occupy this objective geometry — take it from them — 
 resolve the spaces between them into the non-visual of the foregoing 
 experiment, and they are reduced to unity ; that immensity of space 
 disappears ; the innumerable stars which occupied an illimitable ex- 
 panse become a point ; and a mere point, in and of itself, can suggest 
 no idea of space to the percipient power. If we would acquire an idea 
 of space from the point, we must, as it were, repeat it coiKeptively ; we 
 must imagine a coexistent point, and, by repeating points conceptively, 
 we may come to an idea of space ; but the single point, in and of itself 
 suggests no such idea. Now what is that which we call extension in 
 
P A N I D E A. 365 
 
 those forms, by occasion of which this Reason manifests itself as the 
 space which they occupy ? 
 
 Unquestionably if pure space may be resolved into mere geometrical 
 relations, the extension of bodies may be resolved into the same rela- 
 tions. There is no necessity of going into a process of abstract rea- 
 soning on this point ; the foregoing experiment proves what space is, 
 and the same experiment will show that extension is but one of the 
 forms of the same geometric Reason which constitutes space. What 
 is true of space is true of visible extension. Interpose the Twn-visical 
 between the extremes of a body, and the extremes of the same body 
 appear together as a one continuous extension ; and this continuity it 
 owes not to itself, but to an overruling law of the percipient mind, 
 which makes a continuity where there is actually a gap or hiatus in 
 vision. There is an extension between the retinaa ; also between the 
 glasses in the preceding experiment ; yet the extension, in each case, 
 disappears ; the two eyes are as one ; the two glasses appear as one. 
 •A blank of geometrical relations, in an extended body and in pure 
 space, is therefore followed by the same results. In both cases unity 
 or continuity is preserved, notwithstanding the actual breach made in 
 the field of vision, and this continuity or unity can be preserved only 
 by the involuntary ascription of new geometrical relations, in the 
 absence of those supposed to be annihilated. Yet if extension exists 
 from geometrical relations, there must still be something from which 
 those relations subsist — something to support them — and what is that 
 something from which they do subsist, and by which they are sup- 
 ported ? 
 
 I answer, that there can be no geometrical relation without a coex- 
 istent plurality of some sort — as of points or of objects. It may be of 
 little consequence what this plurality consists of, provided it be a 
 coexistent plurality ; but a coexistent or simultaneous plurality it 
 must be. But whence can such a plurality derive its existence ? 
 
 I apprehend it can derive its existence only from the absolute unit ; 
 the Esse, or, as it is felt or apperceived in the depths of consciousness, 
 the Logos or Divine Reason. Let us see if this unit, subsisting as the 
 soul of the soul, may not repeat itself objectively in a coexistent plu- 
 rality, and thus give, by a necessary consequence, our ideas of exten- 
 sion and space ; if out of this unity within us, there subsisting as the 
 basis of our idea of number, may not come a coexistent plurality, or 
 cotemporaneous order, that shall manifest itself in the consciousness, 
 as an idea of extension. 
 
 The absolute Reason, considered in itself, is the absolute unit, and 
 
366 P A N I D E A. 
 
 as such, it must be the basis of all that is called matter or spirit. 
 Subjectively considered, it is an entirety without parts. It attains to 
 plurality and the finite, by repeating itself objectively. It repeats 
 itself in the soul of man, and thereby makes him a finite intelligence. 
 
 And because he is a finite intelligence, man cannot see the infinite, 
 nor fully apperceive it. The infinite is a unit to his intellect, and a 
 blank to his sense ; and he can contemplate it and realize its presence 
 only in the termini^ or limits, which it reveals to him as a finite being. 
 I say it is a unit — a blank — ^for without variety or change, who could 
 be conscious of any thing? But break this unit, this blank, into 
 variety — into parts. Let this be done by consequence of the structure 
 of the organs of sensation, and you have in this variety a world of the 
 senses ; let it be done by the action of the will within you, and you 
 have that world of conceptions, which manifests itself in the conscious- 
 ness ; yet both the internal and external worlds will be but the same 
 unit, seen or contemplated in different aspects. Now this variety, 
 these termini^ are that coexistent plurality, without which we can have 
 no geometrical relations, space, or extension. Yet this plurality and 
 these relations cannot be separated — they are correlatives. Without 
 the plurality you cannot have the relations, and without the relations 
 you cannot have the plurality. Either subsists from either ; and all 
 spring from and still subsist in the absolute unit or divine Reason ; 
 and are no other than the conceptions of that Reason as revealed to a 
 finite intelligence. This is not mere theory ; let us examine ourselves, 
 for proof. 
 
 Unity, as felt in the individual soul, resolved into coexistent plural- 
 ity to the senses, will necessarily make the idea of that visible and 
 tangible somewhat, which we call extension. To explain : a mathe- 
 matical point has no dimensions. It is a mere conception. The con- 
 ception of a single mathematical point, taken abstractly and independ- 
 ently, gives us no idea of extension. If one of these conceptions after 
 another be repeated to any number, they will still give no conception 
 of extension. But let us have a conception of several of these points 
 at once, say two or three as coexistent, and their relation to each other 
 becomes immediately and necessarily a geometrical relation. They 
 present to the mind, irresistibly, the idea of a line or triangle. Now 
 the single mathematical point may be considered as representing the 
 felt unity of which I speak, and which, if it do but repeat itself in a 
 coexistent plurality, becomes, necessarily, an idea of extension. 
 
 This felt unity exists, subjectively, in what may be called the abso- 
 lute mathematical Reason. That is, in one of the forms of that Rea- 
 
P A N I D E A. 367 
 
 son which we feel within ourselves as a law of our being, and which 
 we know to be essentially an active and creative power. Do but change 
 
 our normal relation to it, as it is in the individual soul, and it acts 
 
 acts from its own nature, and according to laws its own. It projects 
 and repeats, objectively in finite modes, its own subjective unity, and 
 thus creates that simultaneous, objective multiplicity which we call 
 extension. 
 
 Without this unity, (felt, though not an object of thought,) the con- 
 ception of extension would have no basis — no premise. For we cannot 
 attain to a knowledge of extension by comparing one extended body 
 with another, without taking for granted the existence of that very 
 extension of which we are in search. Thus, I may place my hand on 
 this table, and say that it is extended ; but what authorizes me so to 
 say ? Why, merely because my hand is extended. But I may very 
 properly ask myself, how it is that I know my hand to be extended ? 
 Where is the test that will enable me to answer such a question ? — 
 Where is it but in the felt absolute unity — this incipient mathesis — 
 this perfect mathematical Reason within me ? It is this Beason which 
 spontaneously, and by a law and energy its own, forces upon me an 
 instinctive feeling of the original unity within, and thence of its own 
 multiple or projected plurality in the nether sphere of the senses. 
 
 I am here speaking of a mere tangible extension. I am inquiring 
 how, from mere feeling, without any previous experience, comes this 
 idea, and, bearing this in mind, I submit an additional proof that it is 
 out of that Reason, felt as a unit in the individual mind, that this idea 
 proceeds. When I hold my hand to the fire, and it is equally warmed 
 all over, thereby producing a single undivided sensation, the feeling is 
 a unit ; and as such, is a form of the absolute unit ; yet, from the per- 
 ception of this unity, I acquire no idea of a palpable extension, such 
 as arises from a resisting solid body. The feeling is nothing beyond 
 itself, and it perceives not its own limits. So place the hand on a 
 surface, which shall affect all parts of it with one undivided sensation, 
 and the result must be the same. But stud the surface with a variety 
 of points, resolve that unity into a coexistent plurality, and that single 
 idea which is the absolute of extension, as it exists in the perfect math- 
 emathical Reason within, becomes spontaneously, instinctively, and 
 instantly, conusant of the geometrical relations that are thus made to 
 start out of its own bosom. It ceases now to be a mere single sensa- 
 tion of the hand ; it becomes a thought — a geometrical, a mathemati- 
 cal thought — a thought forced upon the percipient Me, irresistibly, by 
 an overruling law of the soul. Spread your fingers — ^place them on 
 
368 P A N I D E A. 
 
 distinct points, and you have a triangle — walk over the earth, and each 
 act is determining, intuitively, by a spontaneous geometrical reason, 
 that there is an extension. You geometrize practically, actually — you 
 make an extension for yourself ; or rather the will, the Me within, 
 brings into action in its own consciousness, that perfect Reason, Logos 
 or Not-Me within — ^with which it subsists in the most perfect union — 
 and it is tliab which geometrizes, and makes an extension for you. It 
 gives itself to exist without, as it exists within you, mutatis mutandis^ 
 and thus creates for you the world of matter as well as the world of 
 mind. 
 
 The assimilative Logos, by its intimate relation to the will, imparts 
 something of its own consciousness, and thus creates the individuality 
 of the Me^ and gives it to be conusant of all the operations that are 
 going on within and around it, and to put in requisition energies divine. 
 In this relation there is no confusion. I will to move my limbs, my 
 body — in so far, my organization is the Me ; but of the energies which 
 this act of my will puts in requisition, I know little or nothing — they 
 are @f the vital organic Not-Me. I sit down, I rise, I walk, I run — 
 but in every act, I put in requisition the earth's attraction, without 
 which I could not move. And so it is as to the Me and Not-Me, 
 internal. I open my eyes upon the universe, and a thousand ideas 
 exist at once in my mind. The opening of my eyes was an act of the 
 will, but the creation of these thousand ideas was an act of the Logos 
 within. It paused not for my bidding. It is thus that the conscious 
 Me, the individual man or spirit, puts in requisition, by this voluntary 
 act, that spontaneous Reason which geometrizes to his senses, exten- 
 sion and space. 
 
 Now with this view of that which constitutes the relations and the 
 individuality of the percipient mind, we may illustrate the position, 
 that coexistent plurality is of itself extension, by the following suppo- 
 sition. Suppose the mind to be a mathematical point, endowed with 
 sensation and reason — suppose all the objects of the material universe 
 to be at one and the same time acting upon it — no matter how, but as 
 so many magnets if you please — in an injQlnite variety of degrees, ac- 
 cording to size and distance ; and then I ask, whether this sentient, 
 rational, mathematical point, could do otherwise than perceive the 
 coexistent multiplicity and all its simultaneous relations, and in them, 
 all the elements of geometry. Throw into a mathematical point all 
 the variety of the universe, and it is of no consequence how it is pro- 
 duced, or what it is, provided it be simultaneous, and you will have 
 an extension of necessity, and with it, all the relations of space. Mag- 
 
P A N I D E A. 3g9 
 
 nitude is nothing but by comparison, and the universe, thus wrought 
 out of a mathematical point, would have its own immensity. 
 
 Sounds are heard in succession. Could we rehear the notes of a 
 tune, as we review visible objects, music would have its geometry its 
 extension and form, and pure mathematical reason would take shape 
 in sound, and stand out in a world of harmony. The hand, the eye 
 and the ear, have had, in all time and in all language, certain terms 
 denoting an idea of extension common to the three senses. The 
 terms long, short, continuous, broken, round or rolling, sharp, rough 
 smooth, and a multitude of others, are by no means purely metaphor- 
 ical when applied to sounds. Their application and their meaning are 
 as naturally understood in reference to sounds as to visible and tangi- 
 ble objects. 
 
 I come, then, to the conclusion that the coexistent plurality, with 
 which we are made acquainted by the agency of the senses, and the 
 geometrical relations which it reveals, are what constitute that visible 
 and tangible somewhat, which we call extension ; and that our idea 
 of extension, as well as of space, and the coexistent plurality, is derived 
 to us, from the absolute idea embosomed in the pure mathematical 
 reason within us ; in other words, is itself that reason geometrically 
 actualized. 
 
 I will here add, that, although we have educed the coexistent plu- 
 rality from the absolute unit, as represented in a single sensation of 
 the hand, yet our remarks are no less applicable to the sense of sight. 
 This sense or faculty, considered as yet unaffected by aught of change, 
 is a unit, and one of the forms of the absolute unit ; it wants objectiv- 
 ity ; it sees nothing. Now, if by occasion of the action of the Me, or 
 finite will, this unit break into a variety — be that variety a mere con- 
 ception of the Logos, or whatever else it may — we at once have the 
 coexistent plurality ; we have the termini, the points, the lines, the 
 objective geometry — all starting out of the unity of this sense, and all 
 ultimately resolvable into that absolute unit, in which they have their 
 basis, and whose creative energy the action of the will has put in requi- 
 sition. Thus pure space and the extension of bodies, through whatever 
 sense they may be contemplated, are both resolvable into the unity of 
 the Absolute Reason, as mere geometrical relations which that Reason 
 has evolved from itself, and ascribed to a coexistent plurality ; whilst 
 the plurality to which they are ascribed, is formted by a resolution of 
 the same absolute unit into finite modes, by the conceptive repetition 
 of itself in termini or points : so that space, and extension in all its 
 variety of forms, are but conceptions of that divine Reason or Logos, 
 
 47 
 
370 P A N I D E A. 
 
 which is at once within us and everywhere without us. And, then, 
 because they are the conceptions of that Reason, they are also the 
 conceptions of the divine mind, and thus subsist, as to us, as a creation 
 absolute and independent of our finite wills. They are the Not-Me, 
 and come of the Supreme or Absolute Will ; and, therefore, stand out, 
 in the presence of the Me, or finite will, as the independent forms of 
 the sensuous universe. 
 
 MOBILITY. 
 
 This term, in its most comprehensive sense, may be considered as 
 embracing every susceptibility of change to which matter is subject ; 
 for it is difficult to conceive of a change, in material bodies, without 
 some change either in their masses or their insensible parts. The 
 term, however, is generally used to denote that susceptibility to motion 
 which becomes manifest to the senses by a change in the geometrical 
 relations of masses, or their parts. And it is in this sense that I shall 
 here use it, but perhaps not exclusively confining its use to tnanifest 
 changes. It may be made to comprehend gravity, for instance, which 
 is generally a tendency to move, rather than a manifest motion ; it 
 may be made to comprehend the tendencies of vital bodies to growth 
 and decay ; and also the chemical tendencies in bodies, and so on. 
 Considered in this light, Mobility, unquestionably, may be called a 
 primary quality of matter, so long as we look not beyond matter for 
 its origin or cause ; for matter is not only constantly susceptible of 
 motion, but is ever in motion. 
 
 But since space, or the sum of all geometrical relations, has been 
 shown to be a mere ascription of that divinity within, (which I call 
 the perfect Reason or Logos.) to bodies, or, in other words, to be that 
 Reason itself extant, present to, or involving all things ; and since the 
 absolute extension, or coexistent plurality, has likewise been found to 
 be that very Reason in one of its forms, it does seem necessarily to 
 follow, that though the susceptibility to motion be in matter, yet that 
 the motive power and source of the susceptibility are in the perfect 
 Reason ; and that it must be the willed action, or tendency of this 
 Reason, that is the source of all motion in matter ; and perhaps of 
 action in mind. 
 
 Now this same willed action must manifest its expansive energy, in 
 all growth, progress, and development — in the action of chemical affin- 
 ities, in the flow of waters, the rush of air, in all physical changes 
 on earth, in the action of mass on mass of matter through all space, 
 
PANIDEA. 371 
 
 and in those centripetal and centrifugal forces which give order and 
 movement to the universe ; for it is an action, at the centre and the 
 source of all things. 
 
 But further to illustrate, if further illustration be necessary : suppose 
 all space (as it is to us) to he extended matter, or what in effect would 
 be the same : suppose all material forms were reduced to a unit — that 
 is, seen as the absolute Reason sees them — ab extra — thus having no 
 fSpace or relative points in space, what motion could there be in the 
 entirety 1 Part might change in reference to part and to the whole, 
 but the entirety could depart from no point, and proceed to none. It 
 could but change state. And this great aggregate is, after all, neither 
 more nor less than the same unit — that absolute idea, into which exten- 
 sion resolves itself, and which we found to be embosomed in the pure 
 mathematical Beason, and a mere form thereof Any change or ten- 
 dency to change in this idea, which is the essential form of all matter, 
 is the absolute of motion, and necessarily produces its correspondent 
 relative motions, or tendencies, everywhere. 
 
 I have named this state or tendency, which is the absolute of motion, 
 a willed state of the Logos, or divine Reason, ever acting in the soul. 
 For we know of but one self-originating cause of motion, and that is 
 voluntary power, or will. To believe that motion is in every instance 
 caused by a will, is a dictate of spontaniety. It is true that we lose 
 sight of this dictate, by discovering repeatedly that one body commu- 
 nicates its impulse to another, but could we stand ah extra^ and at one 
 glance behold all the infinitude of movement in the universe, would it 
 not again return ? Should we not see that it was an immense machine 
 operating alone, and should we not, rather than acknowledge an effect 
 without a cause — (the greatest miracles) recognize in its operation a 
 life, a mind, a will presiding over it, and infusing its energies through 
 the mighty whole ? To conclude it to be an effect without a cause 
 would be a violence done to an irresistible impulse of the Reason, 
 whilst to ascribe it to the influence of a presiding will, would be con- 
 formable to the whole constitution of our nature. 
 
 The Logos itself, in a certain aspect, is but the supreme will — the 
 divine energy subjected to the laws of divine wisdom, and so subsist- 
 ing and acting within a divinely perfect order. Indeed, I shall have 
 occasion, in this treatise, to speak of the Logos in this sense ; and 
 when so considering it, I shall call it the Supreme or Divine Will. I 
 have here shown that the absolute of motion, or Mobility, comes from 
 the Logos, or this Divine "Will, and I now proceed to show that the 
 same Logos gives to us our idea of 
 
372 P A N I D E A. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Time, like extension, space, and motion, has its relative and absolute 
 — its manifest and essential modes or aspects. Time was created 
 when relative extension, space and motion were created. In other 
 words, God created time when He created a succession of events, or 
 changes. 
 
 Before this, (if I may so speak,) relative or manifest time was not — 
 all was Eternity. He who asks therefore, with the child, who made 
 God, absurdly supposes a creation, a time, and a succession of events 
 or changes, anterior to their Creator. There is a difficulty, arising 
 from the forms of language, in expressing to the understanding, the 
 relation between time and eternity. The relation is logical, not 
 chronological. Eternity is an everlasting Now^ ever resolving itsetf, 
 without changing, into what is called time. It is as the absolute of 
 motion — one of whose phases it is — to the relative motions which it 
 generates. And just as the relative is resolvable into the absolute of 
 motion, so time is resolvable into eternity ; and eternity is Grod, in 
 the unity of His own order — or the Logos in syntJictic unity. 
 
 Eternity is to those changes which make what we call time, what 
 the soul is to those thoughts or internal changes which it generates 
 within itself, and which constitute its own little world of mind. Ob- 
 literate the mind, if you choose, and the soul still remains to create a 
 new one, as it often has done, in cases of insanity. Let the old and 
 new mind alternate with each other, and each will have its distinct 
 memory, and distinct time ; and the same identity will thus put on 
 two distinct exterior individualities, both deriving their times from 
 the same phase of the Logos which constitutes their common soul. 
 
 Every change which takes place in the human mind is itself a por- 
 tion of the time of that mind. A rapid succession of thoughts will, on 
 retrospect, seem to have made the sun and moon to stand still. A 
 slow succession — a lingering on a solitary thought — will, on review, 
 seem to have wonderfully accelerated their progress ; though during 
 the state, we seem to suffer a short eternity. Stop all change in the 
 mind, and you stop time ; as in the case of swoons and profound 
 sleep. The soul then rests in one continued state, and when it rouses 
 from it, it finishes the sentence which it had, perhaps, begun, just as 
 the state commenced. Not an instant is lost to it — no gap or hiatus 
 is apparent in time during this suspension of change, any more than 
 in space, when a portion of the field of vision is abstracted. The anal- 
 
PANIIXEA, 373 
 
 ogy between space and time is here perfect, evincing a common 
 origin. 
 
 All minds have the same common eternity, since all have the same 
 common Logos. But that eternity is to them, what the action of grav- 
 itation is to so many clocks. Each mind transmutes the common eter- 
 nity into a time its own. Each individual mind has, in this manner, a 
 time distinct from that of all others ; and in this sense a man of thirty 
 may have lived longer than one of three score and ten. Hence the 
 necessity of a common measure for all minds ; and we find that com- 
 mon measure in the motions of the heavenly bodies, in the revolution 
 of the earth upon its axis, and its progress round the sun. To these 
 motions, that mathematical reason, which is above, though within us, 
 ascribes time ; just as to extension, it ascribes space, or to vibrations, 
 sounds ; and forces upon us a faith in it, in the same manner. 
 
 The changes which give occasion to our idea of time are like sounds 
 observed in successive order, and time thereby is made to differ from 
 space, as mere arithmetical numeration differs from geometrical lines 
 and angles ; or as a successive repetition of mathematical points, ever 
 disappearing, differs from a coexistent plurality. 
 
 But I need not dwell on this point. It must be sufficiently evident 
 that if all extension, all space, all action, and consequently, all change, 
 be of states or ideas in the Logos or absolute Beason, then time itself, 
 which is but a succession, or an ascription to a succession of changes, 
 must likewise have its origin or absolute idea, in the same divine Bea- 
 son. 
 
 Here, then, are four absolute ideas — the absolute of extension, the 
 absolute of space, the absolute of motion, and the absolute of time — 
 out of which this external universe, together with all that it inherits, 
 has proceeded as a mere relative or phenominal existence. I take this 
 relative or phenominal existence as I find it, and trace it up to its 
 pure abstract form, which I find to be in that perfect Beason which I 
 feel in myself, (however I may pervert it,) and which every individual 
 feels in himself, and which is itself the presence of that Deity who 
 made all things. 
 
 So much for those qualities called the primary qualities. They are 
 primary as to us, but they have their substance, substratum, or ground 
 in absolute and unchanging ideas of the all-present Logos. Beyond 
 them, I cannot look for the substance in which they inhere. 
 
 As to those qualities called secondary, I doubt not that some of 
 them, such as color, considered with reference to the views here pre- 
 sented, are as truly primary, as extension, and have their absolute idea 
 
374 P A N I D E A. 
 
 out of which they proceed, and without which they would for ever re- 
 main unknown to us ; but it is sufficient for the present, to say that if 
 they are primary, they have their absolute idea in the perfect Reason ; 
 if secondary, they are dependent on, and derived from, the primary, 
 and so are, indirectly, the phenomena of absolute ideas of the same 
 Beason. 
 
 If this be true, all qualities that appear in matter, be they primary 
 or secondary, subsist from their absolute ideas ; and it hence follows, 
 that Deity — the Logos, is that in which they are, and in which they 
 become to us, in their own mode of development, objective forms ; 
 and in those forms they become what we call matter, and are to us 
 what we call them. For let me not be misunderstood — the material 
 universe is no deception — no mere dream or illusion of the individual 
 soul — but is to us, precisely what our senses teach us it is. We are in 
 the midst of the great all of material things, of which our material 
 selves are co-ordinate parts ; and we realize extension, space, motion, 
 and time, when we take note of them reflectively through the senses, 
 by comparing one material object with another, or one part of the 
 same continuous element with another. It has pleased God to make 
 our organism material, and comparing that organism with the forms 
 by which it is surrounded, we find ourselves in a material universe, of 
 necessity. 
 
 Had it pleased Him to have conferred upon us a spiritual organiza- 
 tion merely, our universe would have as necessarily been spiritual ; for 
 worlds change, as qualities change, though the substratum remain the 
 same. To us every thing is as it is, by relation — ^long and short, great 
 and small, swift and slow, rough and smooth, hard and soft, and all 
 other qualities, made known to us by the senses, as belonging to bod- 
 ies, have an existence by comparison, or relation, only ; which is, how- 
 ever, as to our material selves, a great and inflexible reality. 
 
 Such is the external world, as to the soul's instrumental organic 
 structure ; but what it is in itself, or what extension, space, motion, 
 and time are, as to the perfect and absolute Keason, is quite another 
 question. And accordingly we have found that they, subjectively con- 
 sidered, are mere ideas in the divine mind ; and, objectively, the mere 
 multiples — phenomena — of those ideas. In their most interior form, 
 they are mere thoughts of the perfect reason — in their most exterior 
 form, they are those very thoughts carried out into their own infini- 
 tude of imagery. In the midst of this imagery is man, himself an 
 image of the perfect Reason, as it may be shadowed forth in the mul- 
 
P A N I D E A. 375 
 
 tiple and finite. And here he takes note of this imagery, because it 
 is objective, and he himself a co-ordinate part thereof. 
 
 The general position, that the material universe, including the ma- 
 terial man himself, is the imagery or last result of thought generated 
 in the Logos or Supreme Mind, may I think be illustrated and con- 
 firmed by observing the operations of that law, or energy, which pre- 
 sides over and governs the development of thought in the individual 
 mind. That it is the same Logos, or power, which creates and gov- 
 erns in the microcosmic order of the individual mind, that creates and 
 governs in the grand scale of the universe, if not already sufficiently 
 apparent, will, I flatter myself, be made very manifest in succeeding 
 chapters. But if this be so, then, I think, that I may confidently ap- 
 peal to the self-observation of the reader for a confirmation of the 
 truth of the position just stated. For myself, I think that I am just- 
 ified by experience in saying, that there is not a thought, however ab- 
 stract and general, which does not spontaneously seek a development 
 or expression of itself in form. 
 
 Let one, accustomed to abstract speculations, lie down to sleep with 
 their necessary general ideas bearing upon his mind, and he will see 
 how readily, when left to their own mode of development and ex- 
 pression, those abstractions take form in the imagery of reverie or 
 dream. It is the proper language of the soul in converse with herself 
 In this imagery, he will well understand his abstractions. Their like- 
 ness will sometimes be so perfect, that he may often forget whether it 
 be the naked thought, or its image, that stands before the inward eye. 
 The thought oftener takes form in the ideal world of the eye, than of 
 the ear ; but in truth the principle is the same whether it find its ul- 
 timate in the one or the other. Ideas logically precede words, and 
 when during these states they seek their ultimates in the conceptions 
 of sounds, they are as truly symbolic, or metaphorical, as when they 
 find them in the imagery of sight. There is, indeed, such a constant 
 tendency in all minds to metaphor — and I here mean visual imagery 
 — that the metaphor is felt to be necessary to every complete and per- 
 fect thought. No man ever had a vivid thought, that did not clothe 
 itself in imagery. Not that he always, or even generally, expresses 
 himself by describing the images in his mind ; but I mean merely to 
 say, that the process of thought is carried on by the aid of them, as in 
 the natural language of the soul, whilst she addresses herself to those 
 without, in such conventional speech as is best understood by all. 
 
 But if symbolic representation be the last result of the Logos, as it 
 is in man, or the conscious ikfe, must it not be also the last result, as 
 
376 P A N I D E A. 
 
 it is in God, or conscious Not-Me ? In man, thoughts — pure abstrac- 
 tions — stop short in the ideal, or a mere movement of the brain ; but 
 in Grod, acting through universal existence, they pass forth unobstruct- 
 ed, and find their own termini in what to us are real material forms, 
 as their last expression.* The mind of Grod thus to us materializes 
 itself — takes form in language suited to its own infinity — projects 
 from the absolute idea of extension, the relative and phenominal in all 
 its infinite variety, and in that infinite variety, still subsists as one ; 
 just as the human soul preserves its own entirety, in the midst of all 
 the variety of mind, which it generates within itself. 
 
 It may be somewhat difiicult to reconcile the seeming contradiction 
 that this universe, as it appears to us, should subsist in the perfect 
 Reason, subjectively as a unit, and objectively as an infinite multipli- 
 city ; but I do not despair of making it intelligible. Are we not at 
 this moment realizing a corresponding truth ? Consider our own or- 
 ganic structure. It consists of an infinite variety, and every organ is 
 performing its distinct function, and every nerve has its distinct ca- 
 pacity to feel, whilst the soul lives through and sustains the whole. 
 Yet, amid all this variety, the whole organism is by her felt as a unit. 
 If perchance some obstruction interrupt or break the entire harmony, 
 this idea is disturbed, the perfection of the unity is marred ; but as 
 long as this harmony continues the soul feels this vast variety as a 
 unit — as a one whole. This is her connate relation to the body — her 
 feeling or idea of the organism in its subjectivity, or its synthetic 
 state. Could the soul now project this organism so as to make it, with 
 all its distinct organs, objects of perception, of feeling, or of vision — 
 as indeed to some extent it does — this same organic structure would 
 then subsist objectively, whilst the subjective relation would still be 
 maintained. Its idea or felt existence, subjectively, would be a unit 
 — objectively, a manifold formation. It is thus that the universe may 
 subsist in the bosom of the divine Reason, subjectively as a unit, and 
 objectively in all its infinite multiplicity. 
 
 Nor can there be much difficulty in conceiving how this universe, 
 gross and coarse as it seems to us, becomes in the Divine Reason, itself 
 a mere idea. If we take from it that space and those geometrical re- 
 lations, which this Reason creates, and with which it invests it, it does 
 in fact become a mere thought, or rather a mere substratum of thought 
 — a mere something to be invested with qualities which may be just 
 
 * It is this tendency of the soul to symbolize ideas in sounds, as well as in visual 
 imag-ery, that has created lanaruag-o. 
 
P A N I D E A. 377 
 
 as well spiritual, as material. Suppose tliat the space between the 
 infinitude of worlds formed from the immense of matter, was converted 
 at once into the blank of the non-visual of the foregoing experiment " 
 it is manifest that they would become to the sense of vision, just as the 
 two pictures of the retina, a unit — great or small who can determine 
 since there would be nothing to which it could be compared. And as 
 to its extension, would not any pure mental image or conception of 
 form be just as truly extended as such a unit ? To a being thus ab 
 extra — who thus subsists out of and distinct from space and extension 
 — such a unit, in its subjective form, would be this universe of material 
 things — intangible — inextended — imponderable — without motion or 
 tendency, resisted by nothing, and resisting nothing. If to such a 
 being, such a unit bore any relation — no matter what — his thought 
 could move it. 
 
 How surely omnipotent then would he be if that unit were itself the 
 present product of his thought ! If the universe be regarded in this 
 light, there can be no difficulty in conceiving it to exist as an idea in 
 the Divine Reason. 
 
 This material universe is thus a mere thought in the bosom of the 
 Logos, through which, as its medium, that Logos sought to realize an 
 image of its own perfect self in the human organic structure. It did 
 thus realize itself in man's material form, and perfected its image 
 therein for transmission through every succession of change. Excuse 
 me, reader, whilst in illustration of a matter so grave I resort to the 
 suggestion of an imaginative friend, without, however, meaning to 
 adopt the suggestion further than it may serve the purpose for which 
 it is quoted. '' During the age of the primitive humanity," says he, 
 " the Logos was at once God and man ; but when its image had attained 
 a degree of perfection in human clay which qualified it for the recep- 
 tion of something of Grod's own personal freedom — something of his 
 own free and absolute will — it received the divine gift thereof — it 
 received the free conscious individual will — it became a free activity, 
 and thus ceased to be one and identical with its Creator. The image 
 thereupon acquired a quasi identity, as it acquired a quasi freedom, 
 and became distinctly a living soul. It was in this incomplete or 
 conditional separation from his Divine Parent, that to man the uni- 
 verse itself seemed to separate from its generator — seemed to lose, and, 
 as to him, lost its former relation, as an ultimate form of the mind of 
 God. Like himself, it seemed to become something independent of 
 Deity ; for he made his own organism the test whereby he determined 
 
 48 
 
378 P A N I D E A. 
 
 the nature of its qualities, and as they were to him matter, he too 
 hastily determined that they could not be mind to God."* 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 THE SUBJE^^TrjCEU.¥?«T¥-HEN-THE-tt)tK)« OIl''i^^ REASON, RESOLVED 
 
 INTO ITS OBJECTIVE ALL ; SPIRITUAL AND MATERIAL. 
 
 ^- -'-" ' "" " What if earth 
 
 Be but the shadow of Heaven, and thing's therein 
 Each to other like, more than on Earth is thoug-ht?" 
 
 That God is present to every human soul, is a truth which all admit. 
 That He is present within, and as the Logos, or that overruling Rea- 
 son, which each and all feel within them, is a postulate of this chapter ; 
 which, if it do not at once approve itself to the mind of the reader, I 
 hope to make very intelligible before I close this treatise. At present 
 this position rests on the ground that the Logos or perfect Reason 
 comprehends all things, and that all things are therefore present to it, 
 and it present to all things. 
 
 But I here go further, and, anticipating the proof that will be offered 
 in the proper place, assume, that it is present in its entire unity ; nay, 
 something more than present to the conscious Me, ever making to it, 
 on known conditions, (which must always be fulfilled,) revelations from 
 its own infinitude. Do you desire to know the absolute cause of all 
 effects, or of any effect ? — Consult this Reason, the Logos within you 
 — it is the grand Causality — the great Mover and Orderer of all spirit 
 and matter. Go not forth into the material universe in search of 
 absolute causation — inquire not of the stars — dig not into the bowels 
 of the earth— nay, are you a physiologist ? — pry not inquisitively into 
 the heart and brain — you shall not find the grand Causality there. 
 Life, mind, gravity, magnetism, electricity, light, caloric and so forth, 
 are but effects subsisting here on earth, and here constantly made to 
 subsist, from those ideas in the Logos, whose ultimate results they are. 
 All these effects will ever be manifest, in some form or mode, wherever 
 the percipient Me may be made to exist : be it in the world of spirit 
 or the world of matter. It will, however, be but effects that are per- 
 ceived. The supreme Causality — the absolute life and mind — the 
 essential gravity, magnetism, electricity, light, caloric, and so forth, 
 
 * Hence, it may be, comes the tradition of the fall of man from a paradisiacal state 
 or g-olden age. 
 
P A N I D E A. 379 
 
 lie still deep in the eternal soul of all things — in existence necessarily 
 inaccessible. Go, chase the rainbow — aim to pluck its gorgeous arch 
 from the cloud — pursue it, and it will mock your quest ; analyze its 
 resplendent hues, and they may suggest to your reason, but shall never 
 in themselves reveal to your eye, the parent source of all their light 
 and beauty. 
 
 Therefore pause ye, and look upward to the grand fountain of all 
 light, and you may then learn that the radiant arch is nought but the 
 dimmed image of its glory. Gro search for causes in matter — for life 
 or mind, for instance — and you shall see nothing but effects ; each 
 series of which has its causes, which, when discovered, shall turn out 
 to be but effects of causes still higher — thus ever alluring the soul 
 upward — ever evading the knife of the dissector and the analysis of 
 the chemist, they at length force inquiry to leave the material and 
 enter the world of spirit ; there to find, in the Logos, or perfect Rea- 
 son, the life of lives, the soul of souls, the cause of causes. If matter 
 be an ultimate expression of the perfect Reason, then there is that 
 which is not ultimate — which is a substance, but not a substance whose 
 qualities stand out to the senses. In other words, there is a degree 
 of substance above the material or sensible ; and whether this degree 
 be called spiritual or supersensual, it matters not, so long as the true 
 import of the terms is rightly understood. I shall in the next chapter 
 give this degree of substance a more particular consideration ; but, 
 surely, without further discussion, no one, not disposed to contend for 
 the absurdity that what we call effects have in fact no absolute princi- 
 ple of causation, can ever think of questioning the existence of such a 
 degree. But the admission of this degree of substance is all that is 
 now required in order to enable me to proceed with the further devel- 
 opment of our theory. 
 
 I have in the preceding chapter been considering the physical man 
 as the Me, and the material universe as the Not-Me. But this is the 
 external form of the Logos or perfect Reason. The universe is a 
 genesis of the highest element of thought in Deity ; for no thought 
 can arise at the grand centre that does not spontaneously propagate 
 itself to the utmost verge of the orb of being, changing its aspect or 
 form with every degree of substance through which it may pass. 
 
 Now I am desirous of showing that this external form, which each 
 thought and the entire mind of Deity may have taken, has, in the de- 
 gree next within or above, a correspondent world of form. — This the 
 preceding chapter does not show ; since for all that appears therein, 
 there may be nothing but the absolute ideas and their ultimates. — 
 
380 
 
 P A N I D E A. 
 
 And I wish to establish this position logically from the world of the 
 senses. I wish to reason from the forms of matter to those of spirit 
 — ^from the universe as an effect or ultimate form, to its immediate 
 cause within or above that form ; I would, (if it may be done without 
 blame,) trace the connection between the internal and external of this 
 grand theatre of our existence, and show that in the world of spirit 
 the Not-Me exists, with precisely the same relations to the Me, as in 
 the world of matter. 
 
 For example, I here find my material self resting on this outstretch- 
 ed earth, canopied by the blue vault of heaven — I find it surrounded 
 by an infinitude of co-ordinate forms of matter, all moved and actu- 
 ated, or governed by certain laws, immutable and eternal. Now it 
 ought to appear, if this position be correct, that in the degree or sphere 
 of substance next above the material, I have a supersensual or spirit- 
 uaLform, in a correspondent supersensual or spiritual world, and in 
 like manner related to, and surrounded by, forms spiritual — all too, 
 in like manner, subject to laws analogous to, though not one and 
 identical in all respects with, those that govern in the material uni- 
 verse. 
 
 But to establish this position, it is necessary|that I first show that 
 I have the legitimate means for accomplishing it. To this end I pro- 
 pose now to show, that the principle of causation, considered as the 
 perfect Reason, furnishes legitimate means whereby the correspond- 
 ence may be well established. I propose first to show, how this per- 
 fect Reason or Logos creates human language — how by an all-forma- 
 tive energy, it expresses itself in all the various modes of living and 
 dead matter ; and then I propose to show the perfect analogy between 
 its operations in the individual mind, or soul, and through that, on 
 the brain ; and its necessary operations in all spiritual substance, and 
 through that in all matter ; and thence draw an inference which will 
 at once show the legitimacy of the means, and support the above po- 
 sition. 
 
 jti^lBut in order to the successful accomplishment of this object, wo 
 must be careful not to confound things that are in themselves distinct. 
 We must be careful to distinguish between a cause, and the necessary 
 conditions under which a cause acts. The vital principle of the seed 
 is the cause of the germination and growth of the plant ; but earth, 
 moisture, heat and light, are the conditions necessary to its germina- 
 tion and growth. The various conditions, under which cause develops 
 itself, give distinct individuality to each development. Could the 
 conditions, under which the vital principle of the acorn develops itself. 
 
P A N I D E A. 381 
 
 be always mathematically the same, the development would he the 
 same, the form the same, the oak the same ; but this may not be until 
 every condition be the same, even to the quality of the seminal mat- 
 ter, and consequently to that form or modification of the universal 
 life, which corresponds thereto. Again — if further illustration be 
 necessary — look at the green fields, the glassy waters, the brown for- 
 ests, the gray cliff's of the hills, and the blue overarching sky ; there 
 IS but one cause operating here, to produce all this variety of hues. 
 It is the light of the sun, which in itself is one, and perfectly homoge- 
 neous ; but the various surfaces which receive and reflect it, impose 
 those conditions upon it, which give to it, as the same uniform cause, 
 all this variety of eff"ect. In each separate surface, the light, as cause, 
 takes a distinct modification — acquires a separate individuation, (if 
 the term may be so used,) and yet is dependent, for its distinct 
 mode, on the same homogeneous element. So it is with the one all- 
 pervading life. There is, it may be fairly inferred from the prece- 
 ding chapter, but one life ; yet that one life — (by reason of the diver- 
 sityTof the seminal qualities which it, acting, as the divine will, creates 
 for itself, and through which it passes into eff'ect) — is wonderfully di- 
 versified. Each germ of animal or vegetable life, contains within it- 
 self a somewhat of the universal life, individualized and made some- 
 thing distinct from its original self — a somewhat that still continues 
 to be of, and from, the universal life which produced, and still sustains 
 it, and an integral part of which it still continues to be. And as such 
 part, it becomes a distinct medium through which the universal life 
 operates, with an assimilative energy, on its surrounding elements — 
 transmuting them into a shape appropriate to the medium. Causal- 
 ity, thus passing into multiplicity, creates conditions for itself, (for 
 each new medium becomes in turn a condition to one subsequently 
 created,*) and so goes on multiplying forms and media without end. 
 
 Could we always distinguish between the conditions, and the cause, 
 we should, I think, discover a logical arrangement of causes and ef- 
 fects — and should learn that every thing, created and made manifest 
 in the sphere of the senses, has its correspondent cause above the 
 sphere of the senses — and that the arrangement and order beneath, 
 was but an image reflected into matter, of an analogous arrangement 
 and order above. 
 
 Now I am desirous of showing that there is this logical arrange- 
 ment in the sphere above, and beneath — in spirit and in matter. To 
 
 * Thus the vital principle of the acorn forms the g-erm and root ; the g-erm and root 
 the trunk ; tiie trunk the branch ; the branch the bud ; and the bud the leaf. 
 
382 P A N I D E A. 
 
 do this, I will show that causality operates logically — that it is in fact 
 but the resolution of a sort of mathesis, or logical principle, into its 
 necessary consequences, and relations — that it is a universal premise 
 which, of its own spontaneity, evolves all its included elements or par- 
 ticulars. That Sb premise, as it exists in the mind, has this spontane- 
 ous tendency, every one must feel to be true who has made such pre- 
 mise an object of contemplation. The Me cannot bestow its fixed at- 
 tention upon any premise for any considerable time, without the man- 
 ifestation of a spontaneous tendency of this sort.* The act of bestow- 
 ing the attention may be an act of the will ; but the resolution of the 
 premise is a law of mind above the will, and therefore of the Not-Me, 
 the Logos, or divine Will. 
 
 But independent of this fact, if the conclusions to which the pre- 
 ceding chapter has conducted us be correct, it is unquestionably true, 
 that Causality can be no other than that perfect Reason, Will, or Lo- 
 gos itself, passing, with more or less perfection, out into the actual — 
 becoming itself an actuality, in ultimate time and space, or more prop- 
 erly in ultimate successive and simultaneous order. Permit me to 
 illustrate this view of the subject, by an example of its operations tak- 
 en from the sphere of sounds, or the world of the ear. The organs of 
 speech being given, articulate sounds — inasmuch as they become ex- 
 tant in successive order — are less subject to the control of conditions 
 than effects wrought in most other sensuous spheres within which this 
 Reason may be supposed to display its creative energy. Music is 
 similar in all countries ; and the structure of speech essentially the 
 same, however different may be the articulate sounds which com- 
 pose it. 
 
 That law, which is common to all men in their intellectual opera- 
 tions, and which governs from generation to generation in the achieve- 
 ment of some necessary good, is the Reason common to all — that is, it 
 is the overruling Logos itself I will draw an illustration from an 
 achievement of this Reason as it operates through man, and which 
 thus makes an undoubted manifestation of itself as Reason, and then 
 proceed to its analogous works in Nature. 
 
 Take human language then — the language of some unmixed people 
 — a language that has become fixed, such as the Hebrew, or Arabic, 
 Grreek, or Latin. That language is not the work of one individual, or 
 of any number of individuals concerting and designing a language. 
 
 * Thus the idea of Man suggests the idea of the varieties of the race, of nations, and 
 of individuals ; so genus suggests the idea of species ; cause that of effect ; a part (as 
 the segment of a circle,) that of the whole. 
 
P A N I D E A, 3g3 
 
 The language has been forming through a succession of generations, 
 by the tongue of man, woman, and child, entirely ignorant of what 
 they were doing. Yet analyze that language, and its structure is per- 
 fect ; design and logic appear in every part. Considered with relation 
 to that part of the human family which used it, and through which it 
 was formed, nothing can be more perfect — ^not even the structure of 
 the organs of speech. A logical design of the perfect Reason has em- 
 bodied itself in sound, and become in the world of the ear an object 
 of thought as perfect, as any one that may be found in the world of 
 the eye. There have been those who have said that Grod formed the 
 first human language ; and it is the perfection that appears in some of 
 those ancient and unadulterated languages which suggested the say- 
 ing. Those, who so believe, are, it appears to me, unquestionably 
 right. Grod did form the first human language, but not, perhaps, in 
 precisely the way they may suppose ; and yet in a manner perfectly 
 analogous to that in which he has fashioned the visible creation. The 
 ear is but the medium through which the perfect Reason ascribes 
 sound to vibrations ; just as through the eye, it ascribes space to a 
 coexistent plurality. That Reason, therefore, the Divine as it is in 
 man, spontaneously acting through a limited and special form of hu- 
 manity, passed through human vocal organs, and the auditory nerve, 
 and thus reflecting its own action into a sphere of sensation, gave it 
 there to take logical form in a perfect language. 
 
 Unless it be supposed that the first human language was dictated 
 verbatim to man, by his Creator, (and no philosophical mind can I 
 think at this day assert such an hypothesis,) or unless it be supposed 
 that millions of distinct wills could accidentally concur in the same 
 creative work, it must be conceded that language was formed by that 
 overruling Reason which operates through all ages, as a law or an in- 
 spiration to man. And if so, it is the Logos which has thus actualized 
 itself in sound. 
 
 Yet has it not thereby parted with any thing that belongs to its 
 spiritual sphere. The idea, logically precedes the sound which ex- 
 presses it, and still exists in mind, though it may have uttered itself 
 in language — it still exists in the supersensual in logical order, though 
 it may have actualized itself in the sensible sphere of humanity in a 
 corresponding logical order. Let the reader bear this in mind ; and 
 let us now see if we cannot follow the perfect Reason, or Logos, into 
 those manifestations which it makes of itself, independent of the hu- 
 man organization — into manifestations however, which shall be per- 
 
384 P A N I D E A. 
 
 fectly analogous to those just described, and attended with corres- 
 ponding results. 
 
 Why, it seems to Jtne th.at .all- .NatuF^-is but -a language subsisting 
 from ideas in the Logos, which ideas continue still self-subsistent, what- 
 ever exterior forms they may take. Look at the animal creation — 
 and, from the half-reflecting elephant to the ant that perambulates the 
 subterranean streets of its little city, every form is but expressive of 
 ideas in this all-actuating Reason. What is an instinct but an idea ? 
 an individuation of the Logos, going forth to actualize itself in a world 
 of material forms — an idea, which when actualized in form, fully and 
 perfectly expresses itself to the senses — aye, does more — ^goes forth 
 into action, and so passes to all its necessary and logical results. Take 
 the bee, for instance ; is it not perfectly manifest that it is a mathe- 
 matical reason which constructs with such accuracy the cells of the 
 hive ? — that it is a reason of the most perfect order, which actualizes 
 itself in the polity of its little communities. The rational individual 
 man himself, resolved into the multiplicity of a sectional existence, 
 and still retaining his identity, could not more decisively manifest the 
 law of an overruling reason, than a community of the bee or ant. It 
 therefore can be no other than the same spontaneous and everywhere 
 present Reason, which thus becomes extant. In the organism of the 
 bee, or ant, it of necessity, and without choice, precept, or experience, 
 proceeds straight forward to accommodate every thing to itself The 
 organism gives it limitation, or rather it makes for itself a limitation 
 by realizing itself in an organism, just as a thought or affection of the 
 soul may realize itself in a single articulate sound. It indeed seems 
 to be that very Reason which actualizes itself in human language — 
 with this difference, that in living bodies it goes far beyond its achieve- 
 ments in sound. For, look through animated nature, and whatever 
 form this Reason adepts, that form becomes a limited premise, from 
 which it passes — not in speech, but by a series of acts — to every possi- 
 ble logical conclusion of which the premise admits. 
 
 We have heard of vegetable instincts, and there is no doubt of their 
 existence ; for there is but one life, and the vegetable is one of its 
 manifestations. And who can doubt that its law of action is just as 
 rational in the vegetable, as in the man ? Could we see those particles 
 which make their journeys from the root of the growing stalk of maize 
 out into the ear, and there behold them marshal themselves in kernels 
 and rows of kernels, we could hardly doubt the present action of the 
 overruling Reason. Nay, this spontaneous Reason may be traced into 
 what is called inorganic matter. Do not the mountains rise, and rivers 
 
P A N I D E A. 385 
 
 roll, just where a perfect Eeason would command ? Not perhaps where 
 the individual man would desire ; for that were to leave the same Eea- 
 son in him idle and undeveloped ; but where the order of the oreat 
 whole requires. Are not the wanderings of the stars regulated by a 
 perfect mathematical reason ? And when we ascertain the laws which 
 govern them, do we discover in those laws any thing more than exists 
 in that power within us which makes the discovery ? The discovery is 
 a mathematical discovery ; and the power which makes it is a mathe- 
 matical power, which, in the act of demonstration, evolves something 
 of its own infinitude, and recognizes its own identity, on the grand 
 scale of the laws of the Universe. 
 
 Causality, then, is that every where present and ever active Reason, 
 or Logos, which gives logical expression to itself in nature without, 
 and which we feel as spontaniety no less logical within us, and so near 
 to us, that we habitually confound it with ourselves 
 
 It is to the logical form in which it manifests itself in the multipli- 
 city of the Universe, and to the additional fact that this expression is 
 derived from the unity of the Logos, that I would here particularly 
 call the attention of the reader. 
 
 For if Causality be a unit in itself, and if it express itself to the 
 senses in logical form, in all particulars and in the grand entirety of 
 the Universe, then have I a right to infer that its expression is no less 
 logical and orderly, in the sphere of causes next above the senses — 
 that is, in the sphere of the supersensual and spiritual. Indeed I have 
 a right to go something further, and insist that it is there, not only 
 logical, but analogous ; and correspondent to its form and expression 
 in the world of the senses. I have a right to infer, as will more 
 clearly appear in the sequel, that the Logos, as the grand causality, 
 actualizes itself in a special form in the spirit of man — organizes itself 
 in a spiritual body, and through that in the material man ; and that 
 the human form, in this world of the senses, is what the spiritual body 
 is in the world above the senses ; in other words, that there are a Me 
 and Not-Me, supersensual or internal, precisely as there are a Me and 
 Not-Me, sensible and external. 
 
 But we may bring the truth of this conclusion close home to us, 
 and, by examining the laws and tendencies of the perfect Reason, as 
 they manifest themselves within us, prove not only this entire corres- 
 pondence, but realize, and even feel within ourselves, something of the 
 manner in which the effect is produced. Our external organization 
 is itself a part and portion of the material universe ; and the laws and 
 tendencies of this reason (considered as causality in its unity) must 
 
 49 
 
386 P A N I D E A . 
 
 be within this organization, mutatis mutandis^ what they are in the 
 mighty whole. Analyze a single ray of light, and you may discover 
 the properties of all that mass of light which illumines the Universe — 
 ascertain the law which causes the apple to fall from the hough toward 
 the centre of the earth, and you may calculate the density of Uranus, 
 or measure the speed of the comet, in its journey through space — a 
 law, an energy, which governs and actuates a single drop in the great 
 ocean of life, must be a law, an energy, pervading that mighty whole, 
 of which the drop is but an insignificant part. Let us then examine 
 the operations of the Logos as they manifest themselves within us in 
 the creation of mental imagery ; for such as they are there, they must 
 be on the grand scale of the Universe. In doing this, I presume not 
 to analyze Deity, or to grasp the Infinite ; but I may realize something 
 of the nature of His creative power, by observing the operations of 
 that creative energy within, which generates all thought — an energy, 
 which, by a law its own — sometimes acting unaccompanied by my 
 volitions, sometimes modified by them — spontaneously fills my mind 
 with its own ideal imagery, and creates a supersensual world within 
 me. I may will the necessary conditions, but the conditions realized^ 
 the imagery comes of a law ohove my will. 
 
 " We do not make our thoug"hts — they grow in us 
 Like grain in wood." 
 
 The causative energy, which produces this imagery, may ever be the 
 same Divine Reason acting in its unity toward a perfect development ; 
 but its realization, in the consciousness, may partake of the voluntary, 
 moral and physical states of the individual — may be perfect if they be 
 perfect — or incongruous and heterogeneous, as in dreams, if they are 
 not in harmony with the divinity which they call into action. The 
 defective or incongruous development of ideal imagery is ever charge- 
 able on the state or condition of the individual Me, and not on the 
 creative cause, 
 
 I state this position in this general manner that I may not divert 
 the mind of the reader from the course of thought, by which we are 
 now passing to the main object of the present argument ; and, reserv- 
 ing it for a more particular consideration in the next chapter, I pro- 
 ceed to show how it is that the Logos or Perfect Reason operates as a 
 creative energy within us, and transmits its ideal forms into matter. 
 If it can be shown that it is a creative energy which produces this 
 effect, then, since that energy is a unit, in which all things are, it will 
 follow, that it must operate as a like cause in all its like relations, and 
 that consequently it must produce, on the grand scale of the Universe, 
 
 r 
 
P A N I D E A . 387 
 
 effects differing from those, which it is shown to operate in ourselves, 
 only as the recipients of its action differ. In one word, if it can be 
 shown that it materializes its ideal imagery in the brain, it will follow 
 that it must, by a corresponding process, materialize its imagery in all 
 substance susceptible of its influence ; and4hat the fprms of the mate- 
 rial Universe are but the ultimates of an ideal worl(L af ,fprms,^subsist- 
 ing in the bosom of the Logos. 
 
 Now what is the Logos within us, considered as the source and foun- 
 tain of our ideal imagery ; in other words, considered as an internal, 
 creative energy ? 
 
 Why, undoubtedly, if the views of the preceding chapter be correct, 
 the Logos, considered as a formative energy, is itself necessarily the 
 all-involving form — the abstract and absolute of forms ; or the unity 
 of forms in their original synthesis. But what do I mean by this 
 original synthesis in which all forms are in their unity ? Let me 
 assure the reader that this phrase carries with it more of the appear- 
 ance, than of the reality of mysticism. I will endeavor to illustrate 
 its meaning. 
 
 The form of the future oak subsists in synthetic unity in the quali- 
 ties of the acorn — that is, in those tendencies of the matter wMcTi' 
 constitutes the acorn, to produce the roots, stem, branches, leaves, 
 blossoms, and fruits of the oak, and nothing but these. Again, all 
 colors, all hues subsist in like manner, in synthetic unity, in the pure 
 light of the sun, ever ready for development by a law or energy their 
 own, on the appropriate conditions being given. Light, when it thus 
 reveals itself, passes from its synthetic state to an analytical develop- 
 ment of its involved elements, and shows objectively what it is in its 
 own subjective unity. Thus, the Logos considered as the absolute of 
 form, or all form in the unity of original synthesis, only awaits the 
 existence of the appropriate recipient, or medium, to become analytic- 
 ally extant, not only in mind, but in time and space. It creates from 
 itself its own recipients, and when it finds an appropriate recipient in 
 that ultimate called matter — dead matter — it passes into the forms of 
 planetary orbs and central suns — worlds and systems of worlds. When 
 it finds recipients in the various modifications of the vital element, it 
 stands out in all the variety of animal and vegetable forms. When 
 it finds its recipients in the states of the conscious Me, it passes into 
 the forms of ideal imagery, and thence out into the creations of art — 
 a world superinduced on the world of nature ; just as the world of life 
 is superinduced on the world of dead matter. 
 
 Again — to carry out the premises afforded by the preceding chapter 
 
388 P A N I D E A. 
 
 — The Logos or Perfect Reason, is not only the original synthesis of 
 all form, but it also contains all form within itself, by reason of its 
 omnipresence, or rather by reason of the presence of all forms to it. 
 Take away space — the ascription of the perfect mathematical Keasou 
 to a coexistent plurality — and all forms are resolved into a synthetic 
 unit, and subsist in the bosom of the Logos as a mere idea. The same 
 Logos that contains the absolute of space and extension, contains this 
 all-involving idea of form. This idea in the Logos must be ever pre- 
 sent to the conscious Me, and there subsists with a tendency to make 
 analytic revelations upon every change of condition in the percipient 
 self 
 
 I trust that what I mean by the phrase, the unity of all forms in 
 their original synthesis, may be now understood. But if it be under- 
 stood, it will at once be perceived that the Logos, considered with 
 reference to form, is Omniform, or all-formful. 
 
 Form arises from relations ; and the absolute Logos considered 
 without relations — as it must be when regarded as absolute unity — is 
 without form ; but considered with reference to its own involved mul- 
 tiplicity in all the degrees of substance, it is, in its central and divine 
 sphere, the perfection of all form. With reference to Nature, it is 
 Nature in her principles, or the mind of God in the creative sphere of 
 the divine ideal. With reference to the form of man, it is human 
 beauty carried up to divine perfection ; or rather, it is itself that per- 
 fect form, of which man is but a poor, imperfect image. But it is 
 enough for my present purpose to say, that the Logos is the all-formful 
 as well as all-formative principle ; that it is ever present with those 
 attributes to, or in the conscious Me, the individual soul or self ; and 
 that, in as far as the Me or self becomes recipient of its special or 
 particular influences, it makes revelations of its all-containing ideas — 
 presents something of them, sometimes in the sphere of the Me inter- 
 nal alone — as in dreams, or in the memory of the past, or in the forms 
 of the fancy or imagination — sometimes in this sphere, and in that of 
 the sensitive Me, at the same instant. This I suppose to be necessary 
 to every complete perception of external objects. But with this we at 
 present have nothing to do. We are now confining our attention 
 exclusively to that imagery which manifests itself within, to the Me 
 internal. 
 
 I may have been in the habit of regarding this internal imagery as 
 a creation of my own, and as a part of my voluntary self, and subject 
 to my will ; yet nothing can be more certain than that it has an exist- 
 ence independent of and foreign to it. On a close examination we 
 
P A N I D E A. 389 
 
 shall find that it is ever subject to the laws of the Logos whence it 
 proceeds, or in which it continues to be, and is just as truly a some- 
 thing distinct from my essential self, as the fields and forests, which 
 now fall within my view, are distinct from the corporeal organ which 
 is the instrument by which I behold them. 
 
 That the soul has no choice but to see the form, or image, in case 
 of sensation, will at once be admitted ; but this is equally true in the 
 case of pure internal imagery, whether we be dreaming or in a state 
 of wakefulness. Do but give the feeling or mental state, which is ever 
 a necessary antecedent to the perception — and the appropriate image 
 comes — we willing or not willing. In dreams, the mental image most 
 certainly comes spontaneously, as a consequence of a particular state 
 of recipiency. So in reverie ; and in every case of waking memory, 
 the appropriate feeling precedes the remembered form. The image 
 comes just as independently of our wills as the light of the sun upon 
 opening the eye toward him, and it continues within us just as inde- 
 pendently of our volition, as the sensation, or perception of the same 
 light to the eye whilst open ; so long as the appropriate condition or 
 relation of the conscious Me to the internal Logos continues. It 
 comes and subsists independently of our wills ; and so is not of us, 
 but of that from which it proceeds, or in which it becomes manifest. 
 
 The moment then that these forms, or conceptions, arise to the Me 
 within, they become as to it, realities — supersensual or spiritual reali- 
 ties. They exist in the mind, and are a part of it ; and therefore are 
 as truly real, as the individual mind itself But because they there 
 exist, they do not cease to be of the Logos, any more than the color of 
 an object ceases to be of and from light, because it falls within the 
 scope of my vision. They still are of the Logos, and, for that reason, 
 are still endowed with something of its spontaneous energy. But, if 
 this be so, any such image must subsist in the mind, with its force (if 
 I may so speak,) undiminished, and so have a tendency, beyond its 
 spiritual region in the individual mind, outward into that portion of 
 the nervous substance to which it has the most appropriate relation. 
 If for instance, there be in my mind a distinct image of my friend, 
 that image, of a law its own, should tend to bring the organ of vision 
 into a state similar to that in which it is, when he is actually seen. 
 (I do but speak of a tendency.) And now let us see if this inference 
 cannot be verified by experience and observation. 
 
 If there be any truth in physiognomy, or craniology, the whole soul 
 stands out imaged in the physical organization. Now what is thus 
 true of the whole spiritual being of man, every one has observed to be 
 
390 P A N I D E A. 
 
 equally true of its particular changes. Whence is the smile of joy, 
 the tear of sorrow, the tremor of fear, and the muscular constriction 
 of rage, but from the mind ? — the spirit transmitting its influence into 
 the bodily organization, and taking form therein. So powerful is this 
 action on the physical organization, that a single thought has been 
 known to produce death. 
 
 But, it is in that portion of the physical system with which the 
 mind is more immediately connected, that we must look for the more 
 immediate and slighter manifestations of thought. Now that part of 
 the physical system is undoubtedly the brain, and its nervous append- 
 ages ; and when we inquire into the effect of an idea or conception 
 upon the nerves, we shall find that the class of nerves, whose action 
 gives occasion to a corresponding sensation, or perception, is that class 
 which is most powerfully affected by the conception in the absence of 
 the sensation. Thus, if the conception be that of a tangible body, the 
 nerves of feeling will be most sensibly affected — if of visible form, the 
 visual nerves — if of sounds the auditory nerve. If any one can form 
 the distinct conception of a piece of coarse felt drawn upon the edge 
 of his teeth, — or of walking up a slippery plain of boards or shingles, 
 at an angle of forty-five degrees, his foot occasionally sliding, — ^with- 
 out feeling the nerves affected in precisely the same manner that they 
 are upon the actual sensations arising from these acts, all that I can 
 say is, that his nervous system is constituted very differently from 
 mine. 
 
 But as to the effect of this class of conceptions on the nervous sys- 
 tem, I need proceed no further — every one is familiar with them. But 
 how is it with ideal images, or the conceptions of visible forms ? Do 
 they imprint themselves, or produce corresponding effects, on the vis- 
 ual nerve ? 
 
 For myself, I cannot doubt that the visual nerve is just as suscepti- 
 ble to impressions from the conception of the form of an object of vis- 
 ion, as the nerves of touch are to the conception of a tangible body. 
 I have known the visual imagery of dreams to retain, after waking, 
 possession of the visual nerve, and to have an apparent outness^ (ex- 
 cuse the word,) until external objects produced their full effect and 
 obliterated the impression from within. But here the visual nerve 
 must have been affected by a mere conception, or ideal image. I have 
 heard one, in whose word I think I may place implicit confidence, ob- 
 serve, that he could, at any time, by fixing his eyes on a darkened por- 
 tion of a room, give a faint apparent outness to the visual imagery of 
 his mind. Now this can be done, only by the conceptions imparting 
 
P A N I D E A. 391 
 
 their own images to the retinae, and so overcoming external impres- 
 sions made on the same point, as to give the mental imagery to take 
 their place.* 
 
 This, indeed, is the true theory of apparitions and spectral illusions. 
 Whenever the nerve becomes exceedingly susceptible to this sort of 
 mental influence — as in many cases of physical and mental derange- 
 ment, it certainly does — or the image so vivid that it transmits itself 
 through the visual nerve to the retinae, and there takes form, sup- 
 planting those from external objects, the mental image, then, does of 
 necessity appear as a part of the field of vision, and seems to have 
 form, place and reality therein, as an external body. But in such 
 case, there is a real form, (not a picture,) produced by it in the retinae, 
 such as that produced by the rays of light. The latter must be a 
 change in the visual nerve answering to the external object; the for- 
 mer must be precisely the same change answering to the ideal image ; 
 and, in case of spectral illusion, a change of character, so decisive, so 
 powerful, as to overcome the action of some portion of the field of vis- 
 ion. In other words, the force of the visual image within, on the 
 nerve, must be greater than that of the supplanted image of the visible 
 object. Disordered nerves could never of themselves accidentally take 
 this form ; but doubtless they may be so disordered, as to become 
 more susceptible of taking form from mental imagery, and perhaps, at 
 the same time may bring the conscious Me into unwonted relations to 
 the all-formful Logos. 
 
 Phrenology professes to account for spectral illusions and mental 
 imagery, by ascribing them to the action of certain organs, which she 
 has, or believes she has, demonstrated to exist in the brain ; but unless 
 these organs be endowed with a self-active, independent, isolated en- 
 ergy — be in fact themselves that energy — she accounts for no psycho- 
 logical fact whatever. To say, for instance, that the organ of form 
 gives us the idea of form, and that a diseased state of that organ pro- 
 duces monstrous mental imagery, is as if one, professing to account for 
 the existence of vegetable and animal forms, should say, that they 
 were the products of a seminal substance, and that if that substance 
 were diseased, the vegetable or animal would be diseased and mis- 
 shapen. 
 
 The man who shows me a musical instrument, and says nothing 
 about the musician, or of sound from which he draws forth all the va- 
 
 * William Blake, whose biography is g-iven in Cunning-ham's Lives of the most em- 
 inent British Painters and Sculptors, must, I think, be reg-arded as affording- an extra-' 
 ordinary instance of this power of the mind. 
 
392 P A N I D E A. 
 
 riety of harmony, accounts very imperfectly for the music which I 
 hear, when the performer's fingers are moving upon the keys ; or for 
 the discord which would result from the same movements, should any 
 of the strings become accidentally deranged. The instrument is as 
 the brain ; sound and its laws are of the Logos ; and the movements 
 on the keys, represent the various states or conditions of the Will or 
 conscious Me, You may show me a kaleidoscope ; but if you would 
 account for the phenomena which it reveals, you must go beyond the 
 instrument itself — you must make me acquainted with the existence 
 of light, and teach me something of its laws ; and you must then add 
 something concerning the movements which the hand must give to the 
 instrument, in order to produce a succession of images. Phrenology, 
 when she points out the organ of form, does nothing, unless she reveal 
 to us something of the all-formful energy, which is ever acting upon it 
 to produce its phenomena, and something concerning the human will, 
 whose various changes, states, or conditions, give to that energy its 
 ever-changing manifestations. In this case, however, it should be re- 
 collected that the performer dwells within the instrument, and that 
 by his mere volitions he puts in action, this or that energy, which in- 
 dependently of those volitions, spontaneously, of a law its own, acts 
 oh^ntra ad extra^ responsively to the changes which are calling forth 
 its action. 
 
 The mental image, then, does not originate from the brain, or any 
 particular organ thereof, but only finds therein its echo, or responsive 
 action. This, perhaps in every case, is necessary to a full and com- 
 plete development of the mental image, as long as the soul continues 
 its connection with the body. For there can be little doubt, that as 
 every key has its relation to the sound which a musical instrument 
 yields, so every point of the brain has its corresponding organic rela- 
 tion to the soul — which, whilst unchanged, tends to keep the soul un- 
 changed in its primary state or condition in reference to the Logos. 
 But if this be so, then it will follow, that some change must be pro- 
 duced in the brain, or in some organ thereof, in order to overcome the 
 primary tendency and efi'ect of this organic relation ; and hence, for 
 this purpose, if for this alone, there must be this sort of responsive ac- 
 tion in the nervous system, at every change in the mind. If it, at any 
 time, happen, that this responsive action is interrupted or deranged, 
 by disease or other cause, there will be great danger of insanity ; and 
 if the interruption or derangement be continued, insanity will be the 
 mfallible consequence. For in such case, changes of the Will, or con- 
 ditions of the conscious Me, are not followed by the results which it 
 
P A N I D E A. 393 
 
 intuitively anticipates. Images, as unexpected as the sounds of a de- 
 ranged musical instrument on the performer's touch, obtrusively start 
 up, and manifestly have an existence as independent of our volitions, 
 as the forms of the material Universe, when forced upon our reluctant 
 attention by the will of another — bars, chains, dungeons, and gibbets, 
 cannot have a sterner reality. In such case, we necessarily mistake 
 this anarchy of the mental images, for an external reality, and insan- 
 ity becomes the inevitable consequence. The all-formful Logos re- 
 tains a relation to the disordered system through all its mutations ; 
 and so does the conscious Me ; but then the Me's primary feeling, re - 
 suiting from its organic relations, is no longer the same — it has chang- 
 ed ; and when, after it has thus changed, it undergoes a modification 
 from volition or other cause, the modification is no longer followed by 
 the accustomed results, but by something quite different. Some devel- 
 opment of the Will or conscious Me, therefore, seems to be a necessary 
 prerequisite to every case of insanity. And this inference appears to 
 be supported by the whole history of the insane ; for though many are 
 born idiots, yet never have I heard of one who came into the world a 
 lunatic. But to return from this digression, into which I have been 
 led by an objection which imperfect phrenological views might suggest. 
 
 This fact, then, it seems to me, has been established ; namely, that 
 the formative Logos does, on certain conditions, present to the conscious 
 Me an ideal image ; which is a substantive spiritual reality still in the 
 Logos — that whilst thus subsistent it so acts on the brain and visual 
 nerve, as to repeat its image therein, take material form, and become 
 a material reality, without ceasing to exist as a mental or spiritual 
 image — not that it should be understood that the ideal image acts 
 from an isolated, independent energy of its own, but that, whatever 
 energy it has, is derived from the Logos, which presents the image, 
 and in which it still continues to subsist. 
 
 But the same all-formative energy is present in its unity to every 
 portion of matter, just as it is to that which constitutes the brain and 
 visual nerve. It, therefore, surely must in like manner everywhere 
 reflect its images into whatever of matter may be receptive of them. 
 Appropriate recipients are everywhere present to it in all seminal 
 qualities, in all vital substance, vegetable or animal ; and the spiritual 
 image must tend, (as I find it tends in myself,) to take form in what- 
 ever may be most receptive of its assimilative action. The Logos 
 being a unit, its energy must everywhere be the same as it is in the 
 conscious self — ^varying its effects, however, as a causative energy, with 
 the conditions and media in which it acts. The appropriate recipient^ 
 
 50 
 
394 P A N I D E A. 
 
 "being given, its spiritual imagery must take form therein, for the same 
 reason that it takes form in the brain. 
 
 Yet is there a wide difference between the effect which it produces 
 in the brain, and that which it produces on the grand scale of the 
 Universe. But this again is owing, not to any difference of kind in 
 the action, but to a difference in the conditions and media in which the 
 action takes effect. When the spiritual image arises in my mind, it 
 does but appear in a microcosm — in the limited sphere of an individual 
 soul or self, and so tends to repeat its form only in the brain and 
 visual nerve ; but when it passes from the Logos direct to the com- 
 mon world of matter, it is subject to no such limitations, but repeats 
 its form in that which is most receptive of it, and is thus made to stand 
 forth as an image actualized in matter, amid a universe of co-ordinate 
 forms. 
 
 But whether the image in the Logos pass in action from my mind 
 to the brain, or, from spirit beyond my consciousness, to matter, the 
 forms are still dual — still spiritual and material. The spiritual images 
 must logically precede the material ; and must still continue to sub- 
 sist distinct from it ; just as, in forming a language, the idea must 
 precede the formation of the word which expresses it, and must con- 
 tinue to exist, though the word be forgotten and lost forever. But if 
 it be true that each form is dual — has its spiritual and material sub- 
 sistence — then all natural forms are, in like manner, dual, and we have 
 a world of spiritual forms and a world of material forms ; the latter 
 subsisting from the former, as effect from cause, as shadow from sub- 
 stance ; and the one differing from the other, only as a material differs 
 from a spiritual mode of substance — their correspondence being in all 
 other respects complete and perfect. 
 
 And this is something more than mere analogy ; for if it be the 
 Logos which of its own spontaneity creates the image which exists in 
 the mind, and repeats that image in the brain and visual nerve, because 
 they are receptive of its influence, then, in all cases, where matter 
 becomes thus receptive of its influence, like effects will follow. It is 
 but to conceive the same cause, which operates on the brain, to be 
 operative, in like manner, on the stupendous scale of the Universe, in 
 order to account for the creation of all forms, whether animate or inani- 
 mate — all subsist from, and continue to be ideas in, the Divine Mind ; 
 and the world of form in matter, is but an image — an assimilated 
 image — of a world of form in spirit. 
 
 If we take this conclusion in connection with that law of mind to which 
 I have already adverted, namely, that there is a spontaneous tendency 
 
P A N I D E A. 395 
 
 of all thought, however abstract, to form, then creation will follow as 
 
 the necessary consequence of the self-established order of the Logos 
 
 the mind of God exists ; therefore the Universe. 
 
 What then — are material forms mere phenomena of spirit ? Are 
 my corporeal organization, and these rough and tangible elements of 
 earth and water — this starry sky — yon worlds that roll, and suns that 
 burn in the depths of space, the imagery of a dream ? Be it so ; but 
 recollect, these are not the phenomena of my spirit's creating — it is 
 not a dream, of my dreaming. If dream it be, I am, spirit and body, 
 an insignificant part of it — if dream it be, it is a dream of the all-cre- 
 ating Logos, and no less real, than God Himself It is the absolute 
 unit projected into the all-possible variety of its ultimate degree, and 
 yet not losing thereby its unity, any more than that principle, which 
 constitutes the life of man, loses its unity, by taking form in the mul- 
 tiple of the human body. To the mind of God — to the absolute and 
 perfect Reason — all creation, spiritual and material, and the forms 
 thereof, are but phenomena of thoughts Divine ; but to man — made 
 somewhat distinct from Deity by the freedom of his will — they are, at 
 the limits of that freedom, the inflexible, absolute, and stern realities 
 which they seem to be. 
 
 Were it mine, in the season of exalted vision, at will, to cause appa- 
 rent suns to blaze forth — systems of worlds to circle round them — 
 their hills and vales to be clothed with verdure and forests — torrents 
 to descend to oceans, and oceans to heave and roar — animated forms 
 to move and act appropriate parts — all these to subsist, continuously 
 and simultaneously, to the internal eye, dependent on my will ; I 
 having at the same time a conscious feeling of my own presence 
 pervading all — pray what would this splendid vision be, but the mere 
 imagery of the mind ? Yet if, in the midst of this imagery, I willed 
 into existence as part of it, and as a representative of my own person- 
 ality, an image of myself, actuated by thought, endowed with some- 
 thing of liberty distinct from mine, having by consequence, a Will its 
 own, fitted to be influenced by partial relations, and partial views of 
 that whole, of which it was but a microscopic part — and if, when this 
 were done, our visionary man went forth into my ideal world, it would 
 be no mere shadow to him. Let him will my ideal hills and vallies 
 to cast off their verdure — my ideal torrents to stop their downward 
 course — and my ideal ocean no longer to heave its billows to the shore, 
 and he may be supposed at once to discover that the verdure, the tor- 
 rent, and the ocean, subsisted from a Will independent of his own, and 
 that they were as real as himself Let him place his hand against the 
 
396 P A N I D E A. 
 
 mountain with a willed effort to move it, and ideal form shall resist 
 ideal form, and my mountains shall remain unmoved. An all-powerful 
 Will, presiding over the each and all, shall impose appropriate limits 
 to every effort of its own puny creature. 
 
 And yet, if it be granted that man is in any respect a free and inde- 
 pendent force, and as such, hears in the grand order of things an 
 ordained and established relation, the Universe, viewed in this aspect, 
 must likewise have its fixed order, and so long as the relation contin- 
 ues, must lose something of its absolute and unqualified subjection to 
 the Divine Will. Whatever changes it may undergo, must be changes 
 made consistently with the order required by the relation, and the 
 power of the Deity must therein find limits growing out of a self-im- 
 posed condition. Hence the Universe, even as to Deity, may have a 
 certain degree of fixity, not to be disturbed whilst the relation con- 
 tinues. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 SPHERES, SENSUOUS AND SUPERSENSUOUS THEIR CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 AND DIFFERENCE. 
 
 " The truths we think, 
 Subsist the same in God, as stars in heaven ; 
 And, as those specks of light, will prove g"reat worlds 
 When we approach them." 
 
 It is a remark of the preceding chapter, that the supersensuous or 
 spiritual can differ from the material form, only as a spiritual differs 
 from a material mode of substance ; or, considering spirit and matter 
 as two distinct substances, then, only as the one differs from the other. 
 Adopting this as the basis of my argument, I will endeavor more par- 
 ticularly to point out, in what respects I conceive the world of spiritual 
 forms to correspond with, and in what respects to differ from, the 
 world of material forms. 
 
 Of spiritual substance we know nothing, except as it manifests itself 
 to the conscious Me ; and indeed, the same remark applies to matter. 
 One might therefore rationally conclude, that we had equal assurance 
 of the existence of both ; and that there could be little or no dispute 
 as to the most obvious qualities of either. Yet some there are, who 
 deny the existence of spirit altogether, and recognize nothing but 
 matter. Others there are, who deny the existence of matter, and re- 
 
P A N I D E A, 397 
 
 cognize nothing but spirit ; whilst there are others still, who confi- 
 dently affirm the existence of both ; but who, in order to distinguish 
 spirit from matter, insist that spirit has, in no sense, any of the quali- 
 ties or properties of matter, save that of real substantive existence. 
 They deny, for instance, that it has any dimensions, or, in any sense 
 whatever, an extension, or relations of space. The materialist finds it 
 hard to conceive what and where such an entity can be, that has nei- 
 ther length, breadth, nor thickness — that is neither hard nor soft, light 
 nor heavy. And taking this doctrine as it is commonly presented, 
 one cannot be greatly surprised at his difficulty in believing it. Yet 
 have I a most undoubting faith in the existence of a supersensuous 
 form or mode of substance, call it spiritual — call it material — call it 
 what you may. I mean by the phrase spirit, simply such a substra- 
 tum, or modification of a common substratum, or support of qualities, 
 as renders those qualities absolutely distinct from all those which are 
 made known to us by the aid of the senses. Let us see if there be not 
 some test by which we can establish this distinction clearly, and prove 
 the existence of such a supersensuous or spiritual order of qualities, as 
 shall render the existence of spirit conceivable. 
 
 It appears to me, that there can be no such thing as power, cause, 
 effect, law, quality, property, or any other thing, distinct from sub- 
 stance. Every manifestation, whether made through the senses, or 
 directly to the mind, must have its appropriate substratum, or support, 
 in something. This the materialist must admit, or deny the existence 
 of matter. True this may go to prove an infinitude of substances, or 
 causes ; or what is much the most probable, a common central sub- 
 stance or cause ; but whether the one or the other, for the present 
 purpose it matters not ; all that I now affirm is, that substances, or 
 substance in its various modes, is all that there is, whether subject to 
 the senses or above them. And when I speak of spirit and matter, I 
 do but use terms which classify the various modes of the same com- 
 mon substance, by a reference to distinct classes of phenomena. 
 
 Now, in making this classification, I proceed precisely as I do in 
 making any other classification. I use a test ; and the soul itself is 
 that test, and there can be none other ; and in making this affirma- 
 tion, I do not mean to assert either that the soul is, or is not spiritual 
 — I mean simply to insist, that, be it what it may — acting and sufi'er- 
 ing accordantly with its own laws and constitution — it is the ultimate 
 test of identity, and difi'erence, of all substances, sensuous and super- 
 sensuous. 
 
 And it is a test to which it is not possible to conceive an objection. 
 
398 P A N I D E A. 
 
 The constitution and laws of tlie soul are as eternal, as those of the 
 Universe ; and in perfect accordance with them ; since nothing can 
 come to the conscious Me, save that which those very laws, of their 
 own spontaneous energy, present to it. 
 
 Now, in this constitution of soul, thus true to all things, there is a 
 trinity of degrees or spheres — ^variously named, it is true ; and about 
 their names there may be some disagreement ; but every body knows 
 what I mean when, in logical order, I call the most external sphere, 
 the sphere of sensation ; the sphere next within, the sphere of the un- 
 derstanding, or reflective reason, wherein the conscious Me exerts, in- 
 ternally, its free activity ; and the third and central sphere, the sphere 
 of the spontaneous Reason, or all-pervading Logos — by others called 
 intuition, instinct, law, &c. In the sensitive sphere, the conscious Me 
 perceives the forms or objects of the material universe, merely as ob- 
 jects or forms. In the sphere of the understanding, it apperceives 
 their images — ^ideal images, which subsist even in the absence of the 
 sensuous object. These images, and those things which they repre- 
 sent, are, in this sphere, understood to be efTects or sequences of some- 
 thing which logically precedes them as their cause. Whilst from the 
 third or central sphere, the spontaneous Reason, pervading all, is ever 
 tending to reveal, and subject to the forms of the understanding, the 
 cause or antecedent. I am not ambitious to have the reader adopt 
 this as the perfect statement of the operations appropriate to each 
 sphere ; all that I at present affirm to be a necessary consequence of 
 this trinity of degrees, or these laws of action, is, that each sphere has 
 its distinct development of qualities, properties, and modes of sub- 
 stance ; just as each organ of sensation reveals distinct properties in 
 matter. I open my corporeal eye, on the material universe ; its forms 
 act thereon ; and they become manifest, as the causes or occasions of 
 their perception ; and I feel, no matter for what reason, that they sub- 
 sist exterior to, and independent of me. I close the eye, and by an 
 internal faculty, see the image of the same object within. 
 
 Now, however analogous this internal image may be to the external 
 form, which it represents, yet it cannot be entirely one and identical 
 with it ; for so far as it is now an object of my consciousness, it has 
 properties, laws, subsistence, and form, which cannot be altogether one 
 and identical with those of its material type. But let us decide the 
 question by the aid of that infallible test, the conscious soul, which 
 must ever be appealed to in the last resort ; and does it not spontane- 
 ously distinguish between the interior and exterior form ? — and is it 
 not conscious, whilst in a sound state, that the former is perceived by 
 
P A N I D E A. 399 
 
 a faculty or power, which is in some respects distinct from that by 
 which the latter is perceived ? It is established beyond the possibility 
 of doubt, that there are certain qualities, properties, forms, and so 
 forth, of which it can become conusant only by the aid of the organs 
 of sense, and designates them as sensuous, or material ; and that there 
 are certain other qualities, properties, forms, and so forth, of which it 
 becomes, immediately and internally, conusant, and of which it cannot 
 have cognition by the aid of the organs of sense — these it designates 
 as supersensuous and ultra-material. 
 
 Now both these classes of qualities may have their basis in the same 
 common substance, and the differences between them be but inrlicia 
 of certain radical modifications of that common substance, or substra- 
 tum. It is the spontaneous reason that forces upon us a belief in the 
 existence of this substance or substratum" of qualities ; for the percip- 
 ient mind cannot see, either "directly or indirectly, any thing but the 
 qualities or phenomena of substance. Substance, then, is strictly the 
 one universal term designating all that underlies spirit and matter ; 
 whilst tho word matter, as determined by perception, is a generic 
 term, which designates a certain class of qualities, of which the soul 
 becomes conusant by the aid of the organs of sensation ; and spirit is 
 another^ generic term, which designates another class of qualities of the 
 same universal substance, of which the soul becomes internally, and 
 perhaps directly, conusant, and without the aid of the organs of sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 The dispute between the spiritualist and the materialist, when di- 
 vested of the theories and hypotheses into which it runs, is therefore 
 a question merely ,|whether there be, yea or nay, any ground for this 
 classification — a question which these very philosophers, before their 
 understandings had been mystified by dogma and creed — aye, before 
 they left the precints of the nursery — had decided for themselves ; 
 and correctly decided. 
 
 It will be perceived that the term substance, as I have here used it, 
 can be no other than tlie essential Deity, considered as tho basis or 
 source of all qualities,fproperties, or laws, of which the soul can take 
 cognizance. It is his Will which creates them, as the changes of the 
 conscious Me creates the blush, or the frown. They are of the order 
 which that Will has established and eternized, in its own perfections. 
 Matter and spirit, therefore, are only two different modes of the same 
 entity — two distinct orders of qualities, properties, and laws, which the 
 same common substance puts on, or presents to the percipient soul. 
 
 In every instance, therefore, I might speak of the modes of sub- 
 
400 P A N I D E A. 
 
 stance, as the basis of these two classes of qualities ; but this may 
 sometimes be an inconvenience to the writer, and obscure his state- 
 ments. To avoid these results, I shall use the term substance or 
 modes of substance, as may best subserve clearness and brevity of 
 expression. Indeed a mode of substance is, relatively to the qualities 
 which it puts forth, to the percipient soul, a distinct substance ; since 
 it is the medium through which, the divine idea that appropriates it, 
 goes forth into its multiples of the sensuous and supersensuous. These 
 distinct classes of qualities, then, having their basis in the ideas of the 
 eternal Reason as their cause, may, without leading to the slightest 
 error, be regarded as having their substance, support, or substratum, 
 in the same ideas ; and hence we may speak of substances without 
 confusion — ^meaning always to be understood to have reference to the 
 divine idea from which the quality, property, or law subsists. 
 
 Regarded in this light, the test which we use, reveals not only distinct 
 qualities, but distinct primary causes ; and in those causes, distinct sub- 
 stances ; for every pervasive power, cause, effect, law, property, or qual- 
 ity,* truly distinct and independent of all, other than its legitimate or 
 necessary conditions, indicates the existence of a distinct substance, 
 or radical mode of substance. 
 
 If we have established the competency of our test to prove the iden- 
 tity or difference of qualities, let us apply it to ascertain in what respect 
 the objects of the Me internal, differ from those of the Me external. 
 This will be done by briefly presenting a few instances of difference. 
 
 Does not every one perceive in the soul, qualities, laws, energies, 
 totally different from, though in some respects wonderfully analogous 
 to, those of the masses of matter by which he is surrounded ? The 
 soul alone thinks. Its tendency to think, is the necessary gravitation 
 of the soul to the great centre of all thought. External objects affect 
 it through the organs of sensation ; and on receiving the effect, it acts 
 with an energy its own, and according to laws its own — just as magne- 
 tism, light, caloric, act, each from its independent laws. All the nat- 
 ural instincts and tendencies of the soul, are laws derived from an 
 overruling principle within. Its tendency to trace effects to their 
 causes, is a supreme and primary law of the rational soul — a sponta- 
 neity from the Logos, and a constitutional recognition of God, the 
 Supreme Cause. 
 
 * Such as life, soul, magnetism, gravity, caloric, electricity, and the like. Thoug-h 
 many of these are evanescent, yet no one can leg-itimately infer that they cease to be, 
 upon their disappearance from the bodies in which they become manifest. Nothing- 
 was ever annihilated. 
 
P A N I D E A. 401 
 
 That, which is erroneously called the association of ideas, is the 
 effect of a law, purely of the soul. It is a law which suhjects the pri- 
 mary feeling or general intellectual state, to certain generic changes, 
 or conditions, which are called abstract or general ideas, and which 
 spontaneously evolve the multiple and particular. It is the transition 
 of one of these generic feelings, or states, into another, that evolves in 
 its operations, a succession of mental images. Sleep is of the vital 
 soul — disease of the vital soul ; and death itself is but a departure of 
 the vital soul from its organic structure. Mere matter sleeps not, 
 dies not, and is never diseased. Sleep is the quiescence of the soul 
 in its primary state. Pain and disease come of a partial breach in the 
 organic relation of soul and body. 
 
 Mind, then, or that which falls within the exclusive cognition of the 
 Me internal, has its distinct properties, energies, and laws, without a 
 metaphor ; and these must inhere in, and be developed by, a mode of 
 substance, distinct from that, whose qualities are revealed to the cor- 
 poreal eye. The admission of this is all I ask for. The materialist 
 may call these supersensuous manifestations and their substances, 
 matter ; if the term suits him better ; but it is certain that they do 
 not fall within the scope of the external senses ; and I choose to call 
 those qualities material, which fall exclusively under cognizance of the 
 corporeal senses ; and those supersensuous or spiritual, which are re- 
 vealed by the light of reason, or by an internal energy, to the senses 
 of the inner man. 
 
 The Me interal, then, has its distinct class of qualities, and by con- 
 sequence, its distinct general mode of substance ; differing certainly 
 as much from the external, as the Me internal, differs from the 
 Me external. When we see, and hear, and feel within, as we do 
 in every dream, in every act of memory, and in every case of dis- 
 tinct conception — we see not by the aid of external light, we hear 
 not by the aid of external vibrations, and we feel not from the 
 action of external tangible bodies, and hence the Me internal must 
 differ in these essential laws, widely from the Me external. But 
 if it be thus true that the soul has a distinct mode of substance, and 
 class of qualities, of which it takes cognizance within, then, it has its 
 own world of substance, with its qualities and forms, distinct from the 
 material ; and yet, upon examination, we shall find that there is a most 
 striking analogy between the internal and external worlds. Let us 
 consider this analogy. In the external world, we have two distinct 
 elements of action, or sources of power ; Nature, and Man — a Me, and 
 a Not-Me. How universal and absolute is the action of gravitation \ 
 
 51 
 
402 P A N I D E A. 
 
 Its dominion is impartial and equal, over every particle of the tangible 
 and visible. It affects rock and mountain, torrent and ocean, living 
 and dead matter, alike. Every particle of my corporeal frame is, at 
 every moment, under its dominion. It becomes the basis of all motion. 
 It rushes in the storm, it waves in the forest, and rolls in the billow. 
 It combines with animal life, and is the everywhere-present agent of 
 instinct. Not a movement could be made without it. The earth's 
 attraction is the immediate source of all motion ; will and instinct 
 only guide it. 
 
 Considered in another aspect, the Not-Me also puts forth its spon- 
 taneous energies. It peoples earth and flood with every kind-of vital 
 forms ; and the Me finds its physical organization one of them, and on 
 all sides pressed upon by a living, as well as a relatively quiescent, 
 Not-me, stimulating it to put forth its powers. In obedience to the 
 impulse, its internal energies come out into its external organs, and 
 the physical man goes forth into great Nature, to bring her into sub- 
 jection to himself If he rashly oppose his puny will to hers — to the 
 laws of her eternal order — he does but cast himself beneath the rolling 
 wheels of her collossal chariot to be crushed to atoms. Yet if he do 
 but ask to guide the action of her divine energies — to direct the force 
 of her torrent — to avail himself of the strength of her. storm, or the 
 giant mights of her animal kingdom, she beneficently answers his 
 prayer. The divine energy permits him to tip the horn with brass, 
 and the hoof with iron, and then quietly bends its neck to the yoke, and 
 meekly bears his burthen. The power of a Deity becomes his, and 
 clothed in divine energies, he stands, in the midst of Nature, the true 
 image of her God — she, the ideal imagery — he, its in-forming soul. 
 
 But the divine energy, under another form, no less truly exists 
 within us. Spontaneity, that all-pervading influence — that presence 
 from above — that basis of all action of the soul — is just as universal 
 within, as the law of gravitation without. Passion in its rudest form 
 and thought the most sublimated, are alike subject to its dominion. 
 Even the Me, the free will in its quiescent state, is resolved into it, 
 and becomes a coexistent and coincident activity ; loses for the moment 
 its relative, in the absolute identity, speaks the voice of prophecy, and 
 reveals secrets from the awful depths of the Logos. The deep feelings of 
 the conscious Me are but its relations to the divine energy — conditions 
 on which the Logos reveals the appropriate idea, and gives to it a lan- 
 guage its own. The savage who made an offering of his ornaments at 
 the falls of St. Anthony,* and the bard who poured forth his devotion 
 * See Carver's Travels. 
 
P A N I D E A. 403 
 
 in the vale of Chamouni at the foot of Mont Blanc, however different 
 the forms of expression, did hut give utterance to the same sublime 
 idea, revealed on like conditions. 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I g-azed upon thee 
 Till thoUj still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 
 
 1 worshiped the Invisible alone. — Coleridge. 
 
 When the Me internal thus passes from state to state, whether im- 
 pelled by sensation, or moved by its own volitions, it ever finds itself 
 still under the government of laws, and in the presence of intellectual 
 forms, that come to it from an overruling power. If it seek but to 
 guide and direct the spontaneous energy, it becomes invested with 
 something of the attributes of the Divinity, and creates a paradise 
 within ; but if it seek not to guide, but to oppose its puny will to the 
 divine influence, its little world of mind becomes a chaos — a pandemo- 
 nium of wild and tempestuous passions. How certainly, then, do its 
 images start up spontaneously, with all the sternness of external reali- 
 ties that will not be layed. They take possession of the man, and 
 bind the conscious Me in its own tabernacle. They never fail to 
 inflict meet punishment on him who violates the laws of his physical 
 constitution ; but to him who has consciously violated, or meditates 
 the violation of the moral law of his being — ^like the furies that pursued 
 Orestes — they are ever present. Waking he sees the phantom dagger, 
 " its handle toward his hand." 
 
 Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 
 I see thee still ; 
 And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood. 
 Which was not so before. 
 
 And in the deep sleep of night, the eye of the conscious soul still 
 beholds the bloody hand, which not " all the perfumes of Arabia will 
 sweeten." 
 
 Such is a general view of analogy between the laws which govern 
 the internal and those which govern the external world. Both orders 
 of laws are equally real ; both coextensive with their respective spheres ; 
 both uniform and analogous in their effects. But when we pass from 
 this general view of the laws of mind and matter, to a particular con- 
 sideration of the mental imagery which the Logos within presents to 
 the conscious Me, when a distinct memory of the past comes upon us, 
 or when in dream, or reverie, an inborn creation spreads itself to the 
 intellectual eye with all the beauty, variety, strength of color, and firm- 
 ness of outline, which mark the external reality, the analogy between 
 
404 P A N I D E A . 
 
 the worlds of matter and mind is so complete, that the resemblance, 
 during the continuance of the vision, is lost in the full belief of their 
 identity. 
 
 The forms of both worlds alike are visited upon us by laws over 
 which we have no control, but by a change of the relation or state, 
 which forms the condition on which they appear. To certain temper- 
 aments, to certain physical conditions, certain classes of mental imagery 
 arise ; just as to certain places, tlie material universe has its particular 
 aspects ; and as by a volition, we may pass from state to state within 
 the same range of temperament, (though not of physical condition,) 
 and change the imagery, so we may pass from place to place, and give 
 variety to the external world ; but in whatever state or condition the 
 conscious Me may be, the imagery comes by a necessary law. 
 
 When a particular state is the result of physical infirmity, as in the 
 crisis of a fever, or as in the physical disorder produced by an excess- 
 ive use of intoxicating stimulants, how utterly beyond the control of 
 the patient is the imagery by which the soul is visited ! With what 
 inflexible tyranny does it rule over the will ! But if the state be 
 induced by our own volitions, as by the voluntary recollection of some 
 former scene — we may change it by passing, of our own accord, to a 
 state of feeling, which shall bring with it imagery of a different cast ; 
 yet whilst any one state continues, the visions are not less real and 
 necessary within the mind, than the scenes which present themselves 
 to the external eye in obedience to the laws of the external universe. 
 
 What, then, are these internal forms and images really what they 
 appear to be ? Are the shadows and pictures of the imagination no 
 unreal things ? Have they, then, within themselves, truly relations of 
 time, space, and extension ? I answer these questions affirmatively? 
 and shall endeavor so to explain and illustrate the answer, tliat it shall 
 appear to be no less philosophical on account of its novelty. The great 
 hindrance to the correct understanding of this subject lies in the erro- 
 neous idea so generally entertained of the nature of space and exten- 
 sion. I hope, therefore, to derive to the proofs and illustrations which 
 I am about to offer, some aid from the first chapter of this treatise, 
 which makes extension and space two of its prominent topics. 
 
 From what has already been sliown, it may be fairly inferred that 
 if the material be of one mode or degree of substance, and the spiritual 
 of another mode or degree of the same common substance, they can 
 have no continuous or common properties or qualities. For if sub- 
 tance be the substratum or support of properties or qualities, and, if it 
 be resolved into two distinct modes or degrees, it must give rise to two 
 
PAN IDEA. 405 
 
 distinct orders of qualities, properties, and so forth. The qualities of 
 one order, however, may mathematically correspond to those of the 
 other, and yet have nothing in common ; just as the ideal image may 
 correspond to its assimilated form in the visual nerve, and yet the 
 image in the one have nothing in common with the form in the other 
 — not even a common space or extension. Thus, if both orders have 
 extension, it cannot be a common extension ; but the extension of one 
 will differ as much from the extension of the other as the modes or 
 degrees of substance differ. A common mathesis they may have, by 
 which relations, in each apart from the other, may be determined. 
 Yet the material can never take the place of the spiritual, nor the 
 spiritual the place of the material. So that whatever the two exten- 
 sions, each in itself, part compared with part in its coexistent plurality, 
 may be, yet will they, considered as entireties, be each to each, recip- 
 rocally inextended. Thus will all this material universe be without 
 extension as to spirit, and all spirit without extension as to matter. 
 Spirit subsists in relation to matter, as soul to body, connected simply 
 by a law. Spirit magnetically assimilates matter in form to itself, 
 just as the ideal image assimilates the visual nerve. Yet this is done, 
 as the moon governs the tides, without any thing like a blending 
 or contact of the two substances. There is indeed no presence in the 
 common acceptation of the term ; yet something more than presence, 
 since it acts in its entirety, at once in every part and atom of the 
 whole mass, and on the whole as a whole. It everywhere tends to 
 produce every thing, and hence makes a particular manifestation, or 
 development of itself, only where special conditions favor it. 
 
 But though all spirit be thus as a unit to all matter, it by no means 
 follows, that it is in itself a unit. It may, like material extension, 
 when considered in itself, have its coexistent plurality, and conse- 
 quent extension and space. To prove that such is the fact, will be to 
 complete the parallel between the sensible and supersensible spheres 
 of existence, and will also establish the fact, that mind has as truly its 
 own permanence of order and form, as the material universe. 
 
 In order to establish this truth, (for truth it seems to me,) I shall 
 chiefly consider that class of mental objects, with which the mind is 
 almost constantly occupied. I allude, of course, to those which come 
 by the sense of seeing. The quality essential to the production of an 
 internal visual image, and without which it cannot exist, is color ; and 
 I use the term as one including light and shade. To determine where 
 and what the color of these visual images is, is to determine where 
 
406 P A N I D E A. 
 
 and what the images themselves are ; at least in so far as color can 
 reveal any thing of their nature or qualities. 
 
 Now it seems to me a matter of demonstration, that color has no 
 existence out of the mind, or out of the internal Not-Me. In this I 
 assert nothing new — it is a proposition to which all philosophy gives 
 its assent, and it would be a waste of time to argue at length in its 
 support. It is agreed by all, that color no more exists in external 
 bodies, than the odor of the rose exists in the rose itself ; or than the 
 sound of the bell exists in the bell, or in the vibrations which it ex- 
 cites. True, there is an arrangement of the superficies of bodies, that 
 produces an effect on the organ of sight ; but neither that arrange- 
 ment, nor its effect, through the agency of light on the visual nerve, is 
 color. A sound is something more than mere vibration ; and a color 
 is something more than a mere arrangement of superficies, whether of 
 the object, or of the retina itself It must be a mental, supersensu- 
 ous, or spiritual effect, and nothing less. This becomes perfectly evi- 
 dent, when we consider that the present action of light is not necessa- 
 ry to color ; as is proved by the phenomena of spectral or incidental 
 colors, and spectral illusions. And that ^color is independent of the 
 mechanical action of the visual nerve, or brain, is sufficiently manifest 
 from all the imagery of our dreams. 
 
 Is there any difference between the colors seen in our dreams, and 
 those seen in our waking moments 1 I propound the question gravely ; 
 and if there be a difference, I ask for a serious and philosophical reply. 
 I ask for the difference to be pointed out between the perceptions 
 themselves — ^between the perception which I have of the color of a 
 rose, when my waking eye is open and directed to it, and that percep- 
 tion or conception of the same color, when it afterwards arises in the 
 distinct and vivid dreams of my sleep. It is a question which must 
 be determined by self-observation. As to my own experience, I con- 
 fidently aver that between the two perceptions of the same color, I 
 know not, and cannot feel, the slightest difference. Who is there, 
 that, when wandering in a distant land, has called up a distinct con- 
 ception of the blue sky and green fields of his native home, and has 
 not seen color with eyes other than the corporeal ? 
 
 In the absence of all visible bodies — nay in the absence of light on 
 the retina — these colors are thus objects of the most distinct percep- 
 tion. Never are they more vivid than in the dreams of profound 
 sleep ; and where can they then be but in the mind — the soul — that 
 substance which we call spiritual ? In such a case, it must be a reve- 
 lation of that substance acting under its own peculiar and distinct 
 
P A N I D E A. 407 
 
 laws. But if this be so, the action of light on the visual nerve is not 
 the direct physical cause of this mental phenomenon, but the condi- 
 tion on which the soul acts to produce it. So in sleep. Cold, hunger, 
 thirst, and the like, may be the mere occasions on which spirit acts 
 from laws its own, and the conscious Me becomes percipient of the 
 qualities of related spirit, feels the paralizing nightmare, or sees the 
 luxurious banquet. 
 
 Color, then, is in the spiritual, and not in the material substance — 
 at least all that we denominate color is there. And it is there, con- 
 sequently, as a spiritual quality or property of that substance, as truly 
 as extent and solidity are to ourselves qualities of matter. What then 
 does it further reveal to us of its nature, and of the spiritual world to 
 which it belongs ? Has it any thing analogous to those universal at- 
 tributes which belong to matter ? Does it reveal any thing analogous 
 to extension, form, and so forth ? I think it does ; and I will now 
 endeavor to verify the inference. 
 
 True it is, that one unvaried color would give us no idea of exten- 
 sion; it would be blindness. The film, which obstructs the light, 
 makes the sight one unbroken unit — makes it to see one unvaried 
 hue, and by reason of its unity of effect, it can give no idea of a visible 
 extension. But divide it, for one color may be divided by another, 
 and the moment you introduce divisions of this kind, you create all 
 possible geometrical relations. That is, this spiritual substance, as it 
 manifests itself in this objective quality of color, may be wrought into 
 all variety of shapes, or given to take any conceivable geometrical 
 figure. But when all the figures of geometry become predicable of 
 this spiritual quality, I ask whether it be not an extension in itself, 
 and has not, by consequence, a space its own, as truly as matter, which 
 is extended, and which has its space for no other reason, than because 
 it has all possible geometrical susceptibilities and relations ? Both 
 are the same geometric Reason, in distinct objective forms. As to mat- 
 ter, we compare one material thing with another, and come to an idea 
 of material extension, from the geometrical relations which the com- 
 parison reveals ; and when, on a like comparison, spiritual qualities 
 reveal the same geometrical relations, shall we not come to the same 
 conclusion ? 
 
 But though the extension of spirit, and the extension of matter, 
 cannot be one and the same, yet do the two extensions correspond each 
 to each mathematically. Both develope the same geometrical princi- 
 ples, and both express the same great idea. The two difi'erent forms, 
 arising from two diiferent degrees or modes of substance, are two dif- 
 
408 P A N I D E A. 
 
 ferent languages, like signs and sonnds, in wliich the same divine Rea- 
 son expresses the same ideas. In matter, those ideas are in ultimates 
 — ^fixed as in rock, mountain, sun, moon and stars ; in spirit — in the 
 Logos within — the ideals from which they proceed, subsist in an order 
 equally permanent, but perhaps far more perfect. Yet by reason of 
 the relations of the conscious Me to it, and of the facility with which 
 it changes states of recipiency, and compounds them, this order has all 
 the appearance of individual mutability ; and seems to belong to the 
 individual self, till by close internal scrutiny, we discover its indepen- 
 dence of the will, in the uniform analytic revelation of its contents. 
 
 There is nothing in the existence of two distinct extensions, mathe- 
 matically corresponding mth each other, that goes beyond our com- 
 mon observation. A man born blind, makes himself acquainted with 
 all material forms by touch. He knows none but tangible forms — 
 these to him are the whole world of forms. But give him to see — that 
 is, introduce him to a new extension, an extention consisting of all the 
 forms of varied color — and he will at once perceive, that a new world 
 is opened to his mind ; yet will it require little time for him to dis- 
 cover the mathematical correspondence between the world of the eye 
 and the world of the hand. I will add one or two further considera- 
 tions confirmatory of the foregoing deductions in reference to a dual- 
 ity of extensions, and then pass to another point. 
 
 The reader can form in his mind, a distinct conception of a trian- 
 gle, or a circle ; or the conception thereof may arise in his dreams, 
 and thus have a purely mental existence ; and I ask whether this ob- 
 ject, the form of the intellectual eye, has not as necessarily its own ex- 
 tension as its own geometrical relations ? How can a plurality of im- 
 ages, at one and the same moment, as in the distinct visions of sleep, 
 exist in the mind, if that mind has in no sense of the term an exten- 
 sion or space ? We have all experienced a coexistence of conceptions, 
 as of a prospect, or of a multitude of persons, and can there be a coex- 
 istent plurality of such conceptions, without what must be termed an 
 extension and consequent space, of an order distinct from the material ? 
 The conclusion then, to which I come on this point, is, that the 
 world of mind or Not-Me within, has its own extension and forms, as 
 well as the world or Not-me without ; and that there is a mathe- 
 matical analogy, or correspondence between them, although as to ex- 
 tension, they have nothing in common, but a common geometry. 
 
 This seems to me to be the necessary teaching of the spontaneous 
 reason, to the unsophisticated observation and experience of the inner 
 man. 
 
P A N I D E A. 409 
 
 But I am free to admit that the moment he attempts to go heyond 
 the teaching of his unerring preceptor, he will discover objections that 
 will apparently be wholly irreconcileable with this doctrine. He will 
 soon learn to object that this mental imagery is of an evanescent na- 
 ture — often incongruous and inconsistent with itself ; that the senses 
 of the dreaming, vanish from the waking mind — that the images of 
 the memory often pass out of cognition, and even fall into utter obliv- 
 ion — that, finally, these intellectual visions belong wholly and entirely 
 to the individual man — are of his own independent creation — fleeting 
 and futile, and have nothing in them of permanence or order. 
 
 To all these objections, the reader may have already anticipated the 
 answer which will be given. The disorder is not in the all-formative 
 and all-formful Logos from which the imagery proceeds ; but in the 
 individual self, or conscious Me — the recipient. The objections are 
 suggested by a notion which is on a level with those astronomical hy- 
 potheses, that seem to have been common to the savages of America 
 and some of the sages of ancient Greece and Rome. The most com- 
 mon idea was, that the earth was the fixed, immovable centre of the 
 Universe ; from which all the host of heaven proceeded, as from a pa- 
 rent Deity ; by whose breath all were sustained, and around which all 
 obsequiously revolved. Seneca, who was of the school of the Stoics, 
 says, that it was their faith, " that all the heavens, which the fiery 
 ether, the highest part of the Universe, includes ; all those stars whose 
 number cannot be told ; all this host of heavenly bodies, their sun run- 
 ning his course so near us, draw their nourishment from the earth, 
 and share it among them ; nor are they sustained by any thing else 
 than the breath of the earth." In this hypothesis, that doctrine, which 
 makes the self the immovable centre of all mind, and generator of all 
 thought, of all ideas, and of all intellectual imagery, finds a perfect 
 parallel. It puts the conscious Me in the place of the divine Logos, 
 and makes Deity the satellite of man. 
 
 True it is, the mental imagery may be evanescent, incongruous, 
 fleeting, and exhibit neither permanence nor order, to the ever muta- 
 ble percipient Me; and because the imagery changes with every 
 change of state, and because the voluntary self may not be able to re- 
 alize a particular state at a given moment, and thereby revive partic- 
 ular recollections, it does by no means follow that the imagery does 
 not exist potentially ; that is, ready, from its nature and constitution, 
 to reappear whenever the conscious self by its own volitions, or by 
 force of physical causes, shall have passed to that state of feeling, which 
 is ever the necessary condition of its appearance. 
 
 62 
 
410 PAN IDEA. 
 
 It is not otherwise, even witli the material universe. The world of 
 the senses (whatever may be the true theory,) does not exist in Na- 
 ture. Hers is hut a world of potentialities. In the absence of the 
 sentient being, her rose may indeed still yield its exhalations, but they 
 have no odor ; her fields still reflect the modified rays, but they are 
 without color — her breaking billows may still produce the appropriate 
 vibrations, but they emit no sound. Yet give her but the presence of 
 the conscious sentient being — that is, realize the appropriate condi- 
 tions, and it shall be a creative fiat ; the rose shall breathe its odors, the 
 fields shall spread out their green expanse, and the billows murmur 
 their sublime music. 
 
 To a supersensuous being, divested of a material organization, this 
 entire universe of matter is as a unit, and all its forms subsist in syn- 
 thetic unity. Could we suppose such a being to assume, sometimes 
 at will, sometimes by force of causes over which he had no control, 
 transient and imperfect organizations in matter, whilst he was passing 
 from the more to the less, and from the less to the more perfect or- 
 ganic states, how fleeting, evanescent, incongruous, and dependent on 
 his individual self, would this universe of permanence, order, and law 
 appear ! He might very naturally .MLJJJ^-^^^^^-^y'gQg-^yhidiJL jam conx- 
 bating— make himselTthe cent^ nf t)\9. |l,^fitiiPr? %^f? ^J ^c , h^er9j^ re- 
 senting themselves to his ever mutable senses^ and his glimpses of this 
 iftriTerse"6f inatter, a creation from, and dependent on, his transitory 
 states and conditions. So might it seem to him ; whilst to us, in the 
 perfection of our material organization, that grand synthetic unity of 
 all material forms, would stand out revealed in the perfection of its 
 analytic order, the permanent and immutable system of the sensible 
 universe. 
 
 The conscious Me may, indeed, on particular occasions, be unable to 
 realize the necessary conditions on which particular ideas or images 
 return ; but we ought not hence to infer that there is a loss of capaci- 
 ty — and that these conditions are no longer possible to it. The indi- 
 vidual soul has acquired a power by having once realized these condi- 
 tions ; and that modification of feeling, which constituted the condi- 
 tions, still potentially exists in the depths of the individual conscious- 
 ness, just as the imagery exists as to it in the synthesis of the Logos. 
 In the dreams of the aged, reappear the long-forgotten scenes and 
 companions of youth. In the delirium of fever, the patient converses 
 freely in the language of his childhood, of which in health he is en- 
 tirely oblivious. The conscious self, having once existed in a given 
 condition, the susceptibility of resuming it is formed, and when it is 
 
PAN IDE A. 411 
 
 resumed, no matter for what cause, tlie appropriate ideal forms and 
 sounds return with all their original distinctness. 
 
 There is, then, that same sort of independence and necessary exist- 
 ence, in the forms of the internal, as in those of the external, Not-Me. 
 Yet there is this difference in the two modes of realizing them : to 
 realize the visual perception of a given external form, we must pass 
 through space, step by step, and comply with every geometrical and 
 optical relation or law necessary to the complete fulfilment of the 
 requisite conditions ; but the conscious self ever subsists with all its 
 internal susceptibilities, and, by them, subsists as it were at once, in 
 the whole, and in every part of its own sphere of mind ; and takes 
 cognizance by a simple change of state, of ideal forms, whatever may 
 be their relations to it, in the simultaneous or successive order of the 
 supersensual. That portion of the supersensual world which is present 
 to the intellectual eye, is the only portion of it that is analytically 
 revealed to the conscious self in the order of simultaneous and success- 
 ive relations ; whilst all that is unrevealed, at the particular moment, 
 still continues, as to the same conscious self, in its synthetic unity. 
 Perfectly analogous to this is the world of the senses. All that is the 
 present object of sensation stands out to the sentient being in its sim- 
 ultaneous and successive order ; all that is not, subsists, as to the same 
 sentient being, as a synthetic unity, and it is only by a change of rela- 
 tion in space, that he can give it to reveal itself to his senses in its 
 own analytic order. 
 
 It often happens that the conscious self, by reason of its physical 
 affections entering into combinations with its own voluntary action, 
 passes into a complex or compound state of feeling, and thus realizes 
 to the internal eye, visions incongruous and inconsistent. But sup- 
 pose it to pass, uninfluenced by physical relations, from state to state, 
 by a transition as necessary and regular as our progress through space, 
 and the imagery of dream or reverie shall then be to it no less real, 
 than the scenery of the material universe. Whenever the conscious 
 self shall, in all its states and in all its changes of state, harmonize 
 with the laws of the Eternal Reason, the ideal world shall reveal itself 
 in the perfection of its own order, and in the light of its own divine 
 beauty. All its forms shall have their logical and necessary relation, 
 each to each, and each to all ; and earth, and ocean, sun, moon, and 
 stars, shall be seen to be even less real than these. This relation to 
 the Logos may, perhaps, never be realized on earth ; yet, in respect 
 to the external world, it is realized in every instance of sensation. In 
 every instance, in which a perfect impression is produced on the organs 
 
412 PAN IDE A. 
 
 of sense, the conscious self or free activity is brought, by force, into a 
 state which in some degree is one of absolute union with the Logos, 
 both internal and external. And this statement leads me to present, 
 with more particularity, what must, according to the principles already 
 advanced, be the true theory of sensation. 
 
 But as a necessary preliminary to a brief exposition of this theory, 
 I will repeat, with some further particulars, what I understand to be 
 a state of feeling forming a necessary condition to the perception^ 
 whether of mental imagery, or external objects. 
 
 That original state of feeling, which forms the basis of all subsequent 
 states, is that in which the individual soul subsists by relation to the 
 corporeal organization. This is a felt relation, whether the self be 
 reflectively conscious of it or not. That such a state of feeling may 
 subsist in the consciousness, and yet not be an object of thought, may 
 be demonstrated from the fact, that one born blind may have his mind 
 impressed by one uniform color, occasioned by the visual obstruction, 
 and yet by reason of its uniformity and its unity of effect, have no 
 knowledge or idea of any color whatever. Now this is the felt rela- 
 tion in which the individual soul subsists as to its corporeal organiza- 
 tion, and constitutes the law by which the two are connected ; but it 
 subsists with relations precisely analogous to the all-formful Logos 
 within, considered as the soul of the soul, and consequently, as the 
 source and cause of all perceptions. In reference to the Logos, the pri- 
 mary state is a pure, supersensuous state of feeling, and all the modi- 
 fications through which it passes are likewise pure, supersensuous states 
 of feeling. Thus any impression on the organs of sense produces a 
 change in the primary felt relation of soul to body, and this change is 
 sensation, not perception ; but this change is necessarily accompanied 
 by a change precisely analogous, in the supersensually felt relation of 
 the soul to the Logos, and the result is a perception which, instanter, 
 identifies itself with sensation, and resolves the internal into the ex- 
 ternal of form. 
 
 If any one should request me to state, more particularly, what I 
 mean by this supersensuous state of feeling, and to give him some plain 
 illustration, I should answer, that every tone of sound, and every hue 
 of color, produces not merely its sensitive, but its supersensuous effect 
 or feeling. A combination of sounds makes a tune ; a combination of 
 colors, a picture. Will any one say that the tune and the picture do 
 but excite sensation, and that they produce no supersensuous state or 
 feeling whatever, and that independently of association, the jig and 
 the anthem are one and the same thing ? Now it is the supersensuous 
 
P A N I D E A. 413 
 
 states or feelings which these tones and these colors produce, either 
 separately or in their combinations, that are the conditions of percep- 
 tion, and which remain in th« individual soul or self, after the sensa- 
 tions which they have excited have passed away forever. These may 
 be renewed at will, and on their renewal they bring with them the 
 appropriate conceptions, and repeat to the soul's eye and ear the forms 
 and the sounds that may never more be renewed externally. Just so 
 it is of all forms and of all things, whether of art or Nature — each of 
 them, and all their combinations, have their supersensuous as well as 
 merely sensitive effects. 
 
 I have said that the Logos is the Soul of the soul. Now if our doc- 
 trine in relation to extension and form be true, the Logos is, in this 
 relation, all extension and all-form, in synthetic unity. If this be so, 
 then every form in the Universe is ever subjectively present in this 
 all-comprehending entity — to the soul of every human being — present 
 even as that all-containing entity is present. What then is there that 
 should prevent its becoming objective, or rather at all times, being an 
 object of perception ? If the form of the star, that burns unseen by 
 me in the depths of space, be at this moment in the Logos present to 
 my soul, why have I not a full and complete perception of it ? Simply, 
 I apprehend, because of the felt relation of soul and body. This felt 
 relation fills the entire perceptive power of the soul, just as in blind- 
 ness, the film, or other obstruction to vision, occupies the whole faculty 
 of sight. The blind person sees the obstruction, and can see nothing 
 else. The whole faculty of vision is absorbed and swallowed up by 
 the relation in which it subsists to the obstruction. In like manner, 
 this felt relation of soul to body takes possession of its whole percep- 
 tive capacity, and the forms, which the Logos embosoms within the 
 soul, cannot for that reason become objective, or even a subject of dis- 
 tinct consciousness. But let the ray of the supposed star faU on the 
 visual nerve, and instantly the whole visual nerve is brought into a 
 new state — the primary felt relation of the soul, as to it, changes in 
 perfect accordance with the nervous change, and becomes merged as 
 it were, in the Not-Me or Logos external — there is as yet, however, 
 no perception of the object. But at the instant of sensation, the soul 
 has, on its internal side or aspect, undergone a change precisely anal- 
 ogous as to the Not-Me or Logos within, and has to the same extent, 
 become merged in the all-containing soul. 
 
 From this supersensuous felt relation, the soul becomes, instanter, 
 receptive of perception, throughout in all respects, to the extent of the 
 change in the nerve and the consequent sensation ; and there being 
 
414 P A N I D E A. 
 
 now no obstruction to the free development of the all-formative Logos 
 within, (in consequence of the entire homogeneousness of all states and 
 relations through all degrees of substance, as to this particular eJ9Fect 
 on the visual nerve,) the ideal form of the star, always subjectively- 
 present within, becomes objective through sensation, and the visual 
 nerve. The ideal form within, identifies itself with the form without ; 
 the extension, the geometry, and the space within, are at once exter- 
 nized through all substance, and become fixed in the cause, or neces- 
 sary occasion of the sensation. It is thus by a force acting on the Me, 
 that we see the form itself — not an image of it — from its ideal in the 
 bosom of the Logos, to its ultimate in matter. We erroneously ascribe 
 the perception to the Logos external only, because in that is the pre- 
 dominance of efi'ect, the terminus or last result of the process of which 
 we are conscious.* 
 
 The form, which is an object of perception externally, and its ideal 
 in the Divine mind are correspondently one, though substantively dual. 
 No one ever had the present sensation of a material form — saw it with 
 the corporeal eye — and at the same time had an ideal image thereof 
 manifest in his mind ; and that probably, by reason of the mathemati- 
 cal correspondence between the ideal and the sensible form. During 
 the sensation, the ideal seems to be merged in the sensible ; but this 
 can be only an appearance, arising from the cause just mentioned ; for 
 remove the object of sense, and you shall call up an image thereof in 
 the mind, as distinct as the counteracting influence of present impres- 
 sions on the senses will admit ; and in the absence of such influence, 
 as in sleep, it shall appear as distinct as any object of sensation. The 
 sensible form appears in one degree of substance, the ideal in another ; 
 and they mathematically correspond ; therefore they exist as substan- 
 tively distinct, yet correspondently as one.f 
 
 ♦ A short way of stating- our theory of sensation and perception is this : The object 
 of sensation and the idea of it are correspondently one and identical in the Log-os. — 
 The individual soul would perceive the object — the idea — ^nay all things, but for the 
 obstruction of the org-anization. Now this obstruction is removed, (so to speak,) 
 whenever the organs of sense are brought into harmony with any particular idea of 
 the Logos, by the action of the object upon them ; and the individual soul thereupon, 
 to precisely the extent that the obstruction is removed, becomes necessarily identified 
 with the idea in the Logos, whose ultimate form has produced the impression, and 
 perception is the consequence — or rather, this is itself sensation and perception. Or it 
 may be stated thus, still more briefly : All things ever subsist subjectively in the 
 inmost soul ; and the impression on the organ of sensation, made by an external body, 
 does but render the subjective idea of that body, objective — that is, render the body it- 
 self an object of perception. 
 
 t Such, too, I apprehend to be the relation of soul and liody. They are substan- 
 tively distinct, yet correspondently one. 
 
P A N I D E A. 415 
 
 There is this further difference between the sensible and ideal form. 
 That which we see externally, passes away to give place to new forms 
 and relations ; it is in time ; but that which we see internally, is in 
 eternity — is of the infinite. For when we call up an object which we 
 saw twenty years ago at Rome, or Jerusalem, the individual soul may 
 be supposed to assume the state in which it was at that time, and in 
 that place, and the object thereupon is evolved from the synthetic unity 
 of the Logos, and appears precisely as it then was. The assumed state 
 may have no relation whatever to time ; for it will not be even an act 
 of memory, unless it, at the same time, be a state that has relation to 
 a past succession of events ; and then it will not be precisely the state 
 that I have been supposing. 
 
 All things now are in the bosom of the Logos what they ever were. 
 Do but assume the appropriate state, (an achievement not very possi- 
 ble,) and though the affirmation may excite the smile of the reader, 
 or possibly something worse — yet it does seem to follow from the pre- 
 mises, that you might see Noah and his family just landing from the 
 ark, on the peak of Ararat ; or Moses at the Red Sea, accomplishing 
 the Exodus of the Hebrews ; or the kings of Egypt, laying the foun- 
 dation of the pyramids ; or the temples of Babylon and Ninevah, in 
 all their original glory. The supersensual state being given, all things 
 appropriate to it, are instantly given. It gives rise to its own internal 
 time, and space ; but of external time and space, it has nothing, and 
 can, during its continuance, know nothing. 
 
 These states, however, are not at our command. We can resume 
 those into which we have been forced by external, or other causes ; 
 we can even compound them, or, in other words, assume a complex 
 state — a state consisting of many, resolved into one — as in our 
 dreams ; when the past, the present, and the future, present us with 
 a jumble of their imagery ; but in no instance does the soul, of its 
 own will, assume a state entirely original. 
 
 The Logos is the central unity of every kind of natural form, ani- 
 mate and inanimate ; and is the ideal beauty and perfection of each 
 and all, everywhere present in its entirety, making partial revelations 
 of itself, in matter and in mind. I mean not to say that it thus sub- 
 sists by radiation, or diffusion ; but that its presence is absolute and 
 entire everywhere. To make the manner of this presence understood, 
 and to show by what law the Logos controls and governs all things, 
 will be the attempt of the next chapter. 
 
416 P A N I D E A. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE LOGOS — ALL-PRESENT AND ALL- ASSIMILATIVE. 
 
 " The Divine fills all thing's without space." — Swedenboeg. 
 
 " O, Adam ! one Almig-hty is, from whom 
 All thing-s proceed, and up to him return, 
 If not depraved from good, * * * * 
 
 More spiritous and pure, 
 As nearer to Him plac'd or nearer tending ; 
 
 * * * * So from the root 
 Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves 
 More airy, last the bright consummate flower 
 Spirits odorous breathes." — Paradise Lost. 
 
 " Then you really believe," said a missionary to a Hindoo philoso- 
 pher, " that your god Krishna passed over nine distinct bridges, in 
 nine distinct individual forms, at one and the same time ? " " I do 
 really so believe," said the Hindoo, " and further, that he was, at one 
 and the same time, with his twenty thousand wives, of whom not one 
 doubted she was his sole partner." " Saying nothing about them," 
 observed the missionary, " the nine bridges are marvel enough for me. 
 And now will you be so good as to teach me how one being can become 
 nine distinct individual forms, and yet, in each individual form, be 
 neither more nor less than the whole being 1 " " Do you see," inquired 
 the Hindoo, " yonder banyan grove, that throws its shadow upon the 
 sacred waters of the Ganges ? " "I do," answered the missionary, 
 " and have often admired the luxuriant growth of the trees that com- 
 pose it." " Will you count them ?" asked the Hindoo. " That were 
 no easy task," replied the missionary, after a pause ; " but their num- 
 ber cannot be less than a hundred." " Not less than a hundred ! " 
 reiterated the Hindoo ; " how greatly you err ! I can convince you, 
 by occular proof, that the whole grove is but one vast tree, subsisting 
 from one common root, and having but one common life." " Indeed ! " 
 exclaimed the missionary, somewhat astonished ; " but what then 2 " 
 "Why," continued the Hindoo, "the god, of whom we are speaking, 
 did, in times past, give each of those supposed hundred trees of yours 
 — ^but which are truly a growth from the same common root — to see, 
 hear, and feel ; and the consequence was, that each tree saw something, 
 heard something, and felt something, which none of the other members 
 of the brotherhood saw, heard, or felt ; and thus each tree had its dis- 
 tinct set of sensations, and, thereupon, became a distinct, individual, 
 percipient being. In this manner did the life or being of one tree 
 
PAN IDEA. 417 
 
 assume a hundred distinct individual forms of being, and subsist in 
 each as in all ; for it heard, saw, and felt, in each, and through all, in 
 its own entirety. Do you now understand how one being can become 
 nine distinct individual forms of being, without losing his identity in 
 all or either ? " 
 
 The Hindoo may have confounded the missionary by the above 
 illustration ; indeed, he may have approximated a great truth ; yet, 
 except as a sort of approximation, I have little to say in favor of it. 
 It does but very imperfectly express what is believed to be the true 
 nature of ubiquity. The Hindoo supposes his god to be in space ; but 
 any illustration, which we may use, should suppose a being which cre- 
 ates space as a thought, and who, therefore, rather comprehends, than 
 is comprehended by it. In a word, it seems to me, that our views can 
 be best illustrated, by again having reference to our optical experiment. 
 
 According to the facts which that experiment reveals, if the soul 
 saw through, or with, nine distinct eyes, separated by the appropriate 
 non-visual spaces, all the nine organs would be but as one organ. 
 In other words, the soul would see through, and be present — so to 
 speak — in its entirety in each eye, but no less present in them all, as 
 one. For, let it be recollected, that the spaces, which separate the 
 pictures on the retinae of these organs, excite no visual perception, and 
 the nine pictures are, therefore, as to it, one picture, so long as they 
 are the representations of the same field of vision. And so, if the 
 impressions be multiplied, by multiplying the organs and the corres- 
 pondent spaces, ad infinitum, will the impressions and the organs, to 
 the percipient soul, still be but as one impression, and as one organ. 
 This indefinite number of organs, though difi"used like the stars through 
 space to the sight of a distinct beholder, would be, to the percipient 
 soul of which they were organs, as a unit, occupying no portion of the 
 space of visible extension. The soul would be present, in its entirety, 
 to each as to all, and to ail as to each. Indeed, it would be its entire 
 presence to every one, that would make up its entire presence to all as 
 one. Space, it has been shown, is^but the ascription of the pure geo- 
 metric reason to a coexistent plurality, and, by consequence, where it 
 does not, and cannot, make the ascription, because of the subjective 
 relation of the coexistent plurality, it resolves the plurality into its 
 synthetic unity, as to its own apperception, and subsists in all, and in 
 each of the all, in the entirety of its whole being. The each and all 
 thus felt by us as one, constitute, in that reason, what is called a uni- 
 versal idea ; and the order in which this idea is felt or conceived by the 
 perfect Reason, considered as the visual faculty, is the order in which 
 
 53 
 
418 PAN IDE A. 
 
 the each and all of being is present in Grod or the Logos. It is present 
 in the order of Reason, as unity, resolvable into degrees, classes, or- 
 ders, genera, species and individuals. It is a presence that involves 
 all things in an order its own. Just as the idea of the number twelve 
 involves all its component numeral elements in an order its own. 
 
 Such I apprehend to be the nature of the presence of God, the ab- 
 solute soul of all and singular of the Universe. Here is no division — 
 no diffusion of Deity — no separation of the great central unit into 
 parts ; the illustration does not even suppose magnitude, or occupancy 
 of material space ; but it takes the existence of absolute soul, from the 
 analogy which that soul affords in ourselves, and regarding its relation 
 to the material universe, as that of the individual soul to the body, or 
 as the visual faculty to its organs or the impressions thereon, it at once 
 makes it manifest that the necessary consequence of the relation is, 
 an entire presence at each and every point, where form or being is. 
 Not perhaps that the presence is one in form, or effect, or energy ; for 
 as to all manifestations or effects it may have its degrees of more or less, 
 just as may the action of gravitation, or the principle of life, — but that, 
 though it acts through forms and degrees, as diverse as the ideas of 
 the Logos, it'is still the same unit and the presence of the same great 
 being, subsisting in the perfection of its own willed order. 
 
 That the Logos has a common and special relation of presence to 
 the all and each of humanity, may, if our premises be correct, be shown 
 by a further consideration of its relations of presence, in the visual 
 faculty, to the impressions on the retinae. 
 
 In the above illustration, I have supposed a unity of presence in the 
 percipient soul or visual faculty, to each and all the organs, only in 
 the instances where the field of vision is common to all the organs. 
 But this presence would be the same, both as to the percipient power, 
 and as to the organs, even were the common field of vision resolved 
 into as many apparently distinct fields, as there are supposed organs. 
 For let both eyes be directed to the same field of vision, and the im- 
 pressions produced by that field, on the visual nerves of both eyes, are 
 the same, or precisely similar ; and then the common field and all its 
 objects will appear single. But now, let one eye be so directed, by 
 pressure or other cause, that it shall take into this common field a 
 portion of visible extension, with its objects, not included in the field 
 of the other, and so, also, leave out a portion, that is included in the 
 field of the other ; and instantly the field of vision, that was before 
 common, ceases to be common. Each eye has its distinct field, be- 
 cause it is different from the other, by its different visible extension 
 
PAN IDEA. 419 
 
 and objects. The geometrical relations thereupon arising from the 
 objects common to one eye, cease to be one with the geometrical rela- 
 tions arising from objects common to the other, and hence every object, 
 that is common to both eyes, appears double. But this duality of vision 
 could not arise, were it not that the same soul or faculty of vision saw 
 it by means of both organs at once, and because of a common relation 
 to both, as well as a particular relation to each. But this common and 
 particular relation is what is called the presence of the percipient fac- 
 ulty, or soul. The presence then of the percipient faculty, or soul, con- 
 tinues the same, even when the eye is moved from its natural place, 
 and when the field of vision and its objects are apparently double, and 
 the perceptions arising therefrom are actually double. But the same 
 rule will apply to any supposable number of organs, under like circum- 
 stances, and, by a like process of reasoning, the same presence to them all 
 may be inferred ; namely, a common presence and a particular presence. 
 
 But though this presence continue the same, yet, by reason of the 
 distinctness and difference of one visual impression from another, do 
 each distinct organ and the visual power of each acquire something of 
 a distinct individual percipient character. It is as if the same percip- 
 ient being had two distinct forms, occupying two distinct positions, 
 from which they were viewing two distinct, though not entirely dis- 
 similar, portions of extension ; for the vision of one eye is entirely inde- 
 pendent of the other, though the percipient power be common to both. 
 
 But we may suppose these distinct forms to be very numerous, and 
 their positions to be very much diversified ; but however numerous 
 his forms, and however diversified their positions, yet will they, each 
 and all, be essentially the same being, in a multiform aspect, suscepti- 
 ble of a great variety of relations, and a great variety of visual per- 
 ceptions. This being would, as the distinct soul of each form, see 
 through each its distinct and particular field, and as the common soul 
 of all, through all the forms, at once, the whole number of distinct 
 fields in their aggregate. Here is still the same sort of presence that 
 we have heretofore observed ; an individual presence, and a common 
 presence the sum of the individual presence ; just as we have the grav- 
 ity of the atom, and the gravity of the total mass of atoms ; or the 
 rainbow of the single drop of mist, and the rainbow of the whole cloud. 
 
 Now if we suppose each one of these individual forms to acquire, 
 from the excitement of its distinct set of sensations or perceptions, a 
 will its own, and a consciousness of its own individuality, as distinct 
 as its perceptions, we do not at all alter the relations, or the presence 
 of the percipient being. It is still as truly everywhere present to 
 
420 P A N I D E A . 
 
 eacli and all, with their now acquired personal attributes, as it was 
 when these forms were without them. And such I apprehend to he 
 the nature of the omnipresence of Deity or the Logos, to man — ^pres- 
 ent to each, present to all, as one. A will, or conscious individuality, 
 arising from distinct relations and perceptions, takes form from the 
 all-pervading will or consciousness, and gives individuality to the soul. 
 It is this relation which brings us at once into the presence of God, 
 and His Universe — the Logos within, and its ultimate form in matter.* 
 
 Nor is this a mere illustration, but rather a demonstration^ of the 
 nature of the Divine presence. For, if the views presented in the third 
 chapter be correct, the action of the Logos, as brought home to our 
 consciousness within, is one and identical with its universal action ; 
 just as the hydrostatic laws of a drop of the ocean, are the laws which 
 govern its total mass ; or as the law which governs in the descent of 
 a pebble, is that which governs all worlds through infinite space. The 
 order of the presence of the Logos in the organs of sight, is the order 
 of its presence in all the forms of sensation. The human organism, in 
 all its variety, is to it as a unit ; and for that reason, the Logos, as the 
 Soul of the soul, is present, at once, in the whole organization, and in 
 every part of it in its entirety. And the Universe is likewise a unit 
 to the Logos ; the Logos, therefore, must be, mutatis mutandis^ in 
 like manner, present to the each and all in its entirety. 
 
 I will here incidentally remark, that, without at all relying on the 
 doubtful phenomena of Mesmerism, this theory will, if the clairvoy- 
 ance of somnambulism be not all a fraud, render its wonders a little 
 more credible, by furnishing a plausible explanation. We have but 
 to suppose an acquiescence of the Will, and its partial or complete ab- 
 straction from its material relations, in order to the ascent of the soul 
 to a higher degree of the Logos or Universal Soul, and the remote in 
 time and space may thus be laid open to view. Whilst an oscillation 
 between diiferent states, or the blending of mere dream with the vis- 
 ions of reality, may plausibly account for its frequent errors. 
 
 But though the universal^ be the inmost soul of the individual soul, 
 yet the paftioular sensations and perceptions of the individual, may 
 not be its sensations and perceptions. It is itself the fountain of sen- 
 
 * I will here add, in further illustration of the theory of sensation and perception put 
 forth in the preceding- chapter, that if it has already been shown to the satisfaction of 
 the reader, that the external universe is but a permanent conception of the Log"OS or 
 Divine Mind, he can now easily apprehend how that conception is made to stand out, 
 to the perception of each individual being-, as the universe of the senses. It exists in 
 the Log-OS ; dierefore it exists for each percipient being- thus conditionally individua- 
 ted from the Logos, and organized in the finite. 
 
P A N I D E A. 421 
 
 sation and perception ; it receives nothing oh extra, save the reaction 
 of the free will — a will distinguished from the supreme Will, by its 
 finite relations, whether arising from the Not-Me, or created by itself 
 Without changing itself, the universal soul (or Logos) is constantly 
 acting to change those individualities which it has formed from itself 
 It is itself ever the absolutely active element ; the individual ever, 
 relatively the passive. The going forth of its energies may constitute 
 its perceptions, and at the same time give individuality or modification 
 to the individual soul, whilst the reception of them by the individual 
 soul may constitute its perceptions and sensations. 
 
 But if the Logos be thus present to the each and all in its entirety, 
 the question presents itself, what is the necessary consequence of this 
 intimate presence ? We have seen that it subsists, as to matter, with 
 a constant tendency to a realization of itself — a tendency ruled by its 
 own willed order, and proceeding from the most interior and divine 
 ideas, to the most exterior forms, or to ultimates in matter. But if 
 this be so, and if there be no counter influences, there can be no rea- 
 son why every thing should not continue to advance until it attain 
 perfection. Is there such a progress in the Universe ? Let us see. 
 
 The laws of Nature are eternnl and immutable ; yet they are the 
 sQnrf^f) gf fill mut^ |;)ili1 ^ v. Does cliange then proceed in an eternal roim J, 
 so that every thing is still on the primitive level 1 or has there been 
 a fall beneath, or rise above it ? The evidence on these points does 
 not seem perfectly harmonious. But let us consider the questions — 
 perhaps we may find, that if we cast aside the absurd hypothesis that 
 Nature is in any respect on the wane, we may come to the conclusion, 
 that in some things, she has attained perfection, and hence as to them 
 become stationary ; and that in other things, she is still advancing to- 
 ward perfection according to the laws of universal order ; and this 
 may relieve us from the embarrassment of any apparently conflicting 
 evidence. 
 
 I think we may at once come to the conclusion, that whatever there 
 may be in the material universe, which is in itself immutable, has at- 
 tained its perfection ; and that, as to it, there can be no such thing as 
 improvement, or deterioration. Thus dead elementary matter is un- 
 changeable, and it can, as dead elenien'RnPy matter, never become either 
 beTtef or worse. It has attained its perfection, and its condition is 
 fixed. True, you may add life to it, but it will still be dead matter 
 under new laws ; and the moment that those laws cease to predominate, 
 the laws of dead matter will prevail, and carry the mass back to its 
 primitive condition ; showing, that though for a season, their force be 
 
422 P A N I D E A. 
 
 counteracted, they are not annihilated. Matter then, considered mere- 
 ly as matter, is, under the laws of Nature, immutable, and therefore 
 in its perfection. 
 
 But then the forms of matter are constantly changing, and, in the 
 world of forms, we find that there has been a progress — a progress 
 from a state of imperfection, of deformity — to one of great perfection 
 and beauty. This is a truth which the geological history of the globe 
 most clearly reveals. Life first manifested itself in the lowest forms 
 of vegetation ; then, in the lowest forms of animal life. It seems to 
 have proceeded from one degree to another, until it attained its per- 
 fection in the form of man, an image of the all-perfect form in the 
 sphere of the material. I must here be understood to speak generally 
 of the kind of form, and not of forms individually. 
 
 But change, in this world of forms, has been going on ever since the 
 creation of man, and is still going on — one generation is succeeding 
 another — and is this change an evidence of progressive improvement ? 
 Is the vegetable, the animal, or human form, more perfect now than it 
 was six thousand years ago ? Doubtless vegetable and animal forms, 
 under like circumstances, are now what they were six thousand years 
 since ; save where the art of man has wrought an improvement in 
 them. With this exception, their instincts must have continued the 
 same, and their forms the same. We have no evidence that the Logos 
 manifests itself with more perfection in them, whilst in their natural 
 state, now, than at their first creation ; though considering them in 
 their connections and relations with man, it may manifest a higher 
 degree of pefection in them now, than primitively. Both plants and 
 animals, that have fallen under the dominion of man, have been made 
 to undergo great change, and, in some instances, have wonderfully 
 improved. And this argues an improvement in the human race ; for, 
 had man continued stationary, nothing, with which he is connected, or 
 to which he is related, could have been improved. All things, then, 
 whether mutable or immutable, considered distinctly from any neces- 
 sary relation to or connection with man, continue stationary, and, so 
 considered, are in their perfect state. That all are in their perfect 
 state, and therefore stationary, would be an absolute truth, but that 
 we are under the necessity of excepting man and those things in which 
 he has property and over which he has dominion. Neither he, nor his, 
 are stationary, or in their perfect state ; but are improvable and pro- 
 gressive. Not but that portions of the race may retrograde ; but that 
 the race as a whole, notwithstanding occasional appearances, is pro- 
 gressive, and constantly so, is a position which all history verifies. 
 
P A N I D E A. 423 
 
 Man being the only free force on earth, and he continuing here from 
 generation to generation, under the dominion of the perfect Reason 
 is necessarily the only progressive being or thing in Nature. But if 
 so, what is the peculiar mode by which his progress is secured ? What 
 is the nature of that law which operates his progress consistently with 
 his freedom, and by what name shall we designate it ? 
 
 We have seen that that action or law, which produced the world of 
 forms, began with the most imperfect organizations of vegetable and 
 animal life, and proceeded through every intermediate degree to 
 man, the image of God on earth — doubtless a very imperfect image. 
 But I have now shown that this action has not ceased in man ; but 
 that it i§ still operative — that is, tending to perfect his image spiritu- 
 ally — to make it still more like Deity, and, by consequence, to improve 
 him as a material being — to render him and all his, a more perfect 
 image of the perfect form. Every form thus has tended, and is tend- 
 ing, toward a likeness of the divine, or supreme central form of the 
 Logos. Now what name can we give to this action or law, which 
 tends to liken all forms to the most perfect form ? I know not how 
 better to designate it, than by calling it the Action of Assimilation^ or 
 the Laio of Assimilation : an action or law that proceeds from Grod 
 or the Logos, as the Supreme of being or form, and whose tendency is 
 to liken all forms to the Divine form from which it proceeds. It is this 
 action, or law, that has produced the world of forms ; not, perhaps, 
 excepting those of suns and planets ; and which is still sustaining the 
 world of living forms against the laws or forces of dead matter, and is 
 going on, with a progressive creation, in the world of humanity. 
 
 The action of assimilation, thus understood, is universal — it is all- 
 creative — and, though in Nature, it has its limits, beyond which it 
 does not perfect its forms, and though in man, it has no limits, but 
 proceeds toward an indefinite perfection, yet it is necessarily continu- 
 ous through both Nature and man ; to the end that it may preserve, 
 as well as create. All natural forms, that are not the forms of dead 
 matter, subsist by succession ; so that among them, the work of crea- 
 tion must be constantly going on. 
 
 To prove that it is the action of assimilation, that is producing this 
 effect, I resort to the facts and deductions of the third chapter. In 
 that chapter it appeared, that the ideal image was of the Logos, and 
 subsisted in the mind with an energy, whereby it repeated itself in the 
 visual nerve ; that is, drew into a likeness of itself a certain portion of 
 that nerve — assimilated to itself an image therein ; and it was hence 
 inferred, inasmuch as this was the operation of a universal law or prin- 
 
424 P A N I D E A. 
 
 ciple, that wherever matter was brought into a state receptive of its 
 influence, like effects must follow ; and it was thence shown, that all 
 natural forms were the creations of this principle acting through ideal 
 spiritual forms, extant in the universal mind. If this be so, and if 
 that action, which repeats the ideal image in the visual nerve, be the 
 action of assimilation, then is that action the all-formative energy, and 
 the law of assimilation is the law which produces the vegetable and an- 
 imal creations, and the whole world of humanity. 
 
 This is an action by which the spiritual Divine assimilates matter 
 to its own exemplars or ideal forms ; but its action is not arrested in 
 the mere germ or embryo of the form which it thus creates. It takes 
 possession of it as its instrument, as a medium of action. The form 
 itself becomes an assimilative organism. The vegetable and animal 
 assimilate the substances on which they feed, convert them into their 
 own forms, and identify them with themselves. Wherever plant, ani- 
 mal, or man is, there is the assimilative energy, active, from its source 
 in the Divine form, down to matter, and, through the forms of matter, 
 on all substances that constitute their growth. 
 
 That the same supreme assimilative form should shadow itself forth 
 in the common humanity, as it best may, and so stand out in the civil 
 and social relations, would seem to follow as a necessary consequence 
 of its universality. In the social many, it must indeed present itself 
 in a different aspect to the senses, and yet may it be to the reason, the 
 same essential form. It takes corporate form in communities. Every 
 well-formed community may be said to have its head, its heart, its 
 body, and members, that minister to its wants. And in that saying, 
 there may be reality, as well as metaphor. Wherever the social rela- 
 tions exist, even in the brute creation — as birds that flock, and beasts 
 that herd together — especially in the natural state, we see the shadow 
 of this image; and even down the scale of existence, to the insect 
 creation — as in the "Bee and ant — it bears with it much of its human 
 aspect — too much for any serious and philosophical mind to doubt its 
 presence, as an actuating energy, or controlling law. 
 
 What is that sympathy which performs so great a share in the social 
 relations of life, that, if man were altogether without it, he would cease 
 to be a social being? What is it, but one of the modes in which the 
 assimilative energy manifests itself through media of its own creation ? 
 Man sympathizes with his fellow man from necessity, and, if he also 
 does it from choice, it is because the necessity has made it agreeable. 
 
 Whence is the resemblance of offspring to parent, of kindred to 
 kindred ; nay, of all members of the same community, even where 
 
P A N I D E A. 425 
 
 relationship cannot be traced, but from a law of assimilation, proceed- 
 ing from the Supreme form as their grand analagon, and acting through 
 their forms spiritual and material, as media, according to the nature 
 of each ? Nay, if one dwell among strangers, how soon will he catch 
 their gestures, their gait, and their general deportment ? And from 
 the active workings of the spirit within, how long will it be before his 
 countenance, and his features, will begin to assume a resemblance to 
 theirs ? The child catches, if he does not inherit, the manner of his 
 parent ; the pupil that of his instructor ; the inferior that of his supe- 
 rior, especially if he be an object of love or respect. If Alexander 
 have a wry neck, all his officers may be expected to pride themselves 
 in a like blemish or deformity ; and, if it do not actually exist, they 
 may be expected, by a sort of involuntary or spontaneous affectation, 
 to put on the appearance of it. 
 
 Is not the fashionable world a creation of this energy ? The cut of 
 the garment is not often chosen for its beauty or neatness, but may be 
 assumed simply from a desire of avoiding the appearance of singularity, 
 or of conforming to the prevailing fashion. 
 
 The action of assimilation, then, is not only direct on the spirit of 
 man, and through that on its material organization, and the substances 
 on which that organization directly acts, but through the organic form 
 on other co-ordinate forms ; and again through spirit on spirit — beget- 
 ting social relations; and thereby blending the common brotherhood, 
 as among themselves, into one mass, and still sustaining the relation of 
 each, individually, to the grand central form, whose action is producing 
 the whole effect. Perfectly analogous to the action of gravitation, as 
 well as to the order of the pervading presence, it acts on the each and 
 all, as one. 
 
 Is it asked how this is accomplished ? I answer, by an all-pervad- 
 ing will, acting through its own perfect order. Does the human will 
 move the body — give motion and direction to the limbs, or rather put 
 in requisition energies which move them — nay, shall the magnetizer, 
 by the mere energy of his will, (as supposed,) contract the muscles of 
 his subject, and cause him to move, and apparently to think and act 
 as he pleases — and shall not the will of God, present in an order its 
 own to every atom, move all things ? What is matter, that it should 
 present any obstruction to the will of its Creator ? Do but reduce 
 the total mass to the size of a cannon ball, and then view it ab extra. 
 It has no weight — no tendency — it can resist nothing. It is, to such 
 a being — subsisting in, or rather comprehending it — a mere thought ; 
 and a thought can move it. It is itself that will, actualized in a sub- 
 
 54 
 
426 PAN IDE A. 
 
 ordinate sphere ; and shall not that will, ever present, continually give 
 to it its laws of development ? This it certainly does, by acting, first 
 directly upon it through its connected spirit, and secondly, by indirect 
 action, through media spiritual and material. This is of necessity, 
 for the preservation of order. It is the manner in which the absolute 
 Will harmonizes the action of the each, with the order of the mighty 
 whole. 
 
 But to prove the universality of J,he„aotion of assimilation, it should 
 be shown to affect matter without life, as well as matter with life. I 
 know not that it is necessary to our theory to prove this ; and yet it 
 seems to me to be susceptible of proof 
 
 But, as preliminary to this inquiry, I revert to the doctrines of the 
 second chapter. In that chapter it was shown, that the idea of a co- 
 existent plurality, no matter of what, necessarily involved the idea of 
 space and extension — that unity, as felt in the individual soul, resolved 
 into a coexistent plurality to the senses, made that visible and tangi- 
 ble somewhat, called matter. I showed that this felt unity was the 
 basis of our idea of number — that since it existed subjectively in one 
 of the forms of that reason within, which we felt to be essentially a 
 causative and creative energy, it tended spontaneously to repeat itself 
 objectively ad infinitum — to take form, of a law its own, in successive 
 and simultaneous order. Now this unit, which thus exists subjectively 
 within myself, taken absolutely, is no other than the divine esse, or 
 absolute unit ; and, as I find that in myself it tends to an objective 
 self-repetition ad infinitum^ so it must tend, in its self-subsistent entity, 
 to an objective self-repetition ad infinitum — that is, to pass into infini- 
 tude in every possible mode. We must, however, conceive the repeti- 
 tion, only as the repetition of unity, and, therefore, as without form. 
 But if conceived as without form, (and so it must be conceived, as the 
 mere repetition of the esse,) it can be conceived only as the point — 
 the mathematical point. Now take any number, or a group of these 
 mathematical points, simultaneously subsistent, and if each tends to 
 assimilate the whole group to itself — that is to give its own unity to 
 the whole group — that is, again, to reduce all the points to a single 
 point at their common centre — then their movement will be precisely 
 that which manifests itself in the attraction of gravitation, and will 
 prove that the action of gravitation may be but one of the forms of the 
 action of assimilation. 
 
 But if these points all tended to one point without deviation, they 
 would, in the end, all merge in one ; and if they all merged in one, 
 they would merge in the absolute unit. But this, the very energy or 
 
P A N I D E A. 427 
 
 law, which gave them objectivity and multiety, forbids. Thus, though 
 they may seek the central point, yet they must all be repelled and 
 deflected from it. And this deflecting force must give to each point 
 an orbital, and to the whole group, perhaps, a rotary motion. This 
 theory enables us to account for the resistance and solidity of bodies, 
 and for the motions of suns, and planets, and systems, through all 
 space. 
 
 By this deduction, I do not deny the existence of the law of gravi- 
 tation. All that I would be understood to say, is, that the law of assim- 
 ilation, acting through masses of matter, as media, manifests itself as 
 the attraction of gravitation ; and that the law of gravitation, is inclu- 
 ded in the more universal law of assimilation. 
 
 The action of assimilation appears to operate through two degrees 
 or modes of substance, viz : that which we call matter, and that which 
 we call spirit — the sensuous, and the sepersensual. Acting througli 
 its sensuous sphe re, Jl,1:e^(i3..AftaggijnUatg^ ^^^^ijlt 
 
 foj^ji^ actmg through its supersensual sphere, it tends to assimilate 
 all things to the human form, or to the divine as it is imperfectly 
 imaged in matter ; and so to the Supreme or perfect form. Througli 
 the two spheres, it acts antagonistically, and brings the principle of 
 life in contact, as it were, with death. It tends from above, to convert 
 all things into living forms — to approximate them to the perfect form 
 of the Logos, or to an exam pier of vital form in the Divine mind. It 
 te nds from, beneath, to reduc e all things to the globular form, or'to" 
 that form, whatever it may be, towMcnaeaomnterTen^s^ own 
 
 law. So that life, as it manifests itself to the senses, is but the strug- 
 gle between these two antagonistical, and, apparently, conflicting modes 
 of one and the same action. And when dissolution comes, as come it 
 must, in this never-ceasing struggle, each sphere takes its own ; the 
 body passes to the nether, and the spirit to the superior sphere. 
 
 The one supreme form, acting directly from itself through the ideals 
 of the Divine mind, in these counter assimilative tendencies, must be 
 ever forming new cen^res"TraclTdnJ^ i^^^^ of 
 
 itself Of those inconceivably vast masses, that are accumulated in 
 the depths ^oflp^ee;"'pOTtio!iiSTimytt€q«iiWfi's'om -the very accumulation, 
 distinct centres, and so separate into orbs, and systems of orbs. So 
 the whole ''^um'^m^rgtee^-^bettgh'-^ H^ ^^ same assimilative 
 
 energy, separates into distinct nations and communities. In humanity, 
 however, tEere is no rt l ia t hO fllOgB l lUOUtJn^ ^^TiTcli" welave supposed 
 in the mere mass of matter ; but each nation has its distinct character, 
 or ideal forms to which it aspires — so has each tribe, and each family. 
 
428 
 
 P AN IDE A. 
 
 And these ideals or examplers, constitute distinct centres of action, 
 from which nations derive their ruling ideas and laws of action. When 
 we add to these, that somewhat distinct element, the free activity, we 
 have every thing that is necessary to an infinite diversity of action, 
 and from which we may derive all that is imperfect, as well as all that 
 is perfect, in the relations of human life. 
 
 In and over all these apparently conflicting and jarring elements, 
 the perfect reason presides — omnipresent and omnipotent — in an order 
 its own, with a never-ceasing tendency to bring all things into subjec- 
 tion to itself. Its tendency to assimilate the each and all of humanity 
 to itself, is slowly, but ever certainly, gaining on every aberration from 
 its own perfection, and approximating the race to a universal civiliza- 
 tion. The tendency of man is to a divine destiny — a point toward 
 which he has been and ever will be advancing, but which, from his 
 very nature, he never can completely attain. 
 
 And why not ? Every form of dead matter — every form of vegeta- 
 ble and animal life, has attained perfection in its kind ; and why should 
 not man attain his perfection ? Nay, why is he not already perfect ? 
 "Why has not the Supreme Will the same dominion over him, that it 
 has over all other existences ? I answer, because man is not simply a 
 mere animal machine ; because his mind or soul is not the mere in- 
 stinct of an organism, nor a partial image of Deity, acting through a 
 correspondent limited form, to a manifestation of itself; in a word, 
 because he is a progressive being, by his constitution and nature ; has 
 his distinct identity ; (conditional though it be,) his quasi freedom ; 
 and because when he ceases to be progressive in his nature, he ceases 
 to be a man. 
 
 A grand distinction between man and all other portions of animated 
 nature, lies in his conscious individuality — his conscious identity and 
 freedom of will. I will endeavor to trace out this distinction, and show, 
 as far as may be, what man is, in his relation to the perfect Reason ; 
 in other words, what the Me is in its relation to the Not-Me, and in 
 what manner the assimilative energy is bringing the universal human- 
 ity to act in harmony with the pure Reason, without any infringement 
 on that share of freedom which the Creator has vouchsafed to the 
 individual man. 
 
P A N I D E A, 429 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 THE ME, OIL HOMO-INDIVIDUALIS. OF ITS UNITY, IDENTITY, AND FREEDOM. 
 
 " Fond fool ! that deem'st the streaming- glory nigh, 
 How vain the chase thine ardor has beg-un ! " 
 
 To G-oD alone "belongs absolute unity, absolute identity, and absolute 
 freedom. From these attributes in Grod, man derives a quasi unity, a 
 quasi identity, and a quasi freedom. 
 
 Unity is an element essential to the personal identity. Give unity 
 alone, however, and you do not give personal identity ; for each plant, 
 and each animal, has its unity. But give to this unity a consciousness 
 of its own existence, distinct from that of the external world, or of a 
 mere sensitive existence, and you infallibly give the personal identity, 
 or conscious individuality. It is this unity, made conscious of its own 
 independent or distinct existence, that constitutes the personal iden- 
 tity. The question first in order, then, is, what constitutes the unity 
 of the human soul, or individual man ? 
 
 In answering this question, I certainly feel no unwillingness to 
 ascribe to it, a unity perfectly analogous to that which belongs to any 
 entirety of the natural world, to the whole of the Universe, or to any of 
 its systems. Let this proposition be clearly explained, and if it now 
 has an objectionable aspect, I am persuaded it may be made to disap- 
 pear. 
 
 We have seen, that between the world of spirit and the world of 
 matter, there can be no interference, for each has its distinct substance, 
 or mode of substance, and, by consequence, its distinct extension, and 
 distinct space. Now the soul is a part of the world of spirit. It 
 therein exists, subject to laws which rule over it. It has its own dis- 
 tinct activity, or successive volitions, and its own ideal forms or images, 
 which appear and disappear, seemingly at will. Now here is an aggre- 
 gate plurality ; yet who is there, that is not conscious that this plural- 
 ity has nevertheless its unity — some principle, some bond, which makes 
 it one 1 So true is this, that in all common discourse, we speak of it 
 as our own internal being or self-hood, and thus necessarily treat it as 
 a unit. And a unit it is ; but in what does its unity consist ? To 
 answer this question in the easiest and most familiar manner, we will 
 begin with the soul in its most exterior form, to wit : with its image 
 in matter, the material organic structure ; and through that, follow, so 
 to speak, this unity, inward or upward, into the supersensual, or sphere 
 
4j30 pan idea, 
 
 of the soul ; and we may, perhaps, thereby more clearly discern, in 
 what the unity of this spiritual aggregate consists. 
 
 The body, considered as an organism of this internal self, or virtual 
 unit, is itself a unit, an entirety — an instrument of the aggregate, which 
 we consider the mind or conscious being. It is an entire instrument, 
 through which the mind operates on matter. It is an entire instru- 
 ment, through which the material universe operates by the senses 
 on the mind. As to each, it is a whole. It is the soul materialized, 
 and the infinitude of the world of sensation is its sensitive mind ; of 
 which it is itself, considered as a whole, the presiding unit ; and as 
 such, gives to the world of sensation, whatever of unity it has. Let 
 us then examine this unit, and see whether it be really a unit, or only 
 the appearance of one. Now the moment we commence our analysis, 
 this apparent unit resolves itself into a plurality of senses — or organs 
 of sensation — each independent of the other — neither of which, inde- 
 pendently, can give unity to the sensitive mind. But then, (it may be 
 said,) oil may, when acting in combination. Very true ; but what is 
 it that gives them combination ? Whence is it that they derive their 
 unity % Why, from the mind, it may be said ; that aggregate plurality, 
 I suppose, of which I have been speaking. Very well ; let us analyze 
 thM^ and see if we can find the principle of unity therein. We speak 
 of it as the mind, and, in common parlance, treat it as if it had all 
 the unity of the real conscious self ; but the moment we examine it, 
 we find that its unity is altogether derivative, and that in itself, it con- 
 sists of conceptions, or objects of apperception, which have no more 
 real dependence on, or connection with, one another, than the ob- 
 jects of sensation ; as sounds, and colors ; odors, and tangible bodies. 
 Whence then this apparent or derivative unity ? Perhaps it is in a 
 superior self or soul, which makes this aggregate of conceptions its 
 object of apperception, just as the external organization makes the 
 material world its object of sensation. Be it so ; but the moment you 
 examine this interior self, you will find that it consists of a combina- 
 tion of internal senses, faculties — no matter what they are called — no 
 one of which can perform the functions of any other, and which, as in 
 the case of the external senses, require a combining principle to give 
 them unity, and which combining principle can be found only in an 
 existence still more interior. It must be an existence, which, like the 
 faculty of sight to the organs of sight, can, as to itself, resolve a multi- 
 ple into a unit. You may thus proceed, for aught I can conceive, ad 
 infinitum ; in every step of the process resolving an apparent or deri- 
 vative unity into a plurality, which has its combining principle still 
 
PArjfllDEA. 481 
 
 beyond or within it. Yet, in eyery step of the progress, shall be re- 
 vealed the two great elements of all mind, the Me and the Not^Me 
 
 the Will and the overruling Reason. But still, does not the number 
 of objects upon which the will may act diminish, as we ascend in the 
 scale of mind ; and does not the will, in every degree of ascent, lose 
 something of its energy ; and must it not fall more and more within 
 the dominion of this absoulute, overruling reason — ^until it is lost in 
 it — swallowed up in it ; as in the source and fountain of all being ? 
 
 It is most certainly true, cceteris paribus ^ that the activity of the 
 will depends entirely upon the number of objects, or the variety, upon 
 which it may act. Take from it this variety— take from it all objects 
 to call, forth its action — and it falls back into its infantile state of 
 quiescence ; into the bosom of the spontaneous reason — the Logos from 
 which it proceeds. Now most unquestionably, the number of objects 
 or ideas which call forth the action of the Will or Me, diminishes as 
 we ascend in the scale of mind, and that point, therefore, must be 
 ultimately attained, in which the Will or Me becomes merged in, or 
 identified with the Logos, or absolute will of Grod. I therefore say, 
 that whatever of unity we find in ourselves, is wholly derivative, con- 
 ditional, and dependent ; that it is a quasi unity, subsisting in all its 
 degrees, entirely from the one absolute unit ; which is God, considered 
 as the Soul of the soul. It is His perfect will, under the appearance 
 of spontaneity, which, like gravity in matter, pervades the mind 
 through all its heights and depths ; gives to it law ; and to every 
 degree of it a conditional unity. We may, by a self-analysis, pursue 
 this unity as far as our capacities will enable us ; and when we pause, 
 as ultimately we must, we shall find that our quest has been like that 
 of the child in chasing the rainbow, and that the great source of unity 
 is still above us. Down from the Supreme, through every variation of 
 soul, the divine unit takes form, till it terminates in the material 
 organism, and in the mind of the senses. 
 
 And this view of the unity of the soul, as far as it can be an object 
 of apperception, is supported as it should be, if oorrect, by a strong 
 analogy to the unity which may be observed in the material universe. 
 Thus every mass of matter — every particle of which this earth con- 
 sists — has its unity ; but it is a unity derived immediately from the 
 attraction of the globe, which acts upon it as a unit — the globe has its 
 derived unity, for it is made one, by the action upon it of the whole 
 solar system as a unit. All the distinct masses of the whole solar 
 system, are resolved into a like unity, by the action upon them of the 
 whole material universe as a unit ; and this in turn must acquire its 
 
432 P A N I D E A. 
 
 unity from the all-present will of Omnipotence, imposing on the whole 
 and every particle thereof, the universal law of gravitation ; which 
 seems to he hut one of the forms of the all-assimilative energy. 
 
 Grod, then, is truly the unit of all unities, both in the worlds of 
 matter and mind. He is the grand centre of all forms of existence — 
 the central substance or support of all qualities, spiritual and mate- 
 rial — ^the only absolute unit; every other, even when manifest in 
 mineral substances, is derivative and dependent.* 
 
 When, however, I speak of the unity of the soul, considered as the 
 self, as being analagous to that which manifests itself among material 
 bodies, I desire it to be understood, that I speak of it as analagous 
 only, and not as in all respects similar. For the unities which we 
 discover in soul, are the unities of a higher, in reference to a lower, 
 sphere of existence, and not unities arising in one common degree of 
 homogeneous substance, as in matter. For instance : the body is the 
 soul's material organism. It is composed of an order of constantly 
 fleeting particles. It is said, that the whole mass of particles is 
 changed, once in seven years ; yet the body has its unity as an organ- 
 ism. It is ever the same instrument. Its oneness, however, does not 
 consist in the particles, as a mere aggregate, but in the unity of the 
 vital self or soul which acts upon it, during all its changes, as one and 
 the same energy, making the whole arrangement, a single instrument. 
 This material organism is the lower sphere of the proximate spiritual 
 form of substance which animates it ; this spiritual form is the lower 
 sphere of the first rational psychological self, or the individual soul, 
 as it subsists in that degree or sphere, from which it looks down on 
 its conceptions, forms of thought, and so forth ; and makes them ob- 
 jects of reflection. This, again, becomes a lower sphere, to the soul 
 in its primordial relation to Deity, considered as the Soul of the soul, 
 or as the grand central unit, out of which proceed all the unities, of 
 which we can become conusant, within us. God, then, gives unity to 
 the primordial individual soul — that to the reflective soul — that to its 
 spiritual form, proximate to the material — and that again, to its instru- 
 ment, the body ; and the body thus becomes the last result or image 
 of all the preceding unities. This statement is fully sustained by any 
 view that we may take of the operations of the soul. 
 
 * Mr. Whewell considers the fundamental idea of that class of sciences, in which 
 the powers of matter manifest themselves in visible movements and modifications of 
 their material agents, to he polarity, or the conception of " opposite properties in oppo- 
 site positions ; " and his definition of a mineralog-ical individual, is, " that portion of 
 any mineral substance which is determined by chrystaline forces acting to the same 
 axis." 
 
P A N I D E A. 433 
 
 The existence of two degrees of self is ever manifest in every act of 
 cognition. In every such act, a subjective and an objective— a higher 
 and a lower self — must subsist together. Thus the sensuous self or 
 sphere of mere sensation, is the objective of the percipient self The 
 percipient self becomes objective — as a sphere of conceptions forms of 
 thought, ideal images, etc. — to the reflective or intellectual self which 
 is a still more spiritual form of being. This again becomes objective 
 to the Me, in that sphere in which it is wholly subject to the influence 
 of the pure spontaneous Reason ; and this is the highest form in which 
 it is possible for us to conceive of the existence of the individual soul • 
 for above this, the subordinate Me or self, seems to merge in absolute 
 Deity.' But when we consider unity as arising from the action of one 
 body upon another, within the same degree of substance, as in matter 
 it puts on an aspect somewhat diff'erent, though the primary cause 
 thereof may be the same. In matter, the proximate greater mass may 
 be considered as giving unity to the less ; and we do not look for a 
 source of all unity in a higher degree, until we come to regard all 
 matter as constituting one vast unit. It is then, that we ascend to a 
 higher degree, and find the source of its unity in Deity. The analogy, 
 however, is perfect, between matter and the common humanity. 
 
 Thus we have individuals, families, communities, nations, communi- 
 ties of nations, the whole humanity — all deriving their social unities 
 the less through the greater, from the all-assimilative personal Logos ; 
 which, at the same time, is imparting its own unity, to each and all, as 
 one. Like gravity in its action on atoms, it acts directly on individ- 
 uals, and gives to them their universal and distinctive relations ; and 
 like the same principle in the formation of bodies from masses of 
 atoms, it colligates individuals into families, communities, and nations. 
 
 But, it may be said, that if the foregoing representation of unity be 
 correct, each individual man, and all men as one, are no other than 
 the divine unit, standing out in organic material form ; and that the 
 whole humanity is but one vast vital machine, moved solely by the will 
 of God ; and that each human being is consequently without person- 
 ality. This conclusion would certainly be correct, v/ere the absolute 
 will of God the only vfill, by which this vast aggregate is actuated and 
 moved. It may have been the form or order in which humanity first 
 appeared on earth. Man may have been in this state, whilst his mate- 
 rial structure was in process of formation ; whilst the Soul — the spir- 
 itual form — was yet creating for, and adapting to itself, an organization 
 suited to the accomplishment of its destiny on earth. But whatever 
 might have been his precedent state, the moment the individual was 
 
 55 
 
434 P A N I D E A. 
 
 endowed with a consciousness of liis own unity, that is to say, the 
 moment the individual was endowed with a consciousness of his own 
 acts and thoughts as his own, he acquired a conscious, a spiritual, a 
 personal individuality, or identity, and could no longer be absolutely 
 one and the same with Deity. For this consciousness of a self, or of a 
 somewhat, distinct from the universe — distinct from the mere animal 
 or sensuous life, and even from the forms or imagery of mind — cannot 
 arise without its correlative will or free activity, and a consciousness 
 thereof For how can any one take note of aught that opposes or 
 resists him, without the implied consciousness, if I may so speak, that 
 he is to some extent free ? 
 
 But the moment the consciousness of this freedom arises, be it real, 
 or be it apparent, the individual or personal man, exists, and stands 
 out, at least as to his own apperception, to the extent of such freedom, 
 distinct from his Creator. He has an Ego, a Me, or what may be 
 called a felt personal identity. 
 
 This identity, however, cannot be an absolute identity, any more 
 than the unity upon which it is based is an absolute unity. Both are 
 derivative, and dependent for their subsistence upon the great central 
 unit, or self. 
 
 This leads me to enter more particularly into a consideration of the 
 nature of the will, or free activity ; which we shall find, I apprehend, 
 like the unity and identity which I have been considering, to be wholly 
 conditional and dependent. 
 
 " In Natural History," says Coleridge, " Grod's freedom is shown in 
 the law of necessity. In Moral History, God's necessity or providence 
 is shown in man's freedom." This is a proposition as profound as it is 
 true. The will of God, in the largest sense, is undoubtedly absolute. 
 He wiUs man to be free, morally free ; but the only condition upon 
 which man can be endowed with any freedom proper to the individual, 
 is, that he be brought into relation with the everlasting and unchange- 
 able order of the Logos, or perfect Eeason — in the supersensual world, 
 into relation with that order as it manifests itself in the spontaneous 
 action of mind — in the world of the senses, into that order as it mani- 
 fests itself in the laws of Nature. 
 
 To satisfy ourselves that this order is a necessary condition to the 
 freedom of man, we have only to suppose that it be disturbed or de- 
 stroyed in the world of mind. Let thought follow thought, without 
 order or connection, and is not the man at once insane 1 Has he any 
 liberty of choice ? Let the like disorder visit the material universe ; 
 let the heavens and the earth become a chaos, and the law of gravita- 
 
P A N I D E A. 435 
 
 tion cease ; let the ocean take the place of air, and the air that of the 
 ocean ; let the mountains become valleys, and the valleys mountainy ; 
 fluids become solids, and solids fluids ; and let them alternate their 
 conditions or states without relation to time or circumstance, and 
 would human liberty be possible ? Could man think logically, or con- 
 nectedly ? And if he did, what would logical or connected thought 
 avail him ? 
 
 "When God willed the imagery (so to speak) of his own mind to be- 
 come fixed and subject to the eternal Reason, He then, and not until 
 then, willed the existence of man as a free, voluntary, and somewhat 
 independent force ; subject, nevertheless, to all the conditions of that 
 order which is the prerequisite of his proper freedom and independ- 
 ence. The fiat which created man, was also the divine covenant, which 
 assured to him the continuance of the established order of the Uni- 
 verse. In that order which bounds or limits man's freedom, Grod, as 
 the Logos or perfect Reason, rules absolutely and unconditionally, 
 and in as far as man is a part of it, not of choice, but of necessity, he 
 is not free. In this order, Grod's absolute dominion trenches even on 
 the moral world, not directly, but indirectly ; and ultimately controls 
 it. Thus, man is not free to choose his own organization, nor to con- 
 tinue his life indefinitely. And thus, through the ultimates of organ- 
 ization and death, God absolutely guides and determines the destinies 
 of the race ; but he acts not directly on the freedom of the individual 
 will, but only tends to give it a direction and determination by the 
 inspirations of the pure reason. By these, God rules conditionally, 
 and man is free. Thus it is that God's freedom is man's necessity, 
 man's freedom is God's necessity — his self-assumed necessity. 
 
 He holds man in the embrace of His omnipotence, and presents him 
 for his choice, a variety from the stores of His own infinitude. In the 
 act of selecting, man is free ; whilst the still small voice of the pure 
 Reason, parentally chides every wrong, and approves every right selec- 
 tion, visiting, however, the consequences of repeated disobedience upon 
 the physical constitution, until the line of life in which they continue 
 to appear, becomes incapacitated to propagate itself, or is dissipated 
 and lost in the midst of counteracting influences propagated by other 
 organizations. 
 
 Thus human liberty has its limitations ; and limits, as well as lib- 
 erty, are necessary, in order to enable the individual soul to acquire 
 a knowledge of its own existence, as such. God himself exists in an 
 order his own, which, as already hinted, can be no other than a volun- 
 
436 P A N I D E A. 
 
 tary limitation of His power. This order in the Divine esse, is eter- 
 nity itself. 
 
 But it may be said, that the qustion whether the human will be at 
 all free, is a very ancient question, and that it has not yet been logic- 
 ally demonstrated, to the satisfaction of every body, that it is so in 
 any degree. 
 
 I do assure the reader that I am not about to revive this old con- 
 troversy, in the form in which it has usually been carried on. It is 
 enough for my purpose to say, that if the human will be not free in 
 any respect, there is no such thing as freedom. If the will be not 
 free, it is certainly wonderful that man ever came to the idea of lib- 
 erty. The truth is, that the will itself is liberty itself, and the whole 
 discussion, whether man be a free agent or not, is no other than the 
 discussion of a question, whether liberty be free or not, or in other 
 words, whether liberty be liberty ; yea, or nay. Such a question can- 
 not be discussed, without yielding the very point in issue, and then 
 contending for it. 
 
 Were man without liberty, he never could come to a knowledge of 
 restraint or necessity ; were he without restraint or necessity, he never 
 could be conscious of his liberty. It is from these that he becomes 
 conscious of his own individuality, learns to distinguish himself from 
 the external world, and, in the higher degrees of his being, the moral 
 and spiritual, from the mere animal and sensitive self. In short, it is 
 this encounter between liberty and necessity, that makes man ^^er se 
 a reflective being, or something above a mere brute force. Since then 
 we cannot have liberty without necessity, nor necessity without liberty, 
 I feel myself obliged to accept them both ; and conclude that to ques- 
 tion the existence of either, would involve the absurdity of questioning 
 the existence of every thing. 
 
 But it may be said, that the brute has its voluntary power, no less 
 than man ; and that these premises will lead to the conclusion, that a 
 beast, though of inferior capacity, is, nevertheless, to the extent of its 
 capacities, as certainly a free agent, as a man. Some explanation I 
 feel to be due to this suggestion ; although it has been already, to some 
 extent, forestalled. And by way of general reply, I will say, that the 
 suggestion comes from not distinguishing between a being that is 
 merely sensitive and perceptive, and so has but the lowest degree of 
 self or soul, and a being who is not merely perceptive, but reflective, 
 and so has not merely a lower, but a higher self, that looks down from 
 the region of the moral and spiritual, upon the subordinate degree, 
 and is capable of controlling whatever of the voluntary power it may 
 
P A N I D E A. 437 
 
 have. It will be found, I apprehend, upon a little reflection, that the 
 mere sensitive and perceptive self has a will, if it may be called a will, 
 that is wholly under the government of sensation ; and that, inasmuch 
 as it cannot project itself, and make its action and passion objects of 
 cognition, it is wholly unconscious of any freedom whatever, or of any 
 distinction between its sensations and itself It has no reflective 
 knowledge of any thing. If the brute be a reflective being — one capa- 
 ble of internally resolving impressions and general instinctive tenden- 
 cies into particular thoughts, or forms of thought, and so of making 
 them objects of apperception, and means of promoting an end — all 
 that I can say is, that no fact has ever fallen within the scope of my 
 observation to prove it. The brute has, properly speaking, no ideas 
 of time, or a continuity of events, or of causation. If my horse has 
 taken fright, whilst I was driving him at a particular place, he will, if 
 he continue in the same trim and condition, be very apt to take fright 
 again 'at the same place ; and this, not by reason of a memory of the 
 past, as the past, but by reason of the same feeling arising, which iden- 
 tifies the past with the present, and makes them, as it were, one and 
 continuous, and as without intervening events. And the same princi- 
 ple will explain any apparent manisfestation of a knowledge of causa- 
 tion. We may learn that the brute is not a reflective being, by con- 
 sidering what man is, before the higher self has developed its powers. 
 
 No doubt every human being (as he is the image of Grod in the 
 finite and multiple,) comes into the world with a capacity to develope 
 this higher self along with a consciousness of it, and of the personal 
 identity. Yet the babe, that came into existence last night, has not 
 yet developed it. It knows nothing of liberty and restraint. It dis- 
 tinguishes not between itself, and the little world by which it is sur- 
 rounded. Its sensations are as yet its all. Itself is all, and nothing 
 more than what it sees, hears, and feels. Its voluntary movements 
 are as yet not the results of thought, but of mere sensation. Its 
 actions come of impulse or of mere instinct. It is a mere animal, 
 saving that it has within itself the germ of its future personality or 
 higher self ; which the brute has not. 
 
 The condition of the brute and the child is in other respects the 
 same. The brute has no consciousness of its distinct individuality, 
 although, in itself, it be an individuality. Life and soul it indeed has, 
 but it is of the life and soul of the universal parent, acting through, 
 and in accordance with, a distinct and peculiar organization. 
 
 But, though I contend that the brute is not a reflective being, and 
 that it has not a higher self, yet, let it not be hence inferred, that I 
 
438 P A N I D E A . 
 
 deny that reason manifests itself in its actions ; for I admit that rea- 
 son manifests itself, even in insensate matter. 
 
 The laws of matter are reason, acting in and through it. The 
 meandering of the stream, the heaving of the ocean, the growth of the 
 plant, the climbing of the vine, the descent of the root in search of 
 nourishment, the effort of the germ and leaf to pass, from darkness or 
 shadow, into light — in short, the tendencies of all masses, and the pro- 
 gress and development of all vegetable life, are but the logical process 
 of the same common reason ; but the stream, the ocean, the plant, 
 though thus under the dominion of reason, do not themselves reason. 
 Neither does the brute ; it feels, it senses^ and sensation has its own 
 law ; and that law is reason itself, in the form of the sensitive organ- 
 ism. 
 
 The three geese which sat breast to breast under my window last 
 evening, in a hail storm, drew nearer, each to each, as the storm in- 
 creased in violence, till breast pressed against breast ; then gradually 
 rising on their feet, with necks and beaks brought together, and 
 stretched and pointed upward, they sustained the fury of the tempest 
 with as little of annoyance, as three Roman soldiers might have sus- 
 tained, in a shower of darts from the beleagured fortress, whilst stand- 
 ing under cover of their contiguous shields. Yet this was not an act of 
 deliberative, reflective reason ; it was not choice, but a mere yielding 
 of sensation to its own law. As they approached that attitude, they 
 felt less and less pain ; until their position became such, that it could 
 not be made better for the purpose of shelter. They reasoned not, 
 but reason acted in them. This seems to me to be always the mode 
 in which reason, in the brute, manifests itself ; it is not the reason of 
 deliberation, but of spontaneity. 
 
 When sensation becomes highly excited, this reason of course be- 
 comes more active, and it seeks, by every possible avenue, for relief. 
 It then puts on the semblance of deliberation and choice ; but it is 
 neither. It is a transition from one impulsive movement to another, 
 governed at once by the organic structure, and by present sensitive 
 influences. Man, in the act of reflection, does in his own internal 
 world of mind, what the brute, under analogous circumstances, does 
 in the external world. He passes from idea to idea, from thought to 
 thought. His is the labor of the higher self ; but the brute has but 
 one form of self, and that the animal or sensitive form. 
 
 Divest man of the conscious individuality, the will conditionally free, 
 and of all capacity to develope it, and you leave him a mere animal ; 
 a being without the power of reflection, without ability to distinguish, 
 
P A N I D E A. 439 
 
 knowingly, between himself and the universe, and the mere machine 
 of sensitive impulse. Yet would such a being bear within him an im- 
 mortal principle. It is not otherwise even with the brute. For resolve 
 theJbadj.of the brute into its original elements, and the vital soul still 
 remains a somewhat of the Universal Life or Soul — elevated perhaps 
 to a'higher degree of substance by ihe process tKrough which it has 
 passed, but yet without the conscious individuality. It gained nothing, 
 however, which it could itself appreciate by its organization, (since it 
 gained not this consciousness,) and it has lost nothing, which it could 
 appreciate by its dissolution. 
 
 The brute is as an oblique, and man as a focal image of the divine 
 unit. : Whatever of conscious individuality, freedom, and personal 
 indentity, belongs to the human image, belongs to it as a modification 
 of this universal life ; or rather as finite modes of the same attributes 
 in the^ personal Logos. They are modes which identify themselves 
 with the image itself, and give to it, in the completeness of the quasi 
 unity, a homogeneousness with the absolute unit. 
 
 God, as the personal Logos, is thus the Self of selves ; and when we 
 cast off the animal organism, it is but to stand forth in the conscious 
 individuality of a higher self. Hence it is that though the external 
 world be changing in all its forms around us — though the body be un- 
 dergoing a continual change between infancy and age — though the 
 mind itself become obliterated by insanity or dotage — still the iden- 
 tity of being, the conscious life, soul or Me, continues as immutable as 
 Deity Himself. Life is still life, as matter is still matter, however 
 changed. This every man, whatever may be his speculations, feels in 
 the depths of his consciousness to be true. It is the felt eternity of 
 his own life, which gives the self of it to be conscious of all mutability. 
 
 But it may be asked, why should not this quasi identity resolve 
 itself into its universal element ? If the action of assimilation be a 
 law of mind, as well as of matter, why should not the spirit be assimi- 
 lated to, and absorbed in the Supreme Spirit, as well as the body 
 assimilated to the dust, and absorbed in the earth from which it 
 came, and man's conscious individuality be thus made to cease for- 
 ever? 
 
 In answer to this question, I will say, that it may be admitted, that 
 the quasi identity may pass into the divine element from which it 
 proceeds. Yet it will by no means follow, that the Me or self, will 
 cease to be. Annihilation seems to me an impossibility. Man's 
 unity, identity, and freedom, subordinately conditional though they 
 be, cannot be made to pass into nothing ; unless God can cease to be. 
 
440 P A N I D E A. 
 
 But we may conceive the conditional to pass into the unconditional, 
 the finite Me into the absolute Ego from which it proceeds ; but this 
 would be a process exactly the reverse of that of annihilation, or of 
 the destruction of the conscious self or individuality. It would be a 
 more expansive and intense consciousness of existence — a transition 
 into a more elevated sphere of being. The self-determining power, 
 will or capacity to act, would still continue and strengthen, through 
 every advance toward identity with the perfect Reason ; which is but 
 another name for the will of God acting through divine order. The 
 doctrine of absorption, therefore, is not the doctrine of annihilation ; 
 but the very reverse of it. 
 
 But the resolution of the conditional Me into the absolute I am^ 
 by the law of assimilation, seems to me to be impossible, without a 
 subversion of the whole order of existence. For Grod, as the personal 
 Logos, acts upon all, as upon each ; and the influence which would 
 utterly annihilate the will, as a free principle, in one, would annihilate 
 it in all. Grod, as the personal Logos, might, through this assimila- 
 tive influence, create for Himself a perfect organism, through which 
 to act on earth, without any breach of universal order. So He might 
 bring the individual will, through order, to act on a line coincident 
 with the perfect reason ; but a coincidence is not an identity of wills. 
 Certainly the finite, by such coincidence, could not become the infi- 
 nite. 
 
 But there is another view of this matter, that necessarily grows out 
 of our system, which, I am apprehensive, will present an aspect very 
 unfavorable to the idea even of a limited coincidence, much less to that 
 of an absolute identity, with the Divine will. 
 
 It is this : the moral and intellectual habits which one forms on 
 earth, are of the spirit. They are such manifestations as the spirit 
 can here make of itself. They result from the acts of the will. 
 These acts necessarily give form to the spiritual Me. It has been 
 shown, that the mental imagery, and consequently the whole intel- 
 lectual or physical character resulting therefrom, arise from certain 
 general feelings or states of the soul, in relation to the perfect form 
 of the Divine within us. NoW; as these feelings, or states, are modifica- 
 tions of life and soul as they are within us, and are produced, gene- 
 rally, by our own free volitions, it seems very manifest, that the Me 
 forms for itself, in the process of its growth and development, a dis- 
 tinct individuality, or form of soul, which, all other things the same, 
 must continue in a future state, for the same reason that it exists in 
 the present. The laws which produce it, or rather, the laws in con- 
 
P A N I D E A. 441 
 
 formity to which it is produced, being spiritual, are as eternal as the 
 spirit itself. 
 
 We may not therefore, at any rate, expect a very sudden apotheo- 
 sis. Humanity may, indeed, be ever approximating the Divine Infi- 
 nite, through order ; but it can never finally attain it ; any more than 
 two converging lines, indefinitely produced, although constantly ap- 
 proximating in parts, can be made to coincide. The soul, the spirit, 
 therefore, as a finite individuality, survives the dissolution of the 
 body, and does not immediately, and probably never, enjoy the apo- 
 theosis which the question implies. 
 
 In this chapter, I have been considering the quasi unity, identity, 
 and freedom, as they manifest themselves merely in the individual 
 man, in his relation to the absolute unity, identity, and freedom in 
 God, the personal Logos. But independently of this relation, the 
 individual man is not alone — he has his co-ordinate relations in fel- 
 low-beings, not only of this world, but, if the foregoing views be cor- 
 rect, of the world above or within. For there is as much truth as 
 poetry in the idea that 
 
 *' Man is one world, and hath 
 Another to attend him." 
 
 Now I propose to make the each and all of this aggregate of free 
 forces, in their co-ordinate relations and in their relations to the abso- 
 lute unit, the subject of the next chapter. In the discussion of 
 these relations, it will, as I apprehend, distinctly appear, that these 
 quasi free forces, constitute individually, and in their aggregates, a 
 somewhat, that is foreign to the pure Reason or personal Logos, and 
 that in the mind of God, it is a subordinate Not-Me, or distinct 
 activity, ever requiring, like the animal passions within us, the active 
 government of the^perfect Reason ; that, in short, if God, or the Lo- 
 gos, be the absolute Not-Me to man, man is no less truly a conditional 
 Not-Me to God. And in taking this view of the subject, I may 
 repeat, and carry into further detail, some matters that have been 
 considered in the present chapter. 
 
 56 
 
442 P A N I D E A. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE THEANTHROPOID, OR HOMO UNIVERSALIS, 
 
 " Others boldlier think, 
 That as one body seems an aggreg-ate 
 Of atoms numberless, each organized ; 
 So by a strang-e and dim similitude, 
 Infinite myriads of self-conscioxis minds 
 Are one all-conscious spirit ; which informs 
 With absolute ubiquity of thoug-ht, 
 (His one eternal self-affirming- act) 
 All his involved Monads, that yet seem 
 With various province and apt ag-ency. 
 Each to pursue its own self-centred end." 
 
 If it be true, that the universe is an ultimate genesis of the all- 
 present mind, and if it be true, that we have something of the uni- 
 versal order of that mind within, then have we something of all that 
 is ly relation evil, as well as something of all that is absolutely good. 
 The self is a point in which all influences from above, around, and 
 beneath, concentre. It freely acts, and re-acts, yields to, or resists, 
 whatever it may choose. In its own internal world, it has its space 
 and correspondent relations. It has the Logos above, as the pure 
 Reason, taking form in, or acting through, the superior sentiments ; 
 and the same Logos beneath, taking form in the mere animal being, 
 or that portion of being, common to the brute and the man. These 
 distinct spheres, (if so they may be called,) are phrenologically repre- 
 sented by the organs of the superior and inferior portions of the 
 brain. The Me, personal unit or free activity, is brought forth from 
 the inferior sphere or form of soul, by the assimilative influence of the 
 Logos, acting from above. Acting directly from the Supreme Abso- 
 lute Self or Godhead, the personal Logos repeats itself, and begets its 
 own likeness, in the finite. 
 
 The inferior and superior spheres are both of the Divine mind, and 
 each of itself good ; but since it is the will of Grod, that the Me should 
 be raised from the inferior or animal soul, up into the rational or 
 human, and so through progressive order approach the Divine, the 
 inferior is, as to this personal unit, the chaotic, or crude element from 
 which the Me is formed. It thus becomes, by relation, its evil, or 
 nether abyss, out of which the creative energy, by a constant efi'ort, 
 tends to elevate it ; whilst the superior sphere, the rational and Divine, 
 is absolutely its good, its heaven of heavens. Of evil there is none ; 
 
P A N I D E A. 443 
 
 save that which the free will of man creates, or which becomes extant 
 as the correlative of his freedom. 
 
 The Me, considered as the free will, comes into being between these 
 two spheres. Each acts upon it with its own assimilative energy. 
 The Me stands balanced between the opposite energies, and is at per- 
 fect liberty to yield to the one, or the other. It thus passes upward, 
 or downward, in accordance with its own inclinations. 
 
 But let us consider of what these counter elements (for such they 
 relatively are) consist, and how they effect the Me. We shall find, I ap- 
 prehend, (if our premises be correct,) that the Me, considered as thus 
 subsisting between these two spheres of action, has not a mere isolated 
 being, but that, like a drop in the midst of the world of waters, it is 
 pressed upon and moved by the whole ocean of existence, spiritual and 
 material ; and so may be considered as subsisting by relation, through- 
 out the grand order of the Logos. 
 
 In the first stage of infancy, when the child merely feels, and hears, 
 and sees ; when it does but perceive the external world without recogniz- 
 ing it as external, the internal Me, or higher self, is apparently quies- 
 cent. It is the instinct of sensation, that then prompts every external 
 act. Yet this apparent quiescence of the higher, or more interior self, 
 is not inconsistent with a considerable degree of semi-instinctive activ- 
 ity. And active it indeed must be. For when the world of colors 
 comes upon the senses in masses, (and as in masses it must first come,) 
 the internal activity must make itself busy, in separating and resolving 
 it into its constituent parts. When all visible objects are apparently at 
 the same distance, this internal self must take cognition of their geo- 
 metric relations, and learn to define their separating spaces. When 
 the babel of sounds first visits the ear, it must busy itself in detecting 
 all the variety, and particularly in distinguishing the precise intona- 
 tions of the human voice. When the animal instinct finds relief in 
 action, this ever-conscious self is surprised by the phenomena of motion, 
 and immediately and spontaneously, takes note of the connection be- 
 tween muscular contraction and its own volitions ; and is thus early 
 engaged in observing the mysterious relations between itself and its 
 physical system — between cause and effect. 
 
 But who leads it to make these observations ? Not the mother, or 
 nurse ; for all this occurs whilst the existence of the external world is 
 yet a problem to be solved or questioned, at a more advanced period. 
 It is its Divine parent, acting from the superior sphere as the assimi- 
 lative Logos, that thus evolves the higher, from its germ in the lower 
 self, or animal soul, by exciting to action, and prompting it to this 
 
444 P A N I D E A. 
 
 course of observation, or instinctive cognition. Nor does the child 
 make known that the internal self is born, or roused to action, until 
 it does, itself, manifestly distinguish between the external and inter- 
 nal — the sensitive and reflective spheres. When it has appcrceived or 
 felt this distinction, the internal action passes out, as it were, into the 
 external world. And this is a most interesting period of childhood ; 
 especially when the manifestation of this interior action is made through 
 the medium of language. " I think — I believe — I hope — I fear." 
 What an import these words have, when first lisped by the tongue of 
 infancy ! What volumes do they speak upon the precedent internal 
 action and observation of the Me, made under the tuition of the great 
 Teacher within ? Yes, they announce that the self internal, in the 
 tabernacle of the soul, beyond the contaminating approach of mortal, 
 and under the exclusive influence of the plastic will of Omnipotence, 
 has been formed and fashioned after the image of the Divine Parent. 
 
 It is not strange, therefore, that the child, when it first begins to 
 lisp its thoughts, should seem like a being descended from an angelic 
 sphere. Well and beautifully has it been said, that " infancy is the 
 perpetual Messiah which comes into the arms of fallen men, and pleads 
 with them to return to Paradise." 
 
 Thus formed and prepared by its great prototype, the Me comes 
 forth, a distinct being, into the sensitive organism and surrounding 
 world, to receive the instructions of its earthly guardians. It comes 
 forth, all faith, all trust, in its preceptors ; for they are, or should be, 
 in the world of humanity, what the pure Reason is in the world of the 
 soul. And it understands, and confides in their precepts, because 
 they are, or seem to be, but the echoes of the voice of the Divinity 
 which speaks within. Conscious of its own exaltation, it looks down 
 upon its subordinate self in the animal being, makes it an instrument 
 of discipline, till its development is complete, and then goes forth to 
 the full enjoyment of its freedom, and the accomplishment of its 
 destiny. 
 
 By the time the Me has learned to distinguish between good and evil, 
 in the moral world, and not until then, the nether sphere begins to put 
 forth, with increasing and varied energy, its assimilative power. Then 
 it is, that the soul called into action, through all its heights and depths, 
 begins to feel, with additional intensity, its distinct identity. It is 
 then, that the relations of the Me to both spheres become universal ; 
 the microcosm is complete, and becomes recipient of all influences, 
 whether of the world of the senses, or of the world of spirit. 
 
 If our theory be true, death is but a name for a change that involves 
 
P A N I D E A. 445 
 
 no extinction of the essential identity. It is not annihilation, or a 
 cessation of existence. All ordinary language is but the language of 
 appearances. We say that the sun rises, the sun sets ; the stars run 
 their courses — when, in fact, the earth only turns on her axis. Just 
 so, in common parlance, we speak of death, and anticipate a rising of 
 the dead ; but this is speaking only according to those appearances, 
 real or anticipated, which are, or are to be, the results of a change in 
 the conscious self Do but turn from the world of the senses, to the 
 world of spirits, and the material Universe shall roll together as a 
 scroll, and the dead shall rise around you. 
 
 In this idea, there is much of the sublime, but truly nothing of the 
 horrible, save that which comes from a habit grounded in the^ fallacy 
 of appearances. In what we call death, the self, or soul, does but 
 withdraw the influence (mesmeric shall I call it ?) which it imparts to 
 the human organism, and straightway lives on in the world of spirits, 
 as it has lived in this. A new space, a new extension, a new heaven, and 
 a new earth, open on its untrammeled vision, and the discipline of 
 this life, spiritually resolved, has made it already familiar with this 
 new stage of its never-ending existence. Let but some slight change 
 in the memory take place, and the future world will seem but a con- 
 tinuation of the present. 
 
 This is not fancy, unless the premises on which our theory is based 
 be fallacious, but their demonstrably necessary result. We are 
 brought, then, to this conclusion — that there is, embosomed in the 
 Logos, a world filled with an infinite multitude of spiritual existences : 
 that it has its own order, so corresponding to that of the material 
 world, that the one is the cause, of which the other is the effect ; that 
 these worlds are, each to each, reciprocally inextended, and that, by 
 consequence, the spiritual world is to the material, as a unit. Now, 
 if this be so, this spiritual unit and all its spiritual existences, as one, 
 must be considered as present by relation, to every human being. 
 Not that this presence is necessarily attended with any consciousness 
 of it, either in them or us, but that the presence subsists simply 
 because, as to them, there is no such thing as the space of matter ; 
 and because it is, through this relation of presence to the material 
 organism, that they are as present to the soul. 
 
 But though all spiritual existences be considered a unit, thus 
 present to the soul of every human being on earth, yet, inasmuch as 
 this unit is, considered in itself, an infinite multiple, it must likewise 
 be in itself susceptible of arrangement and order. This arrangement 
 and order, the all-present assimilative Logos must necessarily produce. 
 
446 P A N I D E A. 
 
 It must necessarily subject all things within it to its own order. It 
 must, of its own law and energy, separate differences, and contrarie- 
 ties, and bring like to like, and thus produce a superior and an infe- 
 rior world of spirits. Both these are made to subsist by a relation, 
 as of presence in each human being ; the superior acting as one with 
 the Logos in the rational and moral sphere, and the inferior acting as 
 one with the Logos in the animal form, or inferior sphere of the soul ; 
 and. each producing its appropriate effect on the Me, or free activity. 
 
 Man, indeed, is never alone. Deity is always with him : all above 
 and all beneath are ever with him, and he can bring out the one or 
 the other, into his life and actions, as best suits his disposition. 
 
 And here I will remark, in reference to the subject discussed in the 
 conclusion of the preceding chapter, that this superinduced power, (if 
 thus divided and arranged by Omnipotence, into spheres superior and 
 inferior, consisting of forces to some extent free, yet subject to an 
 order imposed by the overruling Wisdom, and the former acting from 
 above, and the latter from beneath,) must render the quasi unity and 
 identity of the conscious self, little less than absolute. Nor are these 
 antagonistical forces without their use, either to the individual or col- 
 lective humanity. Both conspire to separate the good from the evil, 
 and to purify the individual and the universal man. Each acts from 
 its own assimilative power. The one elevates whatever is susceptible 
 of elevation, the other swallows up in its abyss, all that is disqualified 
 for the superior sphere ; and this is effected without at all impairing 
 the freedom of the human will. 
 
 And it may be further observed, but with reference to another sub- 
 ject, that if all life, animal and vegetable, be assimilated through these 
 media, it may be easily conceived how the whole universe of matter, 
 considered as an ultimate conception of the Divine mind, derives, from 
 its relation to man and spirit as forces quasi free, modification, fixity, 
 and order, dependent upon the order of all spiritual existences. The 
 material, must correspond, in some sense, to the grand spiritual, order ; 
 and the universe of matter must continue as it is, until it shall be the 
 will of God to resolve the free activity, and with it all, whether of 
 spirit or matter, into the Divine JSsse. 
 
 These are inferences which spontaneously flow from our premises. 
 Yet, because the general mind shrinks, perhaps, from such specula- 
 tions as unusual, or at least mystical, I would have avoided them, 
 could I have so done, without leaving a deficiency in our system, not 
 otherwise to be supplied. I now pass to a consideration of these influ- 
 
P A N I D E A. 447 
 
 ences through various orders of mind, on those social aggregates 
 which constitute the entire humanity. 
 
 These various orders of mind through which Deity rules, ultimately, 
 in human affairs, notwithstanding the temporary perversity of the 
 human will, are formed, by the assimilative action of the supreme 
 Reason, from the whole humanity, or universal man. And this neces- 
 sarily leads me to inquire, — ^what is this whole humanity, or universal 
 man, contemplated as present in its entirety to this Reason — a Rea- 
 son from which it derives its existence, and from whose assimilative 
 action it receives the laws that govern it ? How does it subsist in 
 this reason, and what is the manner or nature of its presence therein ? 
 This is an important inquiry ; for such as is the order of presence in 
 which the whole humanity subsists in this Reason, such, I apprehend, 
 must be the order in which the assimilative energy acts through its 
 entirety. 
 
 I have already treated of the omnipresence of this Reason, or Lo- 
 gos, in the fifth chapter. I have therein shown, by the aid of that 
 formula, which our visual experiment furnishes, what must be the 
 nature of the presence of the Logos, or Reason, considered as the 
 absolute soul of all and singular of the Universe. But it is neces- 
 sary here to understand what is the nature of its presence to man, 
 and the entire humanity. This Reason is necessarily the Soul of the 
 soul ; and considering it as such, it becomes expedient, here, to repeat 
 some of the thoughts attempted to be communicated in that chapter. 
 The reader will thereby have a clearer conception of that unity, which 
 with theTiberty of using a Grreek compound, I shall call the Thecf^jt 
 thro'poid^ or Homo Universalis. 
 
 I will, in the first instance, present the idea, which I would commu- 
 nicate, by supposing the individual soul itself to be the visual faculty. 
 And I can conceive of no objection to this, since it is undoubtedly 
 that which sees — the organs of sight are but its instruments,"or its 
 own exterior fprm. But if so regarded, then the visual faculty, or 
 soul, may be considered as subsisting, in relation to ^^the organs of 
 sight, as the human ideal, exemplar, or image (which must logically 
 precede the creation of man) subsists in the Divine Reason, to its ma- 
 terial and spiritual multiple. But the unity of the visual soul, or 
 faculty, is broken into a plurality, in the organs of sight — that is, the 
 visual soul takes form, externally, in two or more visual organs. Just 
 so may this ideal, exemplar, or image of man in the Logos, take form 
 in that plurality of human beings, which constitute the race. Now, as 
 the organs of the visual soul, however numerous, are, to it, as one 
 
448 P A N I D E A. 
 
 organ ; so to the Logos, (which stands related to man through his 
 exemplar or image,) the whole aggregate of human beings, contempla- 
 ted in their most general relation, are as one human being. And as 
 the visual soul is present in each and both, or in each and all of any 
 conceivable number of organs, as one ; so Grod, considered as the ex- 
 emplar or primordial image of man, is present in each and all of any 
 conceivable number of human beings, as in one human being. The 
 Divine Image (or Deity, as it is in relation to man,) repeats itself 
 objectively, in a vast multiple; whilst subjectively, it continues to 
 subsist unaltered, in its original unity. And it is present (like the 
 visual soul to its organs) to the each and all, as one ; and this relation 
 of presence continues, whatever specific differences there may be in 
 the individuals of the race. 
 
 For the purpose of illustrating this position, I must recall the atten- 
 tion of the reader to the first part of the fifth chapter, in which the 
 subject of ubiquity is discussed. I find a repetition of the process, 
 there given, necessary, in order to keep steadily in the mind a clear 
 idea of the nature of ubiquity ; for without some such almost sensible 
 demonstration, the true idea is apt to elude the apprehension, and 
 become confounded with our natural conceptions of space. 
 
 To this end, then, I repeat, that any supposable number of visual 
 organs would, to the soul considered as the visual faculty, be but as 
 one ; since the spaces between them would not be objects of perception. 
 And, for the same reason, the pictures on the retinae, of the same field 
 of vision, would be but as one picture, exciting but one perception. 
 And this would be the result, however widely the organs might be 
 separated from each other. Therefore, the soul, (as the visual faculty,) 
 would be present, so to speak, in its entirety, to each and all — whether 
 organs or pictures — as if they were but one organ, or picture. It 
 would be its entire presence to every one, that would make up its en- 
 tire presence to all as one. Now if the supreme Reason, or Logos, be 
 the inmost soul of every human being, then the above result becomes 
 a formula, or true expression of the nature of its ubiquity to man. It 
 is present, in its entirety^ to each human being ; present in its entirety, 
 to all, as if that all were one being. 
 
 But in the above visual process, I have supposed a like picture pro- 
 duced by a common field of vision ; yet this hypothesis is not necessai 
 to this common presence of the visual soul ; for this presence would con-J 
 tinue, even were the common field and its impressions resolved intc 
 as many fields as there are supposed organs. For if one be pressed 
 from its appropriate sphere, so as to receive the picture of a portion of 
 
P A N I D E A. 449 
 
 extension not common to the other, the field of vision becomes dual. 
 We have in effect two fields of vision. It is, however, the same soul 
 that sees each and both fields at once. It sees each, by reason of its 
 particular presence to each organ ; and both at once, by reason of its 
 presence to both as one. The change in the position of the organs 
 and the change in the common field of vision, do not, therefore in the 
 least, effect the before-mentioned relation of presence. The particular 
 presence and common presence still continue unchanged • and the 
 result will be the same, however numerous the organs, or diversified 
 the fields of vision and their consequent pictures or impressions. 
 
 But though the organs all have a common percipient power in the 
 visual, soul, yet, as each eye receives its distinct and independent im- 
 pression, it also has its distinct vision ; and, thereby, may be supposed 
 to acquire something of a distinct percipient character or individuality. 
 And then, so considered, the whole number of organs together, however 
 arranged, are as if they constituted one percipient being, having many 
 distinct forms, occupying distinct positions, and each viewing distinct 
 though not entirely different, portions of extension. These forms 
 may be very numerous, and their positions much diversified. But 
 however numerous the forms, and diverse their positions, they are still 
 essentially the same multiform being, with a great variety of visual 
 perceptions. It is a being, which sees in, or through, each form, the 
 particular field thereof, and in, or through, all the forms, the whole 
 number of fields at once. And here is still the same presence that we 
 have heretofore observed — a common presence and a particular pre- 
 sence of the same entire percipient entity. 
 
 This seems to me to be, undoubtedly, a true expression of the 
 visual soul's presence, or relation of presence, to the organs of sight. 
 But if it be, it must also be a true expression, or formula, of the 
 presence of all spiritual entities, subsisting with corresponding rela- 
 tions, to material forms. It must, particularly, be a true expression 
 of the presence of the Logos, or Deity, considered as the Soul of the 
 soul of all and singular of the human race. The race, considered as 
 thus subsisting in relation to the Logos, or Beity, are each and all as 
 one beiii^, or as God manifest in a multiform humanity, Theanthro- 
 poid, or Homo Universalis. Such a form of humanity must, however, 
 be"regarded merely as a primordial form, or state — or a form, or state, 
 which logically precedes all others, and in which, could it but continue 
 unchanged, each individual would act direct from the perfect Reason 
 — each in harmony with each and all, and the whole, as one vast hu- 
 man machine, actuated by the will of Deity. Perhaps this is the state 
 
 57 
 
450 P A N I D E A. 
 
 ill wliicli man originally stood to his Creator — perhaps it is the state 
 into which the assimilative action is now tending to bring him — ^not 
 by absorbing the individual will into the Divine, but by bringing it 
 to act in coincidence with it. 
 
 But though this state may be considered as having a logical prece- 
 dence in reference to all others, yet it is one which, certainly, is not 
 and perhaps cannot be, otherwise than changeable, consistently with 
 the laws of its own being. It seems to me, that the integrant parts — 
 that is, the individual forms of which this multiform manifestation 
 consists — cannot do otherwise than acquire distinct finite wills, and 
 consequent individualities ] subordinate however, to the absolute will. 
 For, each individual form must, because of its limited relations, have 
 its distinct sensations, its distinct thoughts, and from these, a distinct 
 will, superinduced on the Absolute. If this be so, then must the finite 
 will have its distinct series of actions, subject nevertheless, to the All- 
 controlling Will, one of whose superinduced modifications it is. 
 
 Thus underlying, supporting, and ultimately controlling, all the 
 diversity of the human finite, the Omnipresent Reason still subsists 
 as one, in presence unchanged, and unchangeable. It is itself the 
 germ of the human finite ; in its growth it accommodates itself to 
 ever changing circumstances, and, in so far, loses its absolute and infi- 
 nite mode of being, and becomes a quasi free force, a quasi identity, 
 and an individual human being ; still, however, always ultimately 
 controlled by the unchangeable laws of the Absolute Reason. 
 
 The Theanthropoid, considered only in its relation to Deity, as its 
 actuating soul, is a divine organization and a unit, even as any suppo- 
 sable number of organs of sight are, to the visual soul, as a single 
 organ. Yet this sublime organization, though thus a unit to the 
 supreme Reason, or Deity, is resolved, at once, in the phase in which 
 it presents itself to the senses, into a vast multitude of human indi- 
 vidualities, all actuated by an infinite variety of motives and conflict- 
 ing wills. 
 
 But does humanity, in every aspect, subsist in the Divine Mind 
 only as a unit or single idea ? I answer, that though it subsist in the 
 Divine Reason only as a single form of thought, yet it thus subsists 
 as a universal idea, or form of thought, and must, for that reason, be 
 resolvable in the assimilative Logos, objectively, into the generic, spe- 
 cific, and even individual elements of which it consists. It must be 
 resolvable, especially, into the moral and intellectual orders, which 
 constitute it, and those orders, without reference to place, nation, or 
 even the varieties of the race, must take grade according to their de- 
 
PAN IDEA. 461 
 
 gree of assimilation to the Perfect Reason. The highest, and, ulti- 
 mately, ruling order of individual minds, must consist of those which 
 have been brought, by the assimilative action, nearest in resemblance 
 to the Perfect Reason. Beneath this order, minds must take grade, 
 order after order, down to that which is the most dissimilar and even 
 opposite to the same Reason. It is through these orders of mind, that 
 this Reason everywhere acts to assimilate the each and all of the race 
 to its own perfections. 
 
 Now the presence of the Logos, to each of these orders of like indi- 
 vidualities, must be perfectly analogous to its presence to the universal 
 man. Each of these orders, from the lowest to the highest, or most 
 interior, must subsist, in the Logos, as a single human form or idea, 
 comprising, in its unity, and tending to assimilate to its ideal, all the 
 individuals of the order. The highest order must be the order of hu- 
 manity most nearly assimilated to the pure Reason ; and must more 
 immediately receive its inspiring influences from it. This order of 
 human beings constitutes the soul of the universal man, and rules, in 
 the last result, throughout the entire organization. It is its godlike 
 element. It embodies the prophets, the philosophers, the seers, and 
 sages, of the race. These are they who discover sublime truths, and re- 
 veal them to the nether orders, for promulgation, government, and use. 
 These truths may, indeed, involve error to a greater or less extent ; 
 but they are, at least, approximations to absolute truth — such approx- 
 imations as the nether orders of humanity are susceptible of receiving 
 and applying to use. They guide, they direct, the labors of the scien- 
 tific mind, and are themselves a part of it ; that mind, I mean, which 
 is engaged, not so much with the ideal and the abstract, as with the 
 concrete and sensuous, the social, physical, and tangible. These take 
 the formulas, under which they proceed, from the philosophic mind ; 
 the Platos and Aristotles, the Leibnitzes and Bacons, of their epochs. 
 Investigation may throw light upon the errors of the formulas, under 
 which the investigation itself is conducted, and corrected ; thereby 
 philosophy may present new formulas, and thus give a new and higher 
 direction to the labors of Science. But at every step of its progress, 
 the scientific mind shall make new discoveries, and thus give birth to 
 new arts, and new inventions, for the use and improvement of the race. 
 
 Science and Art reduce the great truths of the perfect Reason to 
 the uses of life. They bring them down to earth ; clothe them in ul- 
 timates ; give them form in matter, and, through the material, give 
 them to operate on the spiritual, man. Beyond the sciences and arts, 
 man can make no safe, certain, or enduring progress. Human pro- 
 
452 P A N I D E A. 
 
 gress is a logical process ; and consecutive discoveries and inventions 
 are the only firm steps by which humanity advances. Though specu- 
 lation may guide for a time, yet she must ever give place to the abso- 
 lute truths of Science. It is thus that the assimilative energy resolves 
 itself into a practical reason, to which the human will, however per- 
 ' verse, must ultimately submit. 
 
 For let it not be supposed that man is at liberty to yield, or refuse 
 to yield, obedience to the power which thus presides over him. Hu- 
 manity is so constituted, so organized by its Divine Author, that he 
 has no choice, but to adopt the existing arts and sciences of the com- 
 munity to which he belongs. He is necessarily educated in their prac- 
 tice or knowledge ; and the necessity is just as imperative upon him 
 to adopt every new and useful discovery and invention. • This neces- 
 sity arises from the fact, that the universal man — the Theanthropoid — 
 has its Not-Me, or absolute. Reason, as truly as the individual. This 
 Divine Power, in one of its forms, appears as the principle of self-pre- 
 servation ; and, in that form acts not merely on individuals, but on 
 communities, nations, and common civilizations. These owe their ex- 
 istence, or whatever of permanence they may have, to their govern- 
 ments. Unlike the absolute truths of Science, which belong to all 
 mankind, governments, as to their forms, are fragmentary, and are 
 framed, each, to satisfy the real, or supposed requirements of a small 
 portion of the race. They have their basis in local interests and pre- 
 judices, which are ever changing their character, with the progress of 
 Science and Art. 
 
 But, lest I should be misunderstood, I will here add, at the expense 
 of a slight digression, that, though the absolute Reason prescribes no 
 particular form of government, but leaves that to the suggestions of 
 the reflective reason, yet it is the absolute Reason that forces upon 
 every community the necessity of adopting sonie form, and it is also 
 from the same Reason, that government derives all its authority. Let 
 me illustrate. It is the absolute Reason that suggests the existence 
 of a cause for every change ; but it is the reflective reason that indi- 
 cates, from among the objects of our knowledge, what that cause is. 
 So it is the absolute Reason, acting as a universal law, that requires 
 the existence of government ; but it is the reflective reason that cre- 
 ates, from among the materials which a given people affords, and which 
 are the objects of its knowledge, the particular form of government 
 which seems to be required. Thus the form of government is, necessa- 
 rily, both local and temporary. It is an organization of a portion of 
 humanity ; a vital, self-acting organization indeed, but not the less truly 
 
P A N I D E A. 453 
 
 a special organization. As an organization, it, even like the animal 
 form, can act only according to its nature. Whatever will moves it 
 moves it only in accordance with its capacities and character as a living 
 machine. Yet are its relations to the Perfect Reason such, that it is 
 ever susceptible of a further and further development and improve- 
 ment. For although those who act, in and through this organization 
 derive a special character from the fact that they are members of the 
 particular community thus organized, yet they do not, thereby, lose 
 their relation to the grand organization of the universal humanity, 
 above described. They are still integral parts of the Theanthropoid — 
 the grand man, and, considered in that relation, they are forms under 
 the government of the absolute Reason. And it is through them, so 
 considered, that the absolute Reason is constantly acting, by a revela- 
 tion of its truths, on their special organization, to harmonize it with 
 its perfect self Here, then, in intimate connection with the form 
 which the Omnipresent Reason takes in the universal man, is a por- 
 tion of humanity, organized as the state, and governed proximately by 
 the finite will — a Me present to a Not-Me, which is the absolute Rea- 
 son — present as a force somewhat foreign and antagonistical to it, but 
 which, as an ideal form, that Reason is, nevertheless, in constant ten- 
 dency to assimilate to its own perfect self It acts upon it, as upon 
 an idea its own. Indeed, communities, nations, and common civiliza- 
 tions, are but ideas in the Divine mind, instinct with a force or activity 
 somewhat foreign to the Divine will, but which are ever in a process 
 of development under its influence. This, again, brings me to the 
 point from which I have digressed ; and let us now pursue the inquiry 
 as to the manner in which this process is carried on. 
 
 The scientific and inventive order of mind, is not the property of 
 any particular nation, but of the whole humanity; it has its appro- 
 priate place in the Theanthropoid. The truths which it discovers, the 
 inventions which it realizes, are the common property of the race. But 
 that portion of the race, which is at the head of the progressive human- 
 ity, will not only generally be first to avail itself of its revelations and 
 inventions, but will, also, generally give birth to the minds that make 
 them. 
 
 Now, when a people applies to its use a new scientific truth, or 
 invention, (and applied, if useful, it will be,) it places itself, in this 
 particular, in advance of all communities that have failed to apply it ; 
 and the consequence must be, if the discovery or invention be at all 
 important, that such a nation will advance in the scale of civilization, 
 and other things equal, must either conquer, or assimilate to itself, 
 
454 P A N I D E A . 
 
 any people that fails to avail itself of the new truth or invention. Thus 
 it necessarily follows, that when one nation adopts an improvement, in 
 Science or Art, all, acting on the principle of self-preservation, must 
 adopt it, and its use must become general, throughout the common 
 civilization. This common civilization, then, acts on barbarism with 
 newly acquired force, and tends either to civilize, or extirpate it. 
 The truth of this position is well illustrated by the discovery and ap- 
 plication of the magnet to maritime purposes, and by the appropriation 
 of gunpowder to military uses. The former pioneered the Grenoese 
 adventurer to the New World, and the latter extended civilization 
 over it, by subduing its barbarism. 
 
 Nor are the effects of improvements in Science and Art, less mani- 
 fest in the organization of the states that adopt them, or on the social 
 condition of the individual man. Feudalism disappeared in Europe 
 on the introduction of fire-arms, and on the extension of commerce by 
 the aid of the compass. Protestantism was established, and the gene- 
 ral mind liberalized and enlarged, by the art of printing. The inven- 
 tion of labor-saving machinery has given to the poor the luxuries of 
 life. Useful discoveries and inventions have operated, in modern times, 
 an emancipation of the individual man in most civilized countries, and 
 elevated the common civilization of Christendom over all others, pres- 
 ent or past. 
 
 All improvements in Art and Science, are the necessary results of 
 the action, (direct, or indirect,) of the Omnipresent Overruling Reason, 
 on the free force. And because they are the results of that Reason, 
 they can be made only in logical order. That is, each discovery or 
 invention must be an orderly development of all that has preceded it. 
 There is no gap or hiatus between the improvement of to-day, and the 
 embodied improvements of all time past ; but such a necessary connec- 
 tion, that without the former, the latter cannot exist any more truly, 
 than an effect can exist without a cause. And then, if humanity be 
 in other respects prepared for the discovery, the new truth goes on to 
 its full development in society, and, by a necessary law of mind, is 
 carried forward to every application of which it is susceptible. And 
 so of every invention ; which is nothing more than the laws of the 
 physical world, brought into action for human use or pleasure, through 
 the media of tangible and visible forms. The absolute Reason deals 
 directly, only with entireties. It suggests the existence of a latent 
 truth — or the idea of a possible invention for a given purpose. The 
 reflective reason then, gathers the facts necessary for the demonstra- 
 tion of the truth, or brings together, in their proper aspects, the 
 
P A N I D E A. 455 
 
 materials necessary to the invention ; but it is an inspiration of the 
 perfect Reason, which, in contemplation of the entirety, completes the 
 task, reveals the truth, or gives the required combination. 
 
 But discovery and invention require this logical order, not only in 
 the progress of the Arts and Sciences, but in that of humanity itself. 
 They must be made at the appropriate period, in the progress of the 
 race, in order to be available. Men must know how to write and read, 
 before pen, ink, and paper, can be invented ; and the art of printing 
 cannot be advantageously applied to use, until a knowledge of letters 
 has become very general. Could the invention of the plough have 
 been made available, before man had left the hunter state, or tamed 
 the wild horse or ox ? Teach the savage to navigate a ship from New 
 Zealand to New York, and to what use can he apply the knowledge, 
 whilst he is possessed of nothing but his birch canoe ? It is manifest, 
 that the condition of humanity must be such as to demand the partic- 
 ular invention or discovery that is made, otherwise it must perish as a 
 premature birth, or, unapplied, await the progress of events. What- 
 ever humanity wants, she demands ; and whatever spirit she evokes in 
 earnest, is sure to make its appearance. No truth, no invention, that 
 she really needed for a further progress, has ever failed to come at her 
 bidding. 
 
 I have said, that philosophy directs the course of scientific investi- 
 gation. Her directions, to be sure, are very general ; for she deals 
 only in abstractions and generalizations. She prescribes method — 
 she limits and defines the old, and strikes out new fields for exploration. 
 She imparts her own character and complexion, to the Arts and 
 Sciences, and through them, to the whole progressive humanity. Take 
 Plato, for instance ; and his philosoply yields an ideal method recon- 
 cilable with the inductive. Take Aristotle ; and his philosophy most 
 obviously leads to a syllogistic method, though according to late com- 
 mentators, it favors the empirical, or experimental method. What an 
 influence have these two systems had on the progress of the race ! If 
 we now come down to modern times, and take the philosophy of Locke, 
 we shall find it to be purely a philosophy of the senses. It, in eff"ect, 
 repudiates spiritualism, and directs the mind, almost exclusively, to 
 the cultivation of the physical sciences and useful arts. The mind, 
 constrained for several ages, to act within this sphere, has indeed 
 wrought wonders — its discoveries and inventions have surpassed 
 those of any similar period. But what has it done for man, as a spir- 
 itual and moral being ? It has directly done nothing, or that which is 
 worse than nothing. Regarding man merely as a sensual being, it 
 
456 P A N I D E A. 
 
 necessarily adopts the selfish theory as the basis of the social system, 
 and law and justice, and state and church, are venerated (if venerated 
 at all,) only in proportion as they promote individual interest and 
 enjoyment. Yet the great practical truths which it has revealed, by 
 concentrating the labors of scientific genius within the limited sphere 
 of the senses, has thrown no inconsiderable light on that spiritual 
 nature, which this philosophy itself, does not even recognize ; and the 
 consequence is, that an a priori method, rectifying itself by the induc- 
 tive, seems to be acquiring an ascendency. It is in this manner, that 
 the investigations of Science are controlled and directed by the promi- 
 nent philosophy of the epoch. 
 
 These remarks may give the reader an idea of the manner in which 
 the Logos, on the principles of this theory, governs through the higher 
 order of mind, in the progress of the race. It is, in fact, a process by 
 which the inferior, is constantly being assimilated to the superior, 
 order of mind, and, by which, the whole humanity is made to tend, as 
 it were, toward the form of the personal Logos as its Divine Prototype 
 or Examplar. That the personal Logos, considered as the supreme of 
 humanity, is the grand central assimilative form of the race, may, it 
 seems to me, be made apparent by a little reflection. 
 
 This Divine form, abstractly considered, can be no other than the 
 Creator of man. In logical order, its existence precedes the existence 
 of the material man, just as the soul's faculty of sight precedes the 
 existence of its material organs ; which are but the external manifes- 
 tations of the internal faculty or idea. The internal faculty of sight 
 exists; therefore, its material organs. The personal Logos exists; 
 therefore, its multiple in human forms. That the idea of humanity 
 exists in the Logos, and logically precedes the existence of its form in 
 matter, is as manifest, as that the idea must logically precede the word 
 that expresses it ; or, as the cause must precede the effect ; and if this 
 be so, then this Divine idea of man, or, in other words, the personal 
 Logos, can be, as to man, no other than the Divine Humanity, or 
 Supreme Man. And then, as all human beings are ever present in 
 this form as one, the necessary consequence is, as has been already 
 shown, that there must be a tendency, in each and all from assimilative 
 action, to a likeness of this Divine Image, counteracted, however, to a 
 great degree, by the perverse, or erring will of the individual. 
 
 The reader may be surprised, that I have not named the religious 
 principle among the several enumerated elements of human progress. 
 But the truth is, (as it seems to me,) that the religious principle, in 
 that universal sense in which I am here obliged to regard it, is not in, 
 
P A N I D E A. 457 
 
 and of itself progressive. It is indeed an essential element of human- 
 ity, and is the moving cause of all progress ; but without the aid of 
 Philosophy, Science, and Art, it is ever stationary. It is essentially 
 a sentiment — a feeling of the mysterious and suhlime — an intuitive 
 perception of the supernatural. This is its nature, considered as a 
 universal element of the human mind, and without regard to creeds or 
 doctrines. But then, it puts in action the Reason, which supplies the 
 mind with doctrines of some sort. These are necessarily accompanied 
 with a philosophy, which directs investigation, and thus lays a founda- 
 tion for the sciences. It is a fire which generates the expansive energy 
 that puts in motion the whole progressive humanity ; yet, in itself, it 
 continues one and the same, only changing the mode of its manifesta- 
 tions, according to the human materials on which it acts. These 
 change with the progress of the race. In the infancy of society, this 
 sentiment most naturally takes form in the worship of the fetish and 
 idol, or in the mummeries of witchcraft and magic. There may, in- 
 deed, be minds of a high order — such as are capable of contemplating 
 creation as a whole — which are qualified to receive, as an inspiration 
 of the Logos, the idea of the unity of the Divine. But these will be 
 few and far between ; and their doctrines will not readily captivate 
 the common mind. Common minds are as fragments; theirs as 
 wholes. It is not until Philosophy, Science, and Art, and, above all, 
 the general use of letters, have qualified the common mind for the 
 reception of the great idea of the Divine unit, that society abandons 
 idolatry, and the religious sentiment takes form in a more exalted 
 faith. 
 
 The world was not fitted for Christianity, until Christianity actu- 
 ally came ; and when it did come, it came as a logical and necessary 
 development of the progressive humanity. And, unlike other religious 
 forms, it came qualified to adapt itself to all future progress, without 
 losing its identity. These facts alone, establish the Divine mission of 
 its founder. He was truly an incarnation of the Logos, to the pro- 
 duction of which the entire Theanthropoid conspired. 
 
 The Christian faith undoubtedly contained, originally envelopjgd_ 
 within it, aJTlTi^^trtllAfS -that-4t has' €ver evolved. But then it has 
 evolved tlxe^eT^iiot 'by4ts-t)wirOTh«rent «^^ action, but 
 
 by occasion of the progress of Philosophy and Science. I speak not 
 here with reference to its influence on the heart, but to our concep- 
 tions of Deity and a future state. What a change has the progress of 
 Astronomy alone wrought in tliese ideas. We now recognize in the 
 Creator, a God of unnumbered worlds, and we neitlier look beyond 
 
 58 
 
458 P A N I D E A. 
 
 the expanse albove, nor into an imaginary abyss beneath, for the world 
 of spirits. We find Grod within us — and we find the world of spirits 
 there. 
 
 With this view of the nature of the religious principle, I have not 
 deemed it necessary to name it among those external, and manifest, 
 agencies which are effecting the progress of the race; but content 
 myself with regarding it as the prime mover of them all. 
 
 The general propositions, now offered for consideration, may, at a 
 more convenient time, be illustrated by some historical references. 
 At present, however, I pause here, as at a point more appropriate than 
 any that might hereafter be found, and avail myself of the occasion, 
 which it affords, to review the ground over which we have passed, with 
 a special reference to the subject of this chapter. 
 
 I have sought to do little more, throughout the whole course of this 
 volume, than to carry, in something like logical order, certain premi- 
 ses to what appeared to me to be their necessary consequences. Re- 
 gard them, if you choose, as constituting a system purely visionary. 
 StiH are not those consequences the logical result of our premises ? 
 Are they not consistent in themselves, and in accordance with all the 
 known laws or phenomena of matter and mind ? Do they not yield, 
 of themselves, a complete system, which harmonizes the material, with 
 the spiritual world ? Does not the system thus evolved, render the 
 personal unity of God conceivable, though in the midst of an infinite 
 multiplicity? Without confounding the Infinite with the finite — God 
 with man, or man with God ? — does it not recognize the Omnipotence 
 of the latter, and still leave the former accountable for his deeds ? 
 Does it not render the distinct identity of each conceivable ? It may 
 be answered, that though all this be so, yet the system may still rest 
 on erroneous premises, and be without a foundation in truth. True — 
 but then if the system have really a basis — if it be legitimately de- 
 duced from sound premises — can it be false ? Imperfectly developed 
 it may be — and — if a thought about language, in reference to a subject 
 so grave, may be excused — it may be uncouthly expressed, but still is 
 it urubrue ? Let me refresh the reader's memory, by naming several 
 of the principal positions that I have endeavored to establish. 
 
 First: I find within myself, and infer its existence in others, a 
 Power, or Presence, which I call the Reason, or Logos, and which is 
 in itself perfect, and presides over the will or Me, in some respects, 
 with absolute, in others, with qualified, dominion. And I infer from 
 the nature of its attributes, and from the attribute of Omnipresence 
 
P A N I D E A. 459 
 
 in Deity, that this perfect Reason, or Logos, is no other than God, 
 present in the human soul. 
 
 Second : I find that from this Reason, Logos, or God, present 
 within me, comes my idea of space and extension. That it is this 
 Power, or Presence, which creates space and extension as a thought, 
 and that, by consequence, all things, as a unit, are present to, and sub- 
 sistent from it. This is demonstrated from the nature of this Pres- 
 ence in the visual soul and its organs. 
 
 Third : This Reason, Logos, or Divine Presence, is shown to be 
 essentially a creative power ; since every thought, or idea, proceeds 
 from it, and generates its corresponding imagery, or symbolic expres- 
 sion, either internally, or externally. 
 
 Fourth : it is shown that this imagery, or symbolic expression, sub- 
 sists, logically, first in spirit, and then in matter ; and that therefore, 
 to the world of matter there is a corresponding world of spirit, from 
 which the world of matter subsists, as effect from cause. 
 
 Fifth : it is shown that this world of spirit, internally considered, 
 has its corresponding space and extension ; but that, whilst the world 
 of matter is inextended as to the world of spirit — and that each subsists 
 in each, as a unit, and, consequently, that they are everywhere present, 
 each to each. 
 
 Sixth : that God, as the Logos, or Omnipresent Reason, with all 
 related spirit, is everywhere present in His entirety^ in all material 
 entities, or individual forms, animate, or inanimate. 
 
 Seventh : that as He is present, through the visual soul, in the 
 organs of sight, in each and both, as one ; so, as the Soul of the 
 soul. He is present to each human being, and to all human beings, as 
 one ; that therefore the entire humanity subsists, in God, as one hu- 
 man form coincident with the Divine ideal or Prototype, which gave 
 birth to the human multiple. 
 
 Eighth : that from this Presence, (man subsisting as an idea, or 
 form in the Divine mind,) results an assimilative action on the each 
 and all of humanity, tending to bring man into a likeness of ifts Di- 
 vine prototype, or image, and all social organizations into a corres- 
 pondent order. — But since this action, were it without condition or 
 limitation, would resolve man into God, and render the Theanthro- 
 poid, or Homo Universalis, a mere machine, or instrument of the 
 Divine Will, therefore it is shown, 
 
 Ninth : that this result is in a degree counteracted by the condi- 
 tional freedom of the human will ; which conditional freedom arises 
 
460 P A N I D E A. 
 
 from the limited and distinctive relations of the individual, to Gody 
 and the Universe. 
 
 Tenth : it is shown, that this assimilative action arranges, or tends 
 to arrange, all existences, whether spiritual or material, into an order 
 which does, or would, bring like to like, and thus create, in humanity 
 and throughout all intellectual being, superior and inferior orders of 
 mind. 
 
 Eleventh : that the superior order of mind assimilates, or tends to 
 assimilate, the inferior order of mind, throughout the grand intellec- 
 tual organization ; and that the assimilative energy, acting on humanity, 
 through the philosophic and scientific orders of mind, through govern- 
 ments and other social organizations, is ever tending to elevate the 
 race; and that it thus tends, although the devious action of the human will 
 may constantly, in a greater or less degree, counteract the Divine efibrt. 
 It appears to me that these several positions are well established ; 
 and if they are, they fully account for all individual and social progress, 
 and even for all individual and social retrogression ; they give a logical 
 aspect to the history of the race. They prove the existence of a Divine 
 Providence in the affairs of men, and reveal a law, above man, whereby 
 individuals, communities, nations, and the whole humanity, are ever 
 tending toward a more perfect state. This tendency is through a 
 Divine order ; and the progress of the race is the result of a logical, 
 consecutive, and necessary action of the Reason, or Logos, in the human 
 mind. The arbitrary determinations of the will may, indeed, check and 
 retard, and, sometimes, even accelerate it, but can never change the 
 law under which it is proceeding. 
 
 When governments and other human institutions are not in harmony 
 with this law, (and they are ever more or less at variance with it,) they 
 are, so far, subjects foreign to, and distinct from, the Divine Will ; yet 
 ever developing themselves under its influence, according to their in- 
 herent tendencies. Such institutions are the creations of the reflective 
 Reason, and can be permanent and become enduring elements of the 
 Theanthropoid, only when they are brought into perfect coincidence 
 with Klie Divine Reason. Such a coincidence has never yet been ac- 
 complished ; for the assimilative action of this Reason has found, and 
 perhaps will ever find, its antagonism in the errors and perversities of 
 the will of the social masses. 
 
 Like individuals, then, communities, nations, aye, the whole human- 
 ity, are, in the Divine Mind, ideas, or forms of thought, somewhat for- 
 eign to Grod's absolute will. They subsist, as to that will, somewhat 
 as the animal self subsists as to the rational self — somewhat as the 
 
PANIDEA. 461 
 
 ideas, passions, and propensities, of the nether sphere of the Not-Me 
 subsists as to the intellectual Me, or reflective self Thus, as the will 
 of God, considered as the Logos, is a Not-Me to man, so the will of 
 man, acting through the whole humanity, or any of its masses, is as a 
 Not-Me to God ; with this difference, that the will of man, in the Di- 
 vine mind, is a nether force, never subduing, but ever to be subdued. 
 
 It is an overawing thought, that these free forces may exist, as one 
 organized Theanthropoid, not merely in this world, but in all the 
 worlds of the Universe, and throughout every sphere of spiritual being ; 
 and thus embracing, in one form, an infinitude of existences, may sub- 
 sist as a Not-Me to the Divine Will, yet everywhere, ultimately, gov- 
 erned ^nd controlled by it, as the thoughts or ideas of Omnipotence. 
 What worlds of action may one thought or volition of the great central 
 unit, so related, produce throughout all things ! What an infinitude 
 of phases may the same Divine volition put on, in its transitions through 
 the media of such an organized system of intelligences ! 
 
 The free force is the necessary complement of the Divine Reason. 
 Without it, that Reason would be without object — its existence would 
 would be wholly subjective. It introduces mutability into the other- 
 wise immutable ; time into eternity ; the finite into the Infinite ; and 
 makes everlasting action an attribute of the Mind of Omniscience. 
 We thus see why the free force was created, if indeed it be not co-eter- 
 nal with Deity ; and why it was made liable to err. 
 
 The action of this assimilative energy, thus at once special, general, 
 and universal, is, in truth. Divine Providence ruling in the affairs of 
 men. Not the capricious Providence of some, but a Providence of 
 order and logical rule. Of its own law, it embraces and acts on every 
 individual, as it does on all mankind taken as one vast moral and intel- 
 lectual aggregate. The action of gravitation on every particle, being 
 the same as it is on every mass of matter, furnishes an apt illustration 
 of the order and dominion of this Providence. The balloon is borne 
 upon the air, and floats above the cloud ; its bulk in lead descends 
 toward the centre of the earth ; yet these motions, thus diverse, are 
 given and regulated by the same principle, which regulates the move- 
 ments of all bodies throughout space. Just so the Supreme Reason, 
 regarded as Divine Providence, acts on every portion, and the whole 
 world, of Humanity. Is it not more than probable, that the very law, 
 which governs the stars in their courses, governs, mutatis mutandis^ 
 in the progress of nations and the lives of individuals ? 
 
 Whilst taking this somewhat distant and general view of the system, 
 do we not perceive in the harmony of all its parts — in that necessary 
 
462 P A N I D E A. 
 
 dependence whicli it reveals, of the each on all, and of the all on each 
 throughout the entire orb of existence, spiritual and material — a con- 
 firmation of its truth ? No principle, no elemental part of this grand 
 organization, can he abstracted, without the destruction of the whole, 
 any more than a segment of the circle, or a section of the arch, may 
 be abstracted, without destroying that of which it was a part. Take 
 matter from spirit, or spirit from matter — ^nay, abstract merely the 
 principle of gravitation, or of life, from the world of the senses, and all 
 order ceases, and the grand objective entirety becomes subjective in 
 Deity. Such a result can never be, until the Everlasting shall will to 
 change the whole order of his existence. 
 
 And still, considering the system in the same general point of view, 
 permit me to inquire whether there be aught in it to derogate from 
 any one attribute of Deity ? The Universe is but the imagery of His 
 iwj.ndi ■ n^-is; according to rec§ption, the everywhere present Life. 
 His Will is the ever-present assimilative action, and the essential of all 
 motion and thought. He is the germ of all intelligences ; they are 
 but his finite and imperfect modes. He is the inmost Soul of every 
 rational being on this earth, on the unnumbered earths throughout the 
 immense of space, and in all the regions of the spiritual. He is pres- 
 ent to each and all, as the germ of their existence, and as their one 
 informing soul, and they, each and all, present to Him as one form — 
 as one organic Whole. Centre of centres ! — Life of lives ! — Soul of 
 souls ! — Canst thou be less than All-creative and All-sustaining ? 
 
 We have found in humanity an element, a power, a principle, which 
 has yielded premises that have necessarily presented to us, in their 
 evolution, such a being as this. On them the system here ofiered, 
 rests. Out of materials which they have logically yielded, the super- 
 structure has taken form. And is it erroneous ? The laws which 
 govern in the material universe are perfect. We deem them Divine, 
 because they are so. The author has endeavored to trace the same 
 laws, the same consequent order, and all-pervading action from matter 
 to spirit, varying only with the changes of substance ; and if they de- 
 rogate not from the Divine Wisdom here, in matter, shall they be 
 deemed to derogate from the same Wisdom there, in Spirit? Can 
 there be more than one perfect^ proceeding from the same Unit ? and 
 can a system, which presents the like perfections throughout the grand 
 order of spirit and matter, be deemed a mere fallacy of the imagina- 
 tion ? Can a doctrine, which gives unity to all things, and reveals the 
 subjection of all to one organic law, or informing unit, have no founda- 
 tion in truth ? 
 
P A N I D E A. 463 
 
 Let it not be said, that it is a system which rests on a narrow basis. 
 True, were I the only being on earth, and were the system based on 
 the truths revealed by the Logos to my consciousness only, it might 
 be said to rest on a narrow foundation indeed, though it might even 
 then still be true. But it rests on no such limited basis. As the Logos 
 or Perfect Reason is to me, so it is to every human being, and to all 
 mankind. The system has the breadth and extent of the whole 
 humanity for its foundation, and in the history of the race it finds 
 ample development and illustration. And when we go abroad from 
 man into Nature, we find the evidence of its truth there, in every form 
 of life, in every form of dead matter. Surely, if the system rests on 
 all within us, and be supported by all around, above, and beneath us, 
 it rests on no narrow foundation, and is supported by no feeble props. 
 Like the theory of gravitation, it starts with a simple formula, deduced 
 from unbounded phenomena, but on the universal application of this 
 formula, this great truth is revealed : that the Logos, apperceived by 
 us as the Reason within us, is, in its entirety, everywhere present, 
 throughout the grand totality of spirit and matter — imparting its 
 own unity to the mighty whole, and every integer thereof, and devel- 
 oping itself in every variety of action and form — as the one organic 
 life and law of all. Is this idea unworthy of the Creator, or can any 
 inference therefrom yield aught repugnant to His Divine attributes ? 
 Is it inconsistent with any phenomenon of spirit or matter, or with 
 any established truth of Science ? 
 
 I leave these questions with the reader ; and whatever may be the 
 conclusion to which he shall come, may it be such as shall strengthen 
 his belief in the existence of God, in His Omnipresence, Omniscience, 
 Omnipotence and Benevolence ; and such as shall inspire him with a 
 new faith in an elevated destiny for man here, and with a fresh confi- 
 dence in a continued existence hereafter. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 Note to Chapter II., page 18. 
 
 Extension and Space. These ideas concerning- extension and space, may be given 
 to the reader with more clearness, perhaps, if expressed with more brevity. 
 
 Space — pure space — ^is but the sum of the geometric relations which the percipient 
 power as a unit ascribes to its coexistent objects. To prove the truth of this proposi- 
 tion, two objects of vision are taken in the text ; namely, the two glasses separated by 
 the bow between them. Now, if, by the abstraction of the sum of all geometric rela- 
 tions between these two objects, they appear to be one, and without a separating space, 
 that abstraction will prove that that space, and the sum of those geometric relations are 
 one, and identical. For the sum of those geometrical relations is either an ascription 
 to the space, and then the space will remain after its abstraction, or the sum of the 
 geometrical relations is itself the space, and then the space itself will cease to exist on 
 its abstraction. This abstraction is made in the manner described in the text, and the 
 two glasses are, to the'percipient power as one. There are as to it, no geometric rela- 
 tions between them ; and the space between them, as to the same power, no longer 
 exists ; and therefore, as to it, the sum of the geometrical relations, and that space, arc 
 shown to be one, and identical. 
 
 Now, if pure space be nothing but the sum of geometrical relations between objects, 
 that which we call extension in a tangible and visible body, can be nothing but the 
 sum of the geometrical relations of its own multiple — its various points, and outlines. 
 And this is proved, as to vision, by the same process. The extension between the two 
 glasses disappears — the extension between the two organs disappears — and the two 
 glasses appear as one, and the two organs as one, on the abstraction respectively of the 
 sum of their geometrical relations. Therefore, at least £is to one sense, pure space, 
 and extension, are but the sum of all possible geometric relations of coexistent ob- 
 jects, or of the various points and outlines of the object contemplated. 
 
 Now, as to the sense of feeling, the proof is analogous ; and, as the author thinks, 
 equally conclusive. Thus : one unvaried feeling, like one unvaried color, gives 
 no idea of extension. It is a unit, and as such is the basis of all number — of all 
 variety. But as a unit, it has no limits — no figure — no dimensions. It is only by a 
 resolution of this unit into variety, that we come to the idea of that sum of geometric 
 relations which constitutes the extension of a tangible body. Thus our own physical 
 organism is evolved from its unity, as to the percipient power, by the variety which 
 various impact and movement gives to the sense of feeling. So the reason, reacting 
 as the will of God on itself, evolved the Universe — made it objective to itself in Jinite 
 mode. 
 
 Pure space and extension, then, are nothing but the sum of the geometric relations 
 of coexistent objects, or of their simultaneous variety. 
 
 But whence come these geometric relations 1 They do not belong to the objects 
 themselves, taken independently of any percipient being; and they are not objects of 
 sensation. Then whence come they ? The answer is, that since they exist only in 
 the presence of the percipient power, they can come only from that power, brought 
 into action by a sensible multiple. 
 
APPENDIX. 465 
 
 But what is the nature or character of this power, that it should he qualified to give 
 these relations 1 This power alone, added to the sensible multiple, creates the rela- 
 tions. They come from it spontaneously, and without reflection. Reflection does not 
 give them, and sensation does not give them ; they are forced upon us. But if they 
 neither come from sensation nor reflection, then must they come from the spontaneous 
 Reason ; and this percipient power miist be no other than the spontaneous Reason 
 affected through the organs of the senses, by an objective coexistent plurality, and 
 creating from itself, the sum of the geometric relations of that plurality, by an ascrip- 
 tion to it of its own unity. It forms itself, the essence of the geometric entirety, 
 educed by the coexistence. If it be taken from that entirety, the entirety vanishes — 
 goes with the abstracted unit, as truly as the circle vanishes, or goes with its abstracted 
 centre. 
 
 I have called the spontaneous Reason, when considered as this unit, the geometric 
 Reason ; and extension, and space, may be considered as nothing but the subjective 
 geomej;ry of this Reason, made objective ; that is, nothing but this unit passed — ^with- 
 out losing its subjective unity — out, as it were, into an objective plurality ; that is 
 again nothing but simple unity resolved into unity in variety, or nothing but the sub- 
 jective and objective subsisting by correlation, in essence one, but in modality dual. 
 
 This unit is, indeed, in its infinite mode, both subject and object. As object, it has 
 a phase ; as subject, it has none. It is the subjective, which, without being seen, sees ; 
 it is the objective, which, without seeing, is seen. The subjective is ever, in the last 
 result, God, from the absolute, contemplating himself, in and through a less than 
 absolute, mode of being. 
 
 But whence is this objective coexistent plurality— this multiple— this variety, without 
 which we cannot have space and extension 1 
 
 It must constantly be borne in mind that this unit, of which I have been and am 
 now speaking, is the Absolute Reason, not the reflective ; that it exists independent of 
 us, and acts out of us, as well as within us ; that it subsists in us, however it may be 
 modified, from its infinite mode, as our perceptive power ; that here, limited by a ma- 
 terial organism, it sees out of and beyond the organism, its own determinate concep- 
 tions, which subsist as such, from its own infinite mode of being. From this, its 
 infinite mode, that absolute unit repeats itself conceptively in that infinite multiple 
 which constitutes what we call matter, and which, perhaps, forms its qualities and 
 masses by the aggregation of mere mathematical points, endowed by the Omnipotent 
 Will, with forces variously repellant and attractive. These, to the Absolute Reason, 
 are mere conceptions. But though mere conceptions to it, in its unconditioned mode 
 of being, and therefore entirely subjective, yet, when present to it in its JinUe and con- 
 dUioned. mode, they become objective and multiple, and subsist in all variety. 
 
 When the Absolute Reason contemplates itself from its absolute mode merely, all 
 things are ideal ; and the finite is swallowed up in the Infinite. When it contemplates 
 itself from one of its ideas, the unity of the Infinite disappears in partial views of co- 
 ordinate ideas or conceptions, and is thus resolved into the multiple, and limited. The 
 conceptions, immanent in the absolute unit, are then viewed as its imagery, and in 
 their converse order, baclcward as it were, toward their source. Hence we have the 
 coexistent objective plurality, to which the geometric Reason gives continuity, by an 
 ascription of its own unity-in other words, by the resolution of its own geometric 
 synthesis into analytic objectivity. 
 
 This ascription is one and continuous, like gravity in matter, from the Absolute Rea- 
 son; but in the organic form, whether spiritual or material, this Reason is subject to 
 limitations, and changes its manifestations with every change wrought in the organ- 
 ism, whether by external objects, or by an act of the will. Thus, when I stretch forth 
 my arm. when I walk, when I cast my eyes over land, and sea, or into the heavens— or 
 
 59 
 
466 APPENDIX. 
 
 when objects themselves move — this Reason, subsisting- at once as subject and object, 
 spontaneoxisly reveals its ascription with the movements, or changes wrought, evolves 
 itself with them, and g-eometrizes for me, extension and space. And this results, not 
 from a pre-established harmony, but from its correlation with the Me, or individual 
 soul, and its material org-anism. In the Absolute Reason there is indeed no chang-e— 
 no particular ascription ; but in its finite form, there is a chang-e in relation to its abso- 
 lute mode, and throug-h that change the ascription, already existing in the eternal 
 mind, becomes manifest to the finite entity, and subsists as an ascription thereof. 
 
 The ascription of the absolute unit does not exist for my mind only, or only whilst 
 I am contemplating the multiple. It is an ascription which exists for aU minds, and 
 that as continually as the Absolute Reason exists ; so that space and extension would 
 still continue, though there were not a single human being to contemplate them. 
 
 But it may be said that in as far as these operations of the Absolute Reason are out 
 of my consciousness, they are wholly hypothetical. To this objection the answer is, 
 that the Absolute Reason is a unit, and that its operations, out of the consciousness, 
 must be, mutatis mutandis, what they are in the consciousness. If in my mind, it 
 creates an ideal extension and space, must it not out of my mind and in its own eternal 
 order, create an ever-enduring extension and space 7 It is a unit, and what it operates 
 in me conditionally, it must operate out of me, and in its own absolute mode of being, 
 unconditionally, or absolutely. 
 
 It should be understood that it is not the object of the author to prove in the text, 
 that the Universe has a mere ideal existence as to finite beings. His object, in reduc- 
 ing it to an idea in the Absolute Reason, is to evolve, therefrom, space, extension, 
 resistance, motion, and generally all the laws and properties of matter, to the end, that 
 it might be manifest that the Universe itself is no other than the imagery of the mind 
 of God, subsisting as material, in its constituent and co-ordinate forms, to the finite 
 mind. 
 
 But it may be further objected, that if the perceptive power be the Absolute Reason, 
 its perceptions are not my perceptions. I answer, that the Absolute Reason, subsisting 
 in a finite mode — that is to say conditioned, by my organization — is my individual 
 soul, or self; that this is originally only so far distinct from the Absolute, as its organ- 
 ization makes it distinct ; and that, consequently, the perceptions of the Absolute, so 
 conditioned, are my perceptions. It cannot be objected that this makes man God ; for 
 it only makes a finite being subsistent from the Infinite. A special mode of the Abso- 
 lute Being, acting in very limited and particular relations, cannot be the Absolute 
 Being acting from the depths and heights of His existence, through all worlds and all 
 beings, giving life and thought to all. But even the perceptions thus derived, are not 
 mine, unless, by an act of the will, they are appropriated by me. That is, the whole 
 individual soul must consecrate itself, by an act of attention, on the perception, before 
 it can become a part of my individual mind, and distinctly exist in consciousness and 
 memory. It is this special appropriation, which ultimately separates the man widely, 
 thovigh never entirely, from his Maker. I say, never entirely ; for it is inconceivable 
 that the separation should become absolutely complete, and the soul still exist. God 
 is ever the Soul of the soul, but never the moral and responsible being, which the indi- 
 vidual soul makes itself, whilst acting within the limited sphere of its freedom. 
 
 I have said that the absolute unit repeats itself corweptively as a mathematical point 
 or centre, and, thereby, creates the elementary particles of matter. I will endeavor to 
 make this language more intelligible. A mathematical point has no dimensions, and 
 is a mere conception. It is but the mind itself, repeated as unity. Now, though this 
 unity, repeated simultaneously, might give us an idea of extension, yet it could give 
 us no idea of resisting, solid masses of matter. For the mathematical point— this 
 mere conception — to give this idea, it must be armed (so to speak) objectively, by 
 
APPENDIX. 467 
 
 the Omnipotent Will, with resisting- forces. If it be true, that there is no possibility of 
 absolute contact between bodies, or the elementary particles of which they consist, 
 then these forces must exist, and the Supreme Will, acting- through mathematical 
 points, or centres — which can exist only in conception — gives vis the impenetrability of 
 the atom, and the solidity of the mass. 
 
 If a magnet bar be divided at the neutral point, each of the two parts becomes a mag- 
 net with its neutral point — if this be divided at the neutral point, the result is the same ; 
 and if this division be conceived as repeated down to the mathematical point, we shall 
 then have the atom — that is a mathematical point and its forces. Boscovich accounts 
 for the various qualities of matter, on the supposition of various forces emanating from 
 an infinitude of mathematical centres. But these forces, in the last result, can be no 
 other than the action of the Supreme Will — 
 
 "His one eternal, self-affirming act." 
 
THESES. 
 
 (ADDENDA TO THE PANIDEA.) 
 
 Thesis 1. That, which in the field of vision does appear, cannot be limited by that 
 which does not appear. 
 
 For example : The g-lasses of a pair of spectacles adjusted to the eyes appear, but 
 the space between them does not appear. It does not limit the g-lasses, and hence they 
 appear as one. ^ 
 
 Thesis 2. All that we do see must be seen within limits entire, that is, limited at 
 every point. 
 
 Thesis 3. The field of vision is, to the eye, like the interior of a hollow sphere, on 
 all sides and at every point, limited by objects real or apparent. 
 
 Thesis 4. Without limits real or apparent at every point, nothing- could be seen. 
 
 Demonstraiion. — If we suppose a breach in any part of the sphere, that is, if we ab- 
 stract any part of it, as an object or limit real or apparent, and still suppose sight to 
 continue throug-h the void thus made ; such sig-ht would be sig-ht, at that point, with- 
 out object or limit, real or apparent ; and then the remaining- objects, next where the 
 void is, would appear (supposing- them to appear) at or by a void, on one side limited 
 by that which did not appear. But this, according- to Thesis 1, would be impossible. 
 Therefore such objects would not appear ; and they not appearing-, the series next, for 
 the same reason, would not appear, and so on through the whole. Thus, on the hypo- 
 thesis that there be sight, at any given point in the sphere of vision, witJixmt limits, 
 real or apparent, there can be sight at no point in the entire sphere, vnth limit or object, 
 real or apparent ; and so the entire sphere of vision vanishes. 
 
 Thesis 5. The sphere of sight is a mathematical entirety, like the circle : to take a 
 part is to take the whole. 
 
 Thesis 6. Sight subsists in each and all its objects, as one. It is entire in each ob- 
 ject, and, at the same time, entire in all its objects, as if all were one. It is entire at each 
 point of the impression on the retina, and at the same time entire at all points of the 
 impression, as if all points were one point. There is the same sort of presence of the 
 visual power in each and all the particles of the visual nerve, that there is in each and 
 both retinae — a presence in each, and at the same time, a presence in both, as if both 
 were one. 
 
 Thesis 7. The sphere of sight is the unity of sight evolved in a co-existent plurality 
 of objects or limits ; and when one object or limit is abstracted, the unity and continu- 
 ity are preserved by this unity of sight in the remaining objects or limits. Hence 
 unity and continuity are given to the two glasses, to the two eyes, and to the two pic- 
 tures on the retinse — ^hence, also, the imposibility of realizing the hypothesis on which 
 the demonstration of Thesis 4 is founded. 
 
 Thesis 8. The geometrical relations of visible objects are necessarily given in the 
 unity of sight, considered as a percipient power, evolved in the co-existent variety of 
 its own self-limited sphere ; and the sum of the geometrical relations, so given, consti- 
 tutes the space in which the objects are. 
 
APPENDIX. 469 
 
 BemuTks.— Without the unity of sight, sig-ht could not be a percipient power. If 
 this unity were not evolved in variety, there could be no g-eometrical relations. If the 
 objects were not self-limited (each on other and on all) within limits entire, there could, 
 according- to Thesis 4, be no objects. But under opposite conditions, the unity of sight 
 being given, as subject, apperceiving itself subsis tent in variety, as object, geometrical 
 relations are necessarily given to the percipient thus evolved. Hence ail geometry sub- 
 sists in synthetic unity in the percipient unit, and this unit evolves itself in conscious- 
 ness as the geometric Reason — a Reason, however, which is above our wills — absolute 
 —spontaneous — intuitive— and which, therefore, gives this sum of geometric relations, 
 not as a measure of space, but as the space itself, which the percipient unit contemplates ; 
 and which it may (so contemplating) reflectively, measure, by comparing one portion 
 of extension, thus given, with another. 
 
 Thesis 9. Each eye has its sphere (hollow) and the two spheres have no geometrical 
 relations to each other. 
 
 Thesis 10. Sight subsists in each and both these spheres as one. It is entire in each 
 sphere, and at the same time entire in both spheres, as if both spheres were one sphere. 
 
 Remarks. — This is a paradox in terms ; but it is an expression which, as illustrated 
 by fact, gives in thought the true antithetic relation of spirit and matter — of the infinite 
 and finite. On this relation the Panideal system is grounded. 
 
 Thesis 11. Both spheres are to the visual unit (sight) a single sphere, when the ob- 
 jects of one sphere are similar to the objects of the other, and when their geometrical 
 relations are, at the same time, similar. This applies to objects common to both eyes. 
 Objects not common have no dissimilar relations, and they appear single, of course. 
 
 Thesis 12. Objects are to the visual unit double, when the geometrical relations of 
 objects, in one sphere, are dissimilar to the geometrical relations of like objects in the 
 other. « 
 
 Illustration. — Let like objects in both spheres be geometrically related, as A, B, C, 
 and they, being similar with similar geometrical relations, will appear single. But let 
 one sphere retain the objects A, B, C, and then let the otlier eye be so directed, as to 
 exclude from its sphere A, and receive the new object D, so that its objects shall appear 
 geometrically related, as B, C, D. Then, since A and D are not common to both 
 spheres, they will appear single ; whilst B and C, being similar and common to both, 
 but with dissimilar geometrical relations, will appear double ; for C occupies the mid- 
 dle of one sphere, and B the middle of the other. 
 
 Thesis 13. For the same reason that there are, according to Thesis 9, no geometrical 
 relations between the two spheres, each to each ; there are no geometrical relations out 
 of, or beyond (so to speak) the two spheres in their unity — that is, seen as one. 
 
 Illustration. — There is no space for the visual unit between the two. retinae, or between 
 the two organs ; and none objective on either side the retinae, or organs ; for the same 
 reason there is no space for the same percipient unit between the sphere, or world of 
 the right eye, and the sphere, or world of Ae left eye, and none on either side, or 
 around them when seen as one. 
 
 Thesis 14. All geometrical relations arise to the visual unit within the sphere of vis- 
 ion, and none out of, or beyond it; and since all space, given by vision, is but the sum 
 of all geometrical relations of visible objects, all space is given by the visual unit 
 toUhin the sphere of vision, and none beyond it. 
 
 Remarks. — Extension and space are given in the objects and their correlations, and 
 have no objective existence independent of them. If all the letters of the Alphabet, or 
 of this page, be organs of vision to one and the same visual xmit, they will be a^ one 
 organ, or as a simple unity. If they all be effected with but one uniform color, as the 
 sky, for example, they will, independent of experience, give to the visual unit no con- 
 ception of extension or space. But let one of them make the residue of this synthetic 
 
470 APPENDIX. 
 
 unity of org-ans objective, and it will at once resolve that unity into a coexistent plu- 
 rality g^iving- extension and space. Let this org-an now return to its former synthetic 
 relation, and extension and space disappear in the synthetic unity of each and all the 
 org-ans. If the Infinite logically precedes the finite, and the Absolute the conditional, 
 then the subjective unity log-ically precedes the objective plurality, and evolves it, and 
 with it, extension and space. This synthetic unity would exist in the Absolute Mind 
 even, though there were no finite percipient ; but the moment that a finite percipient 
 does exist, and cog-nizes aught of the infinite, this subjective unity must manifest itself, 
 not as a unity, but as a multiple conditioned by geometric relations arising- within 
 itself as a multiple. 
 
 Thesis 15. The sphere of vision in its totality (that is, taken as a one whole irrespec- 
 tive of internal geometric divisions) is unconditioned by space or spatial relations. 
 
 Thesis 16. The sphere of vision in its totality, being- unconditioned by space, is, 
 also, unconditioned by aught to which space is a necessary condition. 
 
 Thesis 17. The sphere of vision, however, is, in its totality, conditioned by the vis- 
 ual unit. Therefore, to the visual unit space is not a necessary condition. 
 
 Remark. — The finite visual unit is conditioned by the absolute visual vmit, and sub- 
 sists as a mode thereof. 
 
 Thesis 18. In as far as time is g-iven in vision by a succession in space — in as far as 
 motion is g-iven in vision by a chang-e of the g-eometric relations of objects — in as far 
 as extension, figure and all other qualities of matter are g-iven in vision, conditioned 
 by space — in so far, the visual unit is unconditioned. But these will be found in their 
 combination to constitute the visible Universe, to which when seen as a multiple (that 
 is, with its internal g-eometrical divisions) space is a necessary condition. Therefore 
 the visual unit is, as to the visible Universe, an unconditioned and absolute unit, 
 which (so to speak) underlies and substantiates — that is, makes 4 and its space to exist. 
 
 Thesis 19. The visual unit thus subsisting- unconditioned, by the visible Universe, 
 and even by its space, and, in fact, substantiating- both, can be no other than a mode of 
 the Absolute Unit ; and as to the visible Universe, with its necessarily involved rela- 
 tions as such, is the Absolute by which it (the visible Universe) is conditioned and 
 substantiated. 
 
 Thesis 20. The Absolute visual Unit is, in its absolute mode, not limited and spher- 
 ed as it must be in a mode less than the absolute; but is a visual vmit unlimited and 
 unsphered ; and is, therefore, as sig-ht without limit or object (Thesis 4) and without 
 objective geometrical or spatial relations ; and since it is this unit that conditions and 
 substantiates visible form, at each and all points (Thesis 19) it is a unit in which all 
 possible visible form subsists in the order of synthetic unity, and as one with the visual 
 subject or substance, and as a mere universal conception, or all-involving- intelligential 
 form thereof. (See remarks following- Thesis 14.) 
 
 Remarks. — Take away spatial relations, and all visible forms are necessarily re- 
 solved into synthetic unity — they necessarily cease to be objective (Thesis 14 and re- 
 marks) and, inasmuch as they are g-iven conditioned by the absolute unit, according- 
 to Thesis 19, they must, when they cease to be objective, still remain subjective in that 
 unit as their absolute subject; yet always in synthetic order, ready to be analytically 
 resolved by the Absolute, when in a mode less than the Absolute, it is correlated with 
 them. But when thus resolved, the world that will become objective in the resolution, 
 will be a world co-ordinated with the mode from which it is cogTiized. I will subjoin 
 the following- 
 
 Query. — Since the absolute Unit subsists in the each and all as one, must it not, 
 like the action of gravity, and even like the vital principle in the body, have its own 
 centre (intellig-ential) from which all thing-s are cog-nizable in a mode its own, whilst 
 subsisting even in its own absolute and unconditioned mode of being- 7 
 
APPENDIX. 471 
 
 Thesis 21. The Absolute Unit, as the visual subject or substance subsisting- in 
 this synthesis, must (since cog-nition and vision in the visual are one) be seen as 
 object, when it, as subject, in a mode less than the Absolute of its being, cognizes itself 
 in the synthesis of what, to it in the absolute, are mere visual conceptions, or intelli- 
 
 g-ential forms. For it is then that the hig-hest conception of pure reason that in 
 
 which subject and object, the visual and visible, are conceived in synthetic unity is 
 
 analytically resolved and separated into its two elements, of which the percipient can 
 cog-nize only one, namely : the objective; which, in this case, (sig-ht and cogTiition 
 being one,) is the visual made visible, or subject made object. 
 
 Remarks. — Light and darkness (or the negative of light,) are, in themselves, visual, 
 not visible, subjective, not objective. They subsist in a mode of the absolute visual 
 unit as subject ; which, when it cognizes itself through a mode less than the Absolute 
 sees them as under limits, and in the all-variety of the visible Universe — subject thus 
 becomes object. 
 
 The interdependence and correlation of the subjective absolute and finite, together 
 
 with the iresults thereof, may be thus stated : 
 
 ■^ The absolute visual unit. ^ f The visible. 
 
 The siibiert^vp- V V '^^^ objective J 
 
 I ne suujecuve. > rpj^^ ^^^^^ ^jg^^j ^^-^^ ^ ? resultant. \ Organs of sight, or 
 
 J a mode of the absolute. * ' point of evolution. 
 
 Thesis 22. This absolute visual unit, as the absolute visual subject or substance, 
 subsisting in this synthesis of what, to it in the absolute, are mere conceptions or intel- 
 ligential forms, when, in and through a mode less than the absolute, it cognizes itself, 
 necessarily cognizes itself in the individualities of its synthesis, that is under the con- 
 dition of limits, as a multiple. (This may be better understood on reading the remarks 
 following thesis 24.) 
 
 Thesis 23. When this absolute unit, thus through a mode less than the absolute, 
 cognizes itself as a multiple, it being a unit, necessarily cognizes that multiple as from 
 a point in its own self-constructed visual sphere, and subsists as from that point, in 
 the each and all of that multiple as one ; thereby giving geometrical relations, space 
 and extension (Thesis 8,) and the absolute visual unit is thus made to appear as in 
 space everywhere. 
 
 Remarks. — When we speak of the objective with reference to the subjective, we con- 
 sider the subjective as the substratum or support of the objective. But from the two 
 preceding Theses it is plain, that the objective is given to the finite percipient vnthin 
 the subjective. It is in the subjective only as limited, that we can cognize the object- 
 ive — take away all limits, and it is no longer cognizable as objective. This arises 
 from the fact, that the subjective, in the last analysis, is the universal or all-involving 
 idea, or conception in the absolute Reason. It is like the idea of a numerical infinitude, 
 (if such an idea be possible,) a unit ; but a unit, nevertheless, which involves within 
 itself every unit, and every combination of units, which constitute that infinite number. 
 The subjective therefore does, in the absolute nature of things, comprehend the objec- 
 tive, (as the universal conception comprehends the particular,) and is not comprehend- 
 ed by it. And when we speak of the subjective as the substratum, or support of the 
 objective, we speak of it only according to appearances in the finite — just as we speak 
 of an up and down, or time and space; when in the absolute nature of things, there is 
 neither up nor down, nor time, nor space ; but simply a synthesis of conceptions, or 
 potentialities in the Divine Mind, analytically resolvable by the finite percipient into 
 the sensible Universe, giving its own up and down, and conditioned by its own time 
 and space. 
 
 Thesis 24. From the absolute visual unit, in and through a mode less than the ab- 
 solute, and by the action of a will, (less than the absolute,) elicited by finite relations 
 and caui='es, was conditionally eliminated the finite visual unit in me. This finite vis- 
 
472 APPENDIX. 
 
 ual tinit so subsistent in me, does, of necessity, cognize the absolute as a multiple, and 
 in that multiple the visible Universe, comprehending- my own visible form as a part of it. 
 Remarks Illustrative of the seven preceding Theses. 
 Every monad or atom is an individuality. Every aggregate of atoms organized 
 into a unity, as an animal, a plant, a magnet, a world, a system of worlds, the Uni- 
 verse—may be called an individuality, the last embracing them all, as the grand en- 
 tirety. Now, if we suppose these individualities to be as so many visual organs to the 
 absolute and infinite visual unit, they will all subsist in that unit as one organ, (Thesis 
 14 and remarks.) They will subsist as without geometrical relations, space or exten- 
 sion ; and as a mere conception of the absolute and infinite Intelligence or Reason. 
 But let an integer — an individuality involved in this synthesis, this subjective unity 
 or conception — be so eliminated therefrom, as to make it (the synthesis) in part ob- 
 jective; and the moment it is so eliminated, this unity is analytically resolved to the 
 eliminated individuality, into that indefinite multiple of individualities (appropriately 
 conditioned) which constitute the visible Universe. This indefinite multiple, however, 
 does not, thereupon, subsist to the absolute Intelligence or Reason as objective ; but 
 continues still, as to it, a mere subjective and synthetic unity — a mere conception of 
 that Reason, substantiated by and subsistent in it; whilst to the^m^e intelligence or 
 percipient, it is a co-ordinate multiple, subsisting out from, and independent of it. 
 Therefore, this indefinite multiple called the visible Universe, is not given as an ob- 
 ject of cognition by the absolute Intelligence or Reason alone, nor by the finite intel- 
 ligence alone. It is given by both, as a tertium aliquid, or resultant of the correlation 
 and action of the infinite and finite intelligences. The presence of the Absolute In- 
 telligence in the Universe must be just as the presence of it in the finite visual unit to 
 the organs of sight — present to each and all as if that each and all were one. 
 
 In the visible Universe we see the subjective visual unity as an objective multiple, 
 conditioned by a time and space necessarily given by the absolute Reason, (remarks 
 following Thesis 8.) Thus, that light, which is in the subjective, becomes objective, 
 and comes to us as from afar, and in the order of time. Every visual perception is 
 fromUhe subjective, as cause, operating at once through the finite percipient and the 
 objective visible Universe. Sight and light are correlatives. They are as opposite 
 poles of the same force. 
 
 Thesis 25. Every cognition of the greatest involves, as its correlative, the least lim- 
 its, and vice versa. Hence substance, or the elemental principle of that which is sub- 
 stantiated and made objective in geometric relations, is necessarily conceived as atoms, 
 or mathematical centres armed with forces, or as mere forces, and in the last analysis, 
 as the absolute will acting from mathematical points. 
 
 Thesis 26. The cognition of the Universe subsists by correlation with the cognition 
 of the atom ; and the cognition of the atom by correlation with the cognition of the 
 Universe. You cannot have either without both. 
 
 Thesis 27. The moment (so to speak) that the absolute Reason, through a mode of 
 being less than the absolute, contemplated its own forms or ideal conceptions, it cog- 
 nized a world its own — that is, one co-ordinated with the mode or form in which it 
 subsisted as subject. If that mode or form was material, the world was material ; if 
 spiritual, the world was spiritual ; if divine, divine. 
 
 Remarks. — If the absolute Reason subsists in a trinity of degrees in man, namely, in 
 the material, in the spiritual, in the Absolute or Divine — and in the three as one ; then 
 that Reason, being a unit, must so subsist in that grand ontological entirely — the 
 Universe of all existences. 
 
 Thesis 28. When the Absolute Reason, through a mode of being less than the abso- 
 lute, acts in the finite, and by finite means to finite ends, it, sub modo, generates a will 
 less than the absolute or overruling will. This will, so generated, uses the divine 
 
APPENDIX. 473 
 
 energy in the finite — evolves, and thereby identifies itself with it, and thus acting-, not 
 as God, but as a finite, and consequently, imperfect intellig-ence conditionally elimin- 
 ated from the infinite, becomes, necessarily, an integer in the grand order of all spirit- 
 ual and material being-, and takes, as necessarily, its appropriate place in that order, 
 according to the use or abuse of its existence — the degree of conformity to the perfec- 
 tion of the spiritual order determining its destination in the spiritual world — the degree 
 of conformity to the perfection of material order determining its destination in the ma- 
 terial world. The perfection of human life consists in the highest possible conformity 
 to both orders, as if both were one. 
 
 Thesis 29. If the each and all of rational intelligences, whether in the material or 
 spiritual degrees of substance, subsist in the divine and absolute Reason as one ideal 
 or intelligential form of the rational being ; and if that Reason acts as an energy to as- 
 similate these, each and all, to its own perfect exemplar or archetype ; then that action 
 must tend to produce, in any multiple, say a nation, a community of nations, or the 
 whole hvimanity, social unity and social organization, essentially accordant with the 
 assimilative archetype. 
 
 Thesis 30. The Divine and Perfect Reason assimilates humanity to itself through 
 orders of mind, subsisting from the most interior and perfect to the most exterior and 
 imperfect — the more perfect always being as the soul of the less perfect. The most 
 perfect order of mind is that which is most nearly assimilated to the perfect Reason. 
 This order of mind assimilates the order of mind which is less perfect, and so on to 
 the least perfect ; which finally receives the combined action of all the interior orders 
 of mind. And in this assimilative action of humanity, considered as a vast multiple 
 of forces quasi free, we have the historical development and progress of the race, and 
 the manifestation of a Divine Providence in the afiairs of men. 
 
CHARGES TO THE GRAND JURY. 
 
CHARGE. 
 
 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 GrENTLEMEN OF THE GrRAND JuRY : 
 
 It is made our duty, by statute, to instruct you in the law relating 
 to crimes and ojffences cognizable by this court, by giving you publicly 
 in charge our opinion thereon. We are not at liberty to forego this 
 duty, from any feelings of delicacy towards others, or for any consid- 
 erations of a personal nature. A court is but the organ of the law, 
 and when it speaks, it should announce what the law is, " without fear, 
 favor, affection, or hope of reward." I use the language of the oath 
 which you have just taken, gentlemen ; for that oath does as truly 
 express our obligations as a court, as it does yours as a jury. 
 
 The first duty which every person residing within the jurisdiction 
 of this State owes to it, is that of allegiance. It begins with life — 
 with infancy at the mother's breast — and if he continue an inhabitant 
 or citizen of the State, it terminates only with the last breath which 
 delivers the spirit over to its final account. Allegiance is a duty on 
 an implied contract — often, however, sanctioned by an oath, but none 
 the less sacred in the absence of the oath — that so long as any one 
 receives protection from the State, so long will he demean himself 
 faithfully and support the State. All persons, therefore, abiding 
 within this State, and deriving protection from its laws, owe this alle- 
 giance to it, and all persons passing through it, or visiting, or making 
 temporary stay therein, owe, for the time, allegiance to this State. 
 One of the highest crimes of which a human being can be guilty, is 
 treason ; and treason necessarily involves a breach of allegiance. 
 
 From the following resolutions, and the matters to which they re- 
 late, there seems to be a peculiar necessity for my calling your atten- 
 tion to this subject, at this time ; for, as a court, it is not only our 
 duty to try offences when committed, but to prevent them, if it can be 
 done, by making the law known. Those resolutions are in these words : 
 
478 THE LAW OF TREASON* 
 
 " State of Rhode Island and Protidence Plantations. 
 
 In General Assembly^ January Session, A. D. 1842. 
 
 Whereas, a portion of tlie people of this State, without the forms of 
 law, have undertaken to form and establish a constitution of govern- 
 ment for the people of this State, and have declared such constitution 
 to he the supreme law, and have communicated such constitution unto 
 this General Assembly ; and whereas many of the good people of this 
 State are in danger of being misled by these informal proceedings, 
 therefore, 
 
 It is hereby resolved by this Ge7te?'al Assembly, That all acts done 
 by the persons aforesaid, for the purpose of imposing upon this State 
 a constitution, are an assumption of the powers of government, in vio- 
 lation of the rights of the existing government, and of the rights of 
 the people at large. 
 
 Resolved, That the convention called and organized in pursuance 
 of an act of this Gleneral Assembly, for the purpose of forming a con- 
 stitution to be submitted to the people of this State, is the only body 
 which we can recognize as authorized to form such a constitution ; and 
 to this constitution the whole people have a right to look, and we are 
 assured they will not look in vain, for such a form of government as 
 will promote their peace, security and happiness. 
 
 Resolved, That this Gleneral Assembly will maintain its own proper 
 authority, and protect and defend the legal and constitutional rights 
 of the people. True copy : — Witness, 
 
 HENRY BOWEN, SecWy^' 
 
 Gentlemen, whatever I shall say to you touching these resolutions, 
 and the proceedings to which they refer, shall be said with the full 
 and entire concurrence of each member of this court. And it is pe- 
 culiarly appropriate, in a case like this, that it should be known what 
 the opinion of this court is, so that no man may become implicated in 
 any offence against the State, without a full knowledge of the opinion 
 of this court, as an independent branch of the government, in relation 
 to the nature of the offence and the law which it violates. 
 
 I therefore say to you, that, in the opinion of this court, such a 
 movement as that described in these resolutions, is a movement which 
 can find no justification in law ; that if it be a movement against no 
 law in particular, it is, nevertheless, a movement against all law ; that 
 it is not a mere movement for a change of rulers, or for a legal reform 
 in government, but a movement which, if carried to its consequences, 
 will terminate the existence of the State itself as one of the States of 
 this Union. I will now give our reasons for thiis opinion. 
 
THE LAW OF TREASON. 479 
 
 But, gentlemen, in addressing you upon this subject, I know not 
 but that I am addressing those who have participated in this move- 
 ment. If this be the case, I beg you and all others with whom you 
 may have acted, to distinctly understand me. Whatever language I 
 may use to characterize the movement, it shall be but the language of 
 the law; it shall mean no impeachment of your or their motives. I 
 will concede to you and to them, if you choose, motives as pure and 
 patriotic, legal attainments and talents as high, as those of the purest 
 and greatest minds that this State ever produced ; and still I say, 
 with all proper deference to you and them, that you have mistaken 
 your duties and misunderstood your rights. Deem it not strange that 
 calm lookers on can see where the error lies, better than those who are 
 engaged in the heat of the movement. When great masses move, they 
 move under the influence of excited feelings. When the object is to 
 attain some great political good, real or supposed, the excitement takes 
 for its law of action, some etherial abstraction, some general theoretic 
 principle, true, perhaps, in its application to certain theoretic condi- 
 tions of man, but utterly false in its application to man as he is ; and 
 endeavors, without regard to present social organizations, to carry that 
 principle to its utmost consequences. Grentlemen, strong heads and 
 patriotic hearts doubtless gave the first impetus to the French Revo- 
 lution ; but does not the progress and issue of that bloody drama tell 
 us that those abstractions, (in which they so freely dealt,) whatever 
 might be their theoretic truth, became false and fiendish in their ap- 
 plication. Do we not know that the very masses which were engaged 
 in carrying them out, rejoiced when the iron rule of military despot- 
 ism came, to deliver them from themselves, and from the incarnate 
 demons which the movement had conjured up ? 
 
 Grentlemen, when all men are angels and of the same order, these 
 abstractions may be true in all their consequences, but never in their 
 application to man as he is. 
 
 With this explanation, I proceed to show the illegality of this move- 
 ment, and the ruin that it portends. I repeat, that, however patriotic 
 may be the intent, the legal effect of it is, the destruction of the pres- 
 ent State, and the construction of a new State out of its ruins. 
 
 Gentlemen, what is a State ? I ask not for a poetical definition, but 
 I ask for a difinition which befits a court of law, which may befit the 
 courts of the Union in which we must be ultimately judged. Strange 
 as it may seem, amid all the controversy which this movement has 
 excited, I have not known this question to be asked, or a definition to 
 be given. Such have been the jarring and confusion of the social eler 
 
480 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 ments, that the best minds seem to have uttered their thoughts only in 
 fragments. What, I repeat, is a State? Think ye it is the land and 
 water within certain geographical lines ? The child may tell you so 
 when he points at the map ; hut that is not the State, but only the 
 territory over which the State has jurisdiction. Think ye it is a mere 
 aggregate of neighborhoods within those limits ? No, gentlemen, there 
 is something wanting to give them distinctive unity. A mere prox- 
 imity of habitations never made a State any more than congregated 
 caravans of Arabs when by night they pitch their tents together in the 
 bosom of the desert. Think ye it is the aggregate of inhabitants with- 
 in such limits ? Never. It would be preposterous to call a mere col- 
 lection of individuals within certain limits, a state. Regarded as a 
 mere aggregate, they are still without unity, and have nothing where- 
 by to bind them together, and enable them to act as an organized 
 whole. No treaty can be made with them ; no law can be enacted by 
 them. Think ye that it is the mere rulers or those who have the leg- 
 islative and executive power in their hands? This, indeed, comes 
 something nearer to our idea of a State ; and when we look upon gov- 
 ernments abroad, we may look no farther ; but surely this does not 
 make a State here at home, under the Constitution of the United 
 States. Here we not only must find a government, but a people so 
 bound together, colligated and organized by law, as to appoint rulers, 
 and to reduce the innumerable wills of the multitude to a legal unit. 
 I think I give you a true description of a State, when I say that a 
 State is a legally organized people, subsisting as such from generation 
 to generation, without end, giving, through the forms of law, the wills 
 of the many, to become one sovereign will. It is a body politic, qual- 
 ified to subsist by perpetual succession and accession. It is a self 
 subsistent corporation, resting upon its own centre, and it is, under 
 the constitution of the United States, bound, to a certain extent, in its 
 entirety and in all its constituent individual elements, to that com- 
 mon central body politic, which is the corporate people of the Union 
 or body politic of States, which ever it may be. There is, and from 
 the nature of things, there can be no sovereign people without law; 
 without that unity which the law gives them, whereby they are ena- 
 bled to act as one ; and consequently there can be no sovereign will 
 that is not expressed through the forms of their corporate existence. 
 
 Now can there be a doubt that this is a true definition or descrip- 
 tion of a State, and that it applies to this State as one of the States of 
 the Union ? Lest there should be a lingering doubt, in some reluctant 
 mind, I will verify this definition from the history of the State itself. 
 
 i 
 
THE LAW OF TREASON. 481 
 
 The first charter of this State was granted in 1643. It incorpora- 
 ted Providence, Portsmouth and Newport, under the name of the in- 
 corporation of Providence plantations, in Narragansett Bay, in New 
 England. Warwick was subsequently admitted. It was then that 
 the inhabitants of this State first became a corporate people, but 
 dependent on the mother country. In 1660 this corporate people, by 
 their agents, petitioned their sovereign for a new charter. On this 
 petition, the charter in our statute books was granted, and, by the 
 same corporate people, in November, 1663, accepted as their charter 
 or form of government. This charter declared that certain persons 
 named therein, and such as then were, or should thereafter be made 
 free of ,the company, a body corporate and politic, in fact and name, 
 by the name of the Governor and company of Rhode Island and Pro- 
 vidence Plantations in New England, in America, and by the same 
 name that they and their successors should have perpetual succession. 
 Now, here was a corporation, and the freemen constituting it, con- 
 tinued their corporate existence, subsisting by succession, still depend- 
 ent upon the parent government, exercising the powers in the charter 
 granted, holding property of all sorts as a corporate people down to 
 the Revolution. It was then, that those aggressions and claims of the 
 king of Great Britrin, which are set forth in the declaration of inde- 
 pendence, and which were enforced or attempted to be enforced by the 
 bayonet, threw this corporate people upon the natural rights of self- 
 preservation. They resisted as a corporate people. It was in the 
 prosecution of this justifiable defence, that this corporate people found 
 it necessary to cut the bonds which bound it to the mother country. 
 It did so. It was its own act, performed by its delegation in Con- 
 gress, by its legislative body, and by the corporate people itself in 
 every legal form in which it could act. It was this act and this alone, 
 that made us a self-subsistent corporation, body politic, or State. It 
 was this people, acting in its corporate capacity, or by its members, as 
 members, through prescribed forms, that subsequently adopted the 
 Constitution of the United States, whereby this State became a mem- 
 ber of the Union, and its citizens, citizens of the United States. 
 
 Does not the history of this State, Gentlemen, verify the definition 
 which I have given ? Is a State anything but a self-subsistent body 
 politic and corporate, designed to continue its existence by succession 
 and accession, through all time ? If it be any thing else, I neither 
 know nor can conceive what it is. But if it be this, whatever there is 
 of sovereignty must be found in the body politic and corporate, and 
 no where else. 
 
 61 
 
482 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 But it has been lately said, by some whose opinions are entitled to 
 great respect, that on the separation from the parent government, a 
 subsequent assent of the natural people was necessary to continue the 
 sovereign power in the corporate people, and that all right in the lat- 
 ter to govern, ceased and passed to the aggregate, unorganized mass of 
 individuals. G-entlemen, this cannot be so. The act of separation, 
 was the act of the corporate people, and all that was acquired by that 
 act was acquired by the corporate people, and could be acquired by 
 none but a corporate people. None but a corporate people has the 
 capacity to receive and exercise sovereignty. The natural people 
 has not the capacity to inherit, or succeed to sovereignty, though they 
 may create it, by compact, all being parties, or by force, where there 
 is no superior powers to impose restraint. A sovereign will is a unit, 
 is a mere legal entity ; it has no where in any civilized country any 
 existence, independent of law. In the constitutional monarchies of 
 Europe, it has a mere legal existence ; hence the legal maxim in Eng- 
 land, that the sovereign never dies, and can do no wrong. The mo- 
 ment that the sovereign will ceases to be a legal will, and becomes a 
 mere personal will, you have nothing but a master and a body of 
 slaves ; you have no State at all, but only the semblance of one. 
 
 The sovereign will is a unit. The moment you divide it, you destroy 
 it, and could such a unit pass to thousands of individuals, isolated, 
 independent, and bound together by no common law as the natural 
 state supposes, and still continue to exist, as a unit, as a one, sovereign 
 will 1 Never, gentlemen : to pass it to the unorganized mass is to 
 destroy it. And how fallacious the idea, that the sages of seventy-six 
 annihilated, reduced to nothingness, the sovereignty of every State of 
 this Union, in and by the very act which declared them sovereign and 
 independent ! What became of the confederation ? What became of 
 the congress that made the Declaration ? 
 
 Truly, gentlemen, some strange infatuation has seized upon the age, 
 if we can believe, that, when the Congress of seventy-six declared these 
 colonies, in the words of the Declaration, free and independent States, 
 and that they had full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alli- 
 ances, establish commerce, and to do all other things which independ- 
 ent States might of right do, that, at that very moment, every one of 
 these States ceased to exist and crumbled into their natural elements. 
 No, gentlemen, our fathers understood themselves better than their 
 children appear to understand them. Well may we humble ourselves 
 in the presence of their memory, when we find such strange hallucina- 
 tions seizing upon the wisest and best of us. They have made large 
 
THE LAW OF TREASON. 483 
 
 demands upon the admiration of their children ; let us take care we 
 do not make demands, equally large, upon the pity of ours. Grentle- 
 men, the definition is correct, it is true to history, and it is true to the 
 Declaration of Independence, and it is true to the Constitution of the 
 United States, which, according to its intent, this State as a corporate 
 people, adopted by its convention. 
 
 Grentlemen, let us not deceive ourselves by the various forms which 
 this sovereignty puts on, to carry its will into effect. The government, 
 in all its departments, legislative, executive, and judicial, is but the 
 exterior form which this sovereignty puts on, in order to preserve itself 
 and to exercise jurisdiction over its peculiar territory, and all persons 
 and things within it. It is in this way that it extends protection to 
 the whole people, and to every individual man, woman and child within 
 its jurisdiction, and makes them all one with the corporate people, 
 except in the mere exercise of the right of voting. I have recently 
 heard the phrases, " the legal people," " the physical people," repeated 
 by those whose opinions are entitled to respect, as if there was a dis- 
 tinction between them. Grentlemen, we are all the legal people, we 
 are all the physical people. Every man, woman and child, not of for- 
 eign birth, domiciled within this State, is a citizen of this State, and 
 for that reason also a citizen of the United States. Every man, woman 
 and child has the protection and benefit of all its laws, without distinc- 
 tion, and for that reason, every one owes it allegiance and fidelity. No 
 one within this jurisdiction can lawfully renounce this allegiance and 
 transfer it to another sovereignty, whether created within this State's 
 jurisdiction, or elsewhere. For this reason, each one and all are the 
 legal people of this State, and are so regarded both by the laws of this 
 State and the laws of the United States. We cannot recognize the 
 distinction as having any just foundation in fact, or law. The error 
 lies in the misapplication of language. It is apparent that what they 
 mean, who use the phrase " legal people," is the corporate people. By 
 thus limiting a large and comprehensive phrase, a confusion of ideas is 
 produced and nothing is distinctly seen. The language seems to im- 
 ply, that all who are not the legal people in this limited sense, are the 
 illegal people, or people without law and in the natural state, and en- 
 titled, therefore, to rely on their physical force ; and this idea seems 
 to be strengthened and confirmed by denominating them the physical 
 people. We may all have misapplied these phrases. I myself may 
 have misapplied them, for I make no pretensions to being better or 
 wiser than others. But if we have misapplied them, let us misapply 
 
484 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 them no longer ; let us recollect that the legal people and the physical 
 people, are the same great whole. 
 
 But, gentlemen, if it be true that the corporate people he the sove- 
 reign people, and the forms of government but the instruments of its 
 will, what follows? Why, the moment that the corporate people cease 
 to exist as such, every thing is resolved into its natural elements. 
 This corporate peoj)le, whilst it exists, may, of its own will and through 
 the forms of law, which it prescribes by its legislature, put on as many 
 different forms of government, not conflicting with the Constitution 
 of the Union, as it chooses. Its power, for that purpose, is ample, un- 
 questionable. It may change its form as thoroughly and as often as 
 the fabled Proteus ; it may extend the right of suffrage to every man, 
 woman and child, and still remain the same legal entity, the same 
 State. But the moment the corporate people of Bhode Island cease 
 to exist as such, whether by force, fraud, or voluntary death, corporate 
 Rhode Island herself ceases to exist — the State is gone. Yes, one of the 
 good old Thirteen is gone forever. You may close the grave upon her, 
 you may write " kic jacet " upon her tomb, she lives only in history. 
 
 It may be asked, whether the natural people have not their natural 
 rights, and whether one of these is not the right of establishing a gov- 
 ernment of their own ? I answer, that if we grant you that the people 
 have a right to violate their allegiance, resolve themselves into the 
 supposed natural condition of man, and to establish a new State and 
 government ; and, if we even admit that it has already in this particu- 
 lar instance been done, it does not at all relieve us, under the Consti- 
 . tution of the United States, from the appalling fact that the old State 
 has ceased to exist, and that the new State is not a member of this 
 Union. We, as the natural people, have accomplished a revolution in 
 which we have originated a new sovereignty, which utterly disclaims 
 all connection with that corporate Rhode Island which uttered the 
 Declaration of Independence and adopted the Constitution ; and how 
 can we claim to take her place ? How can we, as citizens of such a 
 State, be citizens of the United States ? 
 
 I have heard much, of late, about the right of revolution, and there is 
 no doutb but that in those cases where a people, by the oppression and 
 violence of their rulers, are thrown upon the natural right of self pre- 
 servation, this right exists, may be exercised, and a revolution be 
 justified ; but however justifiable it may be, we should always recollect 
 that if it be revolution, it is revolution, and nothing but revolution. 
 There is no possibility of making it half revolution and half not. If 
 you resort to revolution you must adopt it, with all its consequences, 
 
THE LAW OF TREASON. 485 
 
 be they never so calamitous. These calculations are to be made at the 
 commencement of it, and weighed against the evils which it is pro- 
 posed to remedy. 
 
 Thus, gentlemen, if every thing be conceded that we can ask for, if 
 it be conceded that we have quietly put down the present corporate 
 Rhode Island, and that we have succeeded in establishing this earth- 
 born prodigy in her place, what have we done but broken our alle- 
 giance to our legitimate State, broken our allegiance to the United 
 States, and accomplished our complete outlawry from the Union. 
 
 But perhaps we may hope that the general government will, without 
 enquiry whether we be or be not the legitimate State, recognise the 
 government in fact, (in legal phrase de facto ^ as the State. I am ap- 
 prehensive that in this hope We shall be disappointed. Such a recog- 
 nition would present a question of constitutional law affecting every 
 State in the union. This could not be avoided : but if it could, it 
 would still present a question of policy equally certain to be decided 
 against us. True it is that the government of the United States does 
 recognise the government de facto of a foreign country as the legiti- 
 mate government or State. And it does so from policy. The govern- 
 ment of the union, having no fundamental principle in common with 
 the monarchies of Europe, and in its anxiety to avoid an embroilment 
 in their concerns, recognises those as the government of any country 
 who exercise the powers of government, without questioning the legit- 
 imacy of their claims. But how is it with the monarchies of Europe 
 among themselves ! what is necessarily their policy % Why, whenever 
 a revolution is effected in any one of them upon principles which 
 endanger their ideas of legitimacy or the permanence of their institu- 
 tions, millions of swords at once leap from their scabbards, cities are 
 wrapped in flames, fields are deluged with blood and heaped with 
 slaughtered thousands. Think you it was out of compassion to an 
 exiled Bourbon, that Europe consumed one whole generation in blood 
 and carnage ? No, Grentlemen, the struggle commenced with sustain- 
 ing their ideas of legitimacy, in which every monarchy of Europe was 
 interested, and terminated in their triumph. 
 
 And how much more deeply interested will every State in this union 
 be, all subject as we are to the same common Constitution and gov- 
 ernment, in a question of State legitimacy % For what is the principle 
 to be established by the recognition of the new government as the 
 State ? It presents itself in these facts. A portion of the people of 
 this State, claimed a further extension of suffrage, and an equalization 
 of representation for the benefit of several towns. This, the legisla- 
 
486 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 ture did not grant at their request, but called a convention with a view 
 of establishing a Constitution which might meet every reasonable de- 
 mand. This, I believe to be about the extent of our grievance. And 
 now, before that convention had accomplished their task, we, backed 
 by the physical force of numbers, take the powers of government into 
 our own hands, frame a Constitution, declare it to be the supreme law 
 of the land, and overturn, not merely the government of the State, 
 but the State itself Now, as a mere matter of policy, could the dele- 
 gations of the several States in congress establish the principle, that 
 because of such a grievance, mere numbers are above law and have a 
 right to overturn the State of which they are citizens 1 Let us try to 
 call this a grievance, and then how many thousand grievances are 
 there of greater magnitude in every State, and if they are to be in 
 this way redressed, the stability of our institutions is at an end. Have 
 we no questions touching domestic servitude? None touching the 
 social relations ? None touching the most active and powerful of all 
 principles, conscience and religious faith? May not protestantism, in 
 a moment of infatuation and alarm, in this manner establish itself as 
 the religion of the State ? May not Romanism then rally, put down 
 protestantism, and establishing itself in turn, nail the cross to every 
 steeple, place a priest at every altar, and a teacher in every school, and 
 compel us to support all by taxes? May not the unequal destribution 
 of property in some States be found a grievance? May not banks in 
 others become obnoxious ? May not certain forms of taxation become 
 odious? May not the debts of the State bear heavily ? Let this prin- 
 ciple of revolution, by an unauthorized and irresponsible movement of 
 masses, become an element of the constitution of the Union, and any 
 State may be overthrown, upon any pretext or petty grievance, real 
 or supposed. And can any one believe that from policy the govern- 
 ment of the Union would recognize such a principle ? Never — gen- 
 tlemen — never — until that government, desirous of bringing about a 
 consolidation of these States, chooses to put every element of disorgan- 
 ization into operation upon them. 
 
 But if the new government cannot be recognized from policy, the 
 next question is, can it be recognized on legal and constitutional prin- 
 ciples? What says the Constitution? "New States may be admit- 
 ted by Congress into this Union, but no new State shall be formed or 
 erected within the jurisdiction of any other State, without the consent 
 of the Legislatures of the States concerned as well as of the Congress." 
 Is it said that this provision contemplates a case where only a part of 
 the State's territorial jurisdiction may be occupied by the newly formed 
 
THE LAW OF TREASON. 487 
 
 State ? Very probably the framers of the constitution had such a case 
 in mind, but so much the worse for the case in hand. Does not an 
 article which forbids any part of a State's territory being so appropri- 
 ated, for a stronger reason forbid the occupation of the whole, and the 
 absolute destruction of the legitimate State ? Can you take the whole 
 without its parts ? Grentlemen, it will not be respectful to your good, 
 sound, common sense, to spend a moment's time on this point. 
 
 Again, by an express provision of the same constitution, almost im- 
 mediately following the above, and to be considered in connexion with 
 it, — the United States are bound to guaranty to every State in this 
 Union, a government, and a republican form of government. Will 
 this guaranty be fulfilled by suffering this government to be annihila- 
 ted, and annihilated by a power which, by the very terms of the arti- 
 cle first above mentioned, can no more be recognized as corporate 
 Ehode Island than Texas or Algiers. 
 
 Tell us not of the admission of Michigan. Michigan was a territory. 
 No pre-existent State was subverted, — we know of nothing in the 
 constitution that forbids Congress bestowing upon any territory that 
 State form of Grovernment which is guaranteed to every State, and 
 which, if reduced by this movement to the condition of a terri- 
 tory, it may be our humiliating lot in some way to receive at their 
 hands. 
 
 But, gentlemen. Congress is not the only tribunal before which we 
 shall have to appear. It is the peculiar province of the Supreme 
 Court of the United States, to decide in the end all constitutional ques- 
 tions, and questions touching State rights. I will, therefore, state to 
 you what must, necessarily, according to the common course of judicial 
 proceedings, be the process by which this question will be determined 
 in the courts of the Union. When the existence of a State has been 
 constitutionally recognized, the courts of the United States may well 
 recognise the government de facto as the government de jure, in other 
 words the government in fact as the government in law. They may 
 well enough presume, that those who exercise the powers of the State 
 are the legal officers of the State, and leave the question of the legality 
 of the election to be settled by the State functionaries appointed to 
 that special duty ; but before there can be any such presumption, there 
 must be a State — a State known to the Constitution and laws of the 
 Union. There is no such thing as presuming the existence of such a 
 State. A de facto State is as truly as a de facto corporation, an ab- 
 surdity in terms. A State must have its fundamental laws or consti- 
 tution, known to the Constitution of the Union of which it is a mem- 
 
488 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 ber, and in accordance with it, and to talk of a de facto law is to talk 
 profound nonsense. 
 
 To prove, then, the existence of the new State, or even to prove the 
 existence of any of its officers, you must present to the Supreme Court 
 of the Unio^ this instrument which has been proclaimed as the supreme 
 law of this State, and you must show that it had a legal origin. 
 
 The question will not be who voted for it, or how many, but what 
 right anybody had to vote for it at all as the supreme law of Rhode 
 Island. 
 
 In the records of the true constitutional State of Rhode Island, you 
 can nowhere find any law, any authority, countenancing such a pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 This the friends of the supposed constitution must themselves con- 
 fess. Indeed, they must boldly avow, that it was not only voted for 
 without any such authority, but against the whole body of the legisla- 
 tion of the State, whose fundamental laws have all been recognized 
 directly or impliedly by the constituted authorities of the Union, and 
 by the very court that will be called upon to decide this question. 
 And can we think that this court will lose its firmness, and tread back 
 its steps, on account of the delusion of some ten or fifteen thousand 
 persons in this State, and establish a constitutional principle of disor- 
 ganization, which must eventually become predominant in every State, 
 and reduce all to ruin ? It is folly to anticipate such a decision, and 
 wickedness to hope for it. 
 
 This pretended Constitution then does not spring from constitutional 
 Rhode Island — from that Rhode Island known to the Constitution of 
 the United States as the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plan- 
 tations ; it is without legal authority, and of no more value in the 
 courts of the Union than so much blank parchment. You are then 
 without a Constitution — ^you are without fundamental laws — ^you have 
 no officers that can be recognised as officers de facto, for there are no 
 legal and constitutional duties for them to discharge. You have no 
 legislature — no State legislation — in one word you have no State, and 
 are reduced to the condition of a mere territory of the Union, without 
 the benefit of territorial laws. 
 
 Now, gentlemen what are the consequences 7 it is well worth while 
 to enquire. — ^We stand upon the brink of an awful gulf We are about 
 to take the leap, and we may well feel some anxiety to look down into 
 it, and obtain a glimpse of what sort of a Tartarus it is into which we 
 are about to make the final plunge. 
 
 G-entlemen, I will whisper a few questions to you, all of which, I 
 
THE LAW OF TREASON. 489 
 
 dare not, for tlie peace of this State, answer even in a whisper. There 
 is too much combustible material in this wide spread union — too many 
 daring and reckless adventurers of all sorts. G-entlemen — it is the 
 faith of the untutored savage, that certain birds of the air, and beasts 
 of the desert, are endowed with something like a prescience or fore- 
 knowledge of the coming banquet which human strife is to provide, 
 and, that some days in anticipation of the event, they come from all 
 quarters of the heavens, and from all the far depths of the forests, and 
 congregating in the neighborhood of the appointed place, eagerly await 
 the approaching carnage. I do not want to be heard or understood 
 by such as these. Therefore will I not answer all the questions that 
 I may put, but simply show you that there are such questions. 
 
 When corporate Rhode-Island ceases to exist, what becomes of her 
 delegation in Congress? 
 
 What becomes of her bill in chancery which she filed, claiming 
 through her charter, and through that only, a portion of territory with- 
 in the jurisdictional lines of Massachusetts ? I mention this not for 
 its importance, but for its illustration, and because in the event sup- 
 posed the question must necessarily arise. What becomes of the pub- 
 lic property of all sorts ? Your court houses ? Your jails ? Your 
 public Records? Public Treasury, bonds and securities of all sorts^ 
 which belong to the present corporate Rhode-Island and to her only, 
 and can pass from her only by her Legislative consent ? What be- 
 comes of the actions now pending on the dockets of every court in this 
 State — bills of indictment for crimes committed or that may be commit- 
 ted ? What becomes of your State Prison, and your convicts, from the 
 wilful murderer to the petty thief? What becomes of your corpora- 
 tions of all sorts ? Of your corporate towns and their records ? Nay, 
 are there not questions touching life, liberty and individual property ? 
 I dare go no farther ; perhaps I have already gone too far. But what- 
 ever answer may be given to these questions, (and answered they must 
 ultimately be in the Supreme Court of the Union,) the bare fact that 
 these questions must be raised, tried and decided, is sufficient to send 
 a thrill of horror through the heart of every man, woman, and child 
 in this State. 
 
 And all this for what ? For if revolutions may be justified, we may 
 well put the question. It is said to be for an extension of sufi'rage and 
 an equalization of representation. How many of you have ever felt the 
 want of this to be so great as even to sign a petition to the G-eneral 
 Assembly on the subject ? If this be a grievance at all, is it not the 
 merest trifle compared with the calamities through which we must 
 
 62 
 
490 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 pass, in order to redress it in the mode whicli this movement has pro- 
 posed ? If it be a grievance, it has scarcely been felt, and a legal, and 
 legitimate remedy is already before you from the State's convention. 
 Is there any other ? Did we ever petition this government for any 
 favor which reasonable men might ask for, no matter what party was 
 in power, that was not cheerfully granted ? Are we overtaxed by this 
 State? Is there any oppression which can be named to justify a rev- 
 olution ? Have not we and our fathers all lived in peace and happi- 
 ness under the laws of this State, from its first establishment to the 
 present day ? Did not our fathers establish themselves here in a howl- 
 ing wilderness and under the protection of that distinctive principle 
 of their government, religious liberty, enjoy peace and quiet and hap- 
 piness, whilst the sister colonies were shedding blood, and persecuting 
 their fellow men for conscience sake? Did they not under this State 
 and for this State, utter the declaration of independence, and led on 
 by her Grreenes and Olneys, go forth in array of battle and shed their 
 blood on a hundred fields. Did not they gloriously and triumphantly 
 secure to us the rights which we ever since have and now enjoy under 
 the protecting laws of this State ? But they have done their work — 
 they have passed through the toils and sufferings of their day, and laid 
 them down in the quiet grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 and the weary are at rest. They have left the fruits of their labors as 
 an inheritance to us. May their sainted spirits join with us in a pray- 
 er to the Almighty Father of all spirits, to save us from this fatal de- 
 lusion ! 
 
 Gentlemen, the meaning of the word revolution in this case is very 
 different from its meaning, when it designates the conflict between the 
 colonies and the mother country. That was a conflict between corpo- 
 rate bodies on this side of the Atlantic against corporate Britain on 
 the other. But a revolution in this case means a conflict among the 
 very elements of society. It proposes to realize here in Rhode-Island, 
 the horrors of the French Bevolution. It proposes to arm neighbor 
 against neighbor, friend against friend, brother against brother, father 
 against son, and son against father, — and all this for what ? can any 
 one tell us ? 
 
 We may flatter ourselves that we are a people too enlightened and 
 too good to pass into the excesses which have marked revolutions in 
 every age ; but, gentlemen, in all ages of the world, and in all coun- 
 tries, excited passion, in its extremes, is the same — the individual man, 
 however enlightened and good he may be, as an individual, is merged 
 in the mass to which he belongs, he loses his freedom, he blends with 
 
THE LAW OF TREASON. 491 
 
 it, whilst the mass itself becomes a mere brute force, wHch, under tlie 
 influence of the idea or passion which actuates it, goes on and on — 
 heedless of the ruin which it makes, heedless of its own destiny, to its 
 final dissolution or utter annihilation. "Would to Ood, that men would 
 learn something from history ! But it has been well observed, that 
 we ever place the lantern in the stern, and not at the prow. It sheds 
 its light only on the tumultuous billows of the past. We there see 
 the wrecks of nations that have committed themselves to anarchy, toss- 
 ing and heaving on the stormy surge. Yet on we go, exulting in our 
 superiority over our predecessors, heedless of the rocks beneath the 
 bow, until the billow on which we are borne sinks beneath us and 
 dashes us into fragments. 
 
 It may be thought that I am indulging in feelings not usual to the 
 Bench ; but, gentlemen, there are occasions when humanity may be 
 excused for raising above the petty etiquette of official dignity, when 
 the formalities of the judge may be lost in the realities of the man. 
 And if ever such an occasion presented itself in any State, it now pre- 
 sents itself in this. It would be our duty, as good citizens, but it is 
 imperiously our duty, as sworn conservators of the peace, to tell you 
 what is law, and what is not law. This duty we are not at liberty to 
 forego. 
 
 I therefore say to you, and all others duly qualified, that it will be 
 lawful for you to vote on the constitution now submitted to you by the 
 State's convention, and that if it be adopted, any person in this State 
 commits a breach of allegiance who wilfully fails to support it. If it 
 be not adopted, it will be our duty still to adhere to that compact of 
 our ancestors, called the Charter, as that sheet anchor at which our 
 beloved State has triumphantly ridden out many a storm, and can as 
 triumphantly ride out this. And as to that instrument, called " the 
 People's Constitution," however perfect it may be in itself, and how- 
 ever strong may be the expression of public opinion in its favor — yet, 
 standing as it does, alone and without any legal authority to support 
 it, it is not the supreme law of this State ; and those who may attempt 
 to carry it into efi"ect by force of arms, will, in the opinion of this court, 
 commit treason — treason against the State — treason perhaps against 
 the United States — for it will be an attempt by the overt act of levy- 
 ing war, to subvert a State, which is an integral part of the Union ; 
 and to levy war against one State, to that end, we are apprehensive, 
 will amount to the levying of war against all. 
 
 Gentlemen, do not misapprehend us ; we make not this declaration 
 by way of denunciation or threat, but simply because it is our duty to 
 
492 THE LAW OF TREASON. 
 
 declare the law. As a court of law, were it even in our power, we 
 would not act on any man's fear, save on that fear of which every good 
 citizen may be proud — the fear of doing a wrong or illegal act. And 
 we make this declaration with the hope that those gentlemen who have 
 engaged in this movement — for many of whom a personal acquaintance 
 enables us to cherish sincere respect and esteem — will be induced to 
 pause and reflect — to reflect deeply. We admit their courage, but 
 may they use it in a good cause ; and, without following the example, 
 adopt the sentiment of Macbeth, when urged to commit treason and 
 murder — 
 
 " I dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more, is none." 
 
CHARGE. 
 
 PERJURY. 
 
 GrENTLEMEN OF THE GrRAND JuRY : 
 
 There is one crime to which I deem it never inappropriate to call 
 the attention of a grand jury, even though there may he little proba- 
 bility that any complaint will render it a subject of present investiga- 
 tion. It is that high crime against the administration of public jus- 
 tice — called perjury — or the bearing of false witness. The man who 
 commits this crime, does not merely offend against the laws of his 
 country, but he also commits a breach of his word and religious obli- 
 gations. Therefore, in speaking of it, I shall not confine my observa- 
 tions to the crime in its mere technical character, but consider it in 
 connexion with the whole duty of one called upon to testify in a coui't 
 of law. 
 
 Blackstone, quoting Sir Edward Coke, defines perjury to be a " crime 
 committed when a lawful oath is administered in some judicial pro- 
 ceeding to a person who swears wilfully, absolutely, and falsely, in a 
 matter material to the issue, or point in question." This definition 
 is somewhat extended by our law. The 51st section of our statute 
 " concerning crimes and punishments," declares that every person of 
 whom an oath or afiirmation is or shall be required by law, who shall 
 be convicted of wilfully swearing or affirming falsely in regard to any 
 matter or thing respecting which such oath or affirmation is or shall 
 be required, shall be deemed guilty of perjury. Something more than 
 one witness, even though a probable and credible witness to the falsity 
 of the testimony, is necessary in order to convict a person of this 
 crime. 
 
 It must be proved to be deliberate and wilful false swearing — not 
 the result of hurry in giving evidence, or of embarrassment, or defect 
 of memory. It must be direct and absolute — not conditional — such 
 as swearing, according to memory or belief, to that which is false ; 
 unless the belief or memory is different from that sworn to. It must 
 
494 PERJURY. 
 
 be proved to be in a point material to the matter on wbich tbe wit- 
 ness has been required to testify. You will hence see, gentlemen, that 
 it must often be no easy task to bring one guilty of this crime to 
 condign punishment. 
 
 Human tribunals feel their inadequacy in this particular, and rely 
 much on the moral and religious sentiments of the witness. To rouse 
 these more completely into action, they appeal, through the solemnity 
 of the oath, to the secret conscience — to the witness's belief in God, 
 and in his accountability here and hereafter. The requirements of 
 that oath, to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
 truth, are rendered clear by the plainness of its language ; and if the 
 witness allows it to have an abiding influence on his mind, he will not 
 in any part fall short of his duty, or exceed it. Yet, from a variety of 
 causes — sometimes arising from bias, sometimes from mere embarrass- 
 ment, and sometimes from passion — the obligations of the oath, in its 
 strictness, are not deeply felt ; and the witness is betrayed into errors, 
 and even into falsehoods. On such occasions, the witness often, without 
 actually incurring the guilt of perjury, produces the same effect upon 
 the verdict of the jury and judgment of the court, as if he had perpe- 
 trated the crime. To testify — and to testify truly and fully, is a duty 
 which we owe to our country — to all humanity — as well as to the indi- 
 vidual in whose cause we testify. Grentlemen, he is not fit to be a 
 member of any community, who from habitual falsehood, or perverted 
 moral feeling, is not to be trusted on his oath. 
 
 Truth in speech, is so essential to the existence of society, that 
 could we suppose an individual whose tongue was framed only to false- 
 hood, and never to truth, such an individual would inflict on himself 
 the sentence of complete outlawry from all society — and if the charac- 
 ter of such an individual was that of every human being, there would 
 be an end to all social institutions. What, by a very extravagant sup- 
 position, we see may be thus brought about, can be just as eff"ectually 
 accomplished by destroying all confidence in the evidence on which 
 our judicial tribunals must act. They can do nothing but give that 
 evidence, whatever it may be, its legal efi"ect — their decision must, or 
 should be, according to the evidence ; but if that evidence be false, 
 their adjudications cannot be according to the rights of the case as 
 they really are. And courts and juries would thus be made the mere 
 instruments of perjury, whereby the innocent might be convicted and 
 the guilty acquitted. 
 
 But let us examine false testimony in its different phases, and, where- 
 ever it is practicable, point out a remedy. 
 
PERJURY. 495 
 
 False testimony exhibits its most odious form, undoubtedly, in direct 
 technical perjury. Here there is no remedy but in the subsequent 
 application of the legal penalties, or in a vigorous cross-examination 
 during the trial. Such a cross-examination, vigorously pushed, rarely 
 fails to involve the witness in contradictions, and to destroy the per- 
 nicious tendency of his testimony. Indeed, if he does not involve 
 himself in contradictions, under such an examination, he generally 
 betrays himself by exhibiting all the embarrassment and confusion of 
 guilt ; for the same reason that the wretch who is detected with stolen 
 goods on his person, is hardly ever able to give an account of himself 
 
 The next form in which false testimony appears is in mental reser- 
 vation, or the use of equivocal language, which, though true in one 
 sense, is designed to be received in another ; and, thereby, to produce 
 all the effects of direct false testimony. If this design could be proved, 
 I hesitate not to say, that such a witness would lay himself liable to 
 the penalties of perjury, as in the case of direct perjury. Inforo con- 
 sdenticB^ the guilt is the same — the effect is the same. Language is 
 a medium for the communication of truth from one mind to another, 
 and the witness who intentionally abuses it, must always inflict an 
 injury upon himself or others. 
 
 This offence appears in another form, in the omission or suppression 
 of facts material to the point in question. This is sometimes done 
 from intention, sometimes from inadvertence, but oftener from doubt, 
 or ignorance of what is material. The oath of the witness is to tell 
 the truth, and the whole truth ; if he wilfully suppresses a part, which 
 he knows to be material, he manifestly commits perjury, if not in a 
 legal and technical, yet in a moral and religious sense. But does the 
 oath require him to go into all the particulars of a transaction' — its 
 minutest details — so as to leave nothing untold % Certainly not. This 
 would be endless. The true course for the witness to take is volunta- 
 rily to state every fact which he believes to be material to either party, 
 or if he knows not what is material, to answer such questions as may 
 be put to him, under the direction of the court, truly and fully, omit- 
 ting nothing, as far as his knowledge extends, which may be necessary 
 to make complete answer, however it may affect any party. 
 
 False testimony likewise arises occasionally from a spirit of habitual 
 exaggeration. Let a witness under the influence of this pernicious 
 habit in common conversation, come on the stand with ever so honest 
 intentions, and he is constantly liable to be thrown off his guard in 
 the course of examination ; and, when he is, he not only destroys the 
 credit of that portion of his testimony in which he exaggerates, but 
 
496 PERJURY. 
 
 likewise that in which he has spoken truly. Were he to be indicted 
 for perjury, thus committed, this habit of exaggeration would consti- 
 tute as weak a defence, as intoxication, when offered in excuse for any 
 other crime. 
 
 The bias of a witness is another source of false testimony. I speak 
 not of bias from a direct interest in the events of a suit, but of that 
 bias which arises from prejudice for, or against a party. There are 
 some persons so constituted, that in all eases where their feelings are 
 interested, they can take only a one-sided view of the question, and of 
 every fact that appertains to it. The feelings of such persons act up- 
 on their memory and revive and magnify every fact that is in accord- 
 ance with them, whilst those that make against them are entirely over- 
 looked, or are recalled only to be depreciated, and discarded as of no 
 consequence. This having been the frequent exercise of their minds, 
 such persons when called on the stand, appear there with a memory 
 already falsified, and are, perhaps, incapable of attesting to the truth 
 as it would have existed in their memory, had it not been for this bias. 
 This sort of bias originates from feelings too exclusively selfish — a 
 selfishness which disfigures and distorts, and sees everything through 
 its own false medium. True it is, that every body is liable to have 
 his bias — his prejudice — but not a bias or prejudice of the sort of 
 which I am here speaking. G-entlemen — a witness who has a strong 
 sense of honor, and justice — who is a lover of truth, and duly appreci- 
 ates his duty as a citizen and a man, though he may have his bias, yet 
 it will be of that sort which takes character from the man, and will 
 not prevent his fair and candid statement of facts on both sides. For 
 if such a witness has been accustomed to reflect at all on the question, 
 he has, from habit, weighed the facts on both sides ; his own moral 
 feelings have prompted him to consider all the facts with which he is 
 acquainted, with a view to his own correct opinion. The bias of such 
 a witness will detract nothing from the force of his testimony, though, 
 were he of the character just before mentioned, it might bring his 
 whole testimony into discredit. A cross-examination is the means by 
 which these two characters are to be distinguished from each other. 
 The one is blameless ; the other highly censurable — as well for the 
 false coloring which he has given to his testimony, as for the character 
 which he has permitted his habits to form and transfuse into his testi- 
 mony. It might be a nice legal question, whether false testimony 
 resulting from a memory and judgment, thus previously falsified, would 
 amount to technical perjury ; yet, in a moral point of view, the man 
 may be even something worse than perjured. 
 
PERJURY. 497 
 
 Grentlemen, the occasional misapplication of language by the witness, 
 or the misapprehension of it by him in the questions of the examiner, 
 is sometimes the cause of false testimony, and even more frequently, 
 the occasion of great embarrassment and confusion to the witness, 
 resulting, perhaps, in the entire discredit of his testimony. A witness 
 ought never to use a word with which he is not perfectly familiar, nor 
 one which, with those to whom his evidence is addressed, is not in 
 ordinary use. If an adept in any particular art or science be called, 
 he may, indeed, be expected to use his appropriate technical language, 
 but it should ever be accompanied with suitable explanations and 
 illustrations. When a question is put to a witness, he ought never to 
 answer it until he has a clear and distinct understanding of its import ; 
 if he does answer a question which he does not perfectly understand, 
 he ought never to do it by the simple yea or nay, but he should answer 
 it at large in his own terms, and his mistake, if any, will then be dis- 
 covered, and he will at least avoid the charge of bearing false witness. 
 I have known witnesses frequently, after having answered a question 
 (thus misapprehended) by the simple yea or nay, to be drawn into a 
 long and severe cross-examination — to involve themselves in apparent 
 contradiction ; and never, perhaps, until after the embarrassment and 
 confusion of the trial was over, discover the cause, or be able to correct 
 the error. The fault in this particular, I apprehend, lies more fre- 
 quently on the part of the examiner than on that of the witness. 
 Counsel, and indeed all of us, are too apt to suppose that words which 
 are perfectly familiar to us, and which indeed are in very common use 
 among those of ordinary education, are in just as common use, and are 
 just as intelligible among the uneducated and ignorant, as among our- 
 selves. This, I am persuaded, is a great mistake. Questions ought 
 never to be put to any witness, by court, juror, or counsel, unless in 
 the plainest mother English, such as no one can misunderstand. • There 
 are words enough of this description ; and he who clothes his questions 
 in these terms shows a far better taste and understanding than he 
 who clothes them in what, to the witness, may be a high-flown half- 
 Latin jargon. Even questions of delicacy may be put, by a skilful 
 examiner, in these terms, in a manner as little offensive as in any other. 
 There is, in general, no misconceiving the import of them — one of them, 
 well chosen, like a rifle ball, will go directly to the mark, when a whole 
 handful of others will only show you whereabouts it lies. Whenever 
 a word is used which a witness does not understand, he should ask the 
 meaning of it; and frequently his question would be found more to 
 his credit than to that of his examiner. 
 
 63 
 
498 PERJURY. 
 
 Gentlemen, fear is sometimes the cause of perjury — such as fear of 
 otFending some person — fear of offending popular opinion, by support- 
 ing with a statement of the truth, an unpopular prosecution for the 
 breach, perhaps, of an unpopular law, or one that is so regarded. It 
 is painful, in such cases, to observe the manner in which witnesses 
 will sometimes endeavor to evade a direct reply, and to conceal facts, 
 of which, their manner, at the same time, gives everybody reason to 
 believe they have a direct and certain knowledge. This is not to be 
 tolerated. Neither judge, juror, nor witness, can, without crime, 
 nullify the laws by a dereliction of duty. If the law be bad, let it be 
 carried into eifect, with all its necessary consequences, and it will be the 
 sooner repealed. There is a satisfaction, gentlemen, in going straight 
 forward in the discharge of one's duty — against wind and tide — against 
 the violence of popular agitation, and the angry passions of a misguided 
 populace. In doing so, one feels a strength that comes not from earth, 
 but Heaven. He who from fear commits perjury, richly deserves a 
 double punishment — punishment for his perjury, and punishment for 
 his cowardice. 
 
 Passion, or the irritation of the witness in the cross-examination, is 
 sometimes the occasion of bringing his testimony into disrepute. If 
 the cross-examination is ever urged with this view, it is extremely cul- 
 pable, and if it can be distinguished as such, I hesitate not to say, that 
 it ought not to pass without censure. But the witness who, on an oc- 
 casion so solemn as when he is under the oath of Grod, will permit the 
 augry passions to get the mastery of his mind — to confuse his recollec- 
 tions, and betray him into error in his testimony, is himself worthy of 
 severe censure. He may not expose himself to a prosecution for per- 
 jury, but he has brought his testimony into disrepute and injuriously 
 affected the administration of justice. Witnesses should recollect 
 that it is the appropriate business of counsel to examine their testi- 
 mony critically — that in so doing they necessarily appear suspicious — 
 tiiat they will take that view of the testimony which belongs to the 
 side of the case which they advocate — that they will endeavor 
 to elicit some fact which is beneficial to it, and, by pushing their exam- 
 ination into particulars, and even into collateral circumstances, try to 
 do away the force of the facts most prejudicial to their client. 
 
 Gentlemen — if incautious answers often involve false testimony, an 
 excess of caution sometimes results in consequences equally pernicious. 
 There are some habitually so cautious as rarely to answer a question 
 with the simple yea or nay. Their answer is, "I believe so," '-'I think 
 so." This habit is said to be somewhat peculiar to New England; 
 
PERJURY, 499 
 
 it was universally prevalant, it was no doubt, perfectly understood, 
 and did not mislead, but we have become, and are becoming still more, 
 I regret to say, a mixed race ; and answers in this form, are liable to 
 be misinterpreted. It is becoming liable to be understood only as tlic 
 language of uncertainty, and it is no longer proper, (if it ever was,) for 
 a witness to say, " I believe so," " I think so," when he knows so. If 
 the witness knows the fact, he ought to say so, and not clothe his an- 
 swers in the language of uncertainty. The omission to speak positive- 
 ly, where he knows positively, may be the cause of a wrong verdict, 
 and of as great injustice as absolute perjury. 
 
 In all xjases a testimony of facts should be nothing but a repetition 
 in language, of the memory. The witness is indeed often called on 
 to state his judgment as to time, distance, magnitude, &c., but then, 
 in such cases, it is perfectly understood to be nothing but his judg- 
 ment or opinion ; and he may be questioned as to the facts on which 
 such judgment is founded, and it thus amounts after all, to nothing 
 more than a repetition of memory. But when a witness proceeds ta- 
 citly — mentally — to infer from facts which he does remember, the 
 probable existance of others, which he does not remember, and then 
 states them as if they were objects of his memory, he goes beyond his 
 duty as a witness and trenches on that of the juror. The witness 
 ought, in such case, merely to state the facts which he remembers, and 
 leave the jury to its own inferences. He would not be permitted to 
 state them as inferences of his own ; and he surely ought not silentlj^, 
 and mentally, to form his inferences, and then give them to the jury 
 as distinctly remembered facts. But when the witness infers the ex- 
 istance of one fact from another, and his memory of it is thereby 
 revived, there can be no more impropriety in testifying to such a fact, 
 as remembered, than if his memory had been aided by a written mem- 
 oranda. It is only when the inferences exist in the mind unsupported 
 by the memory, that the evidence is illegal, and, if communicated 
 without representing it to be an inference, untrue — untrue because the 
 idea exists in his own mind in one form, whilst he conveys it to the 
 mind of the jury, under another form. 
 
 For a mere defect of memory, no witness is either morally or legally 
 responsible, unless the defect be the result of a vicious bias or propen- 
 sity. The memory, especially in reference to remote, or, at the time, 
 inconsiderable events, is liable to become falsified in a thousand ways, 
 without the fault of the individual. He is perpetually liable to con- 
 found one time with another — one transaction with another — especially 
 where there is a strong analogy — and by acting, or thinking upon the 
 
500 PERJURY. 
 
 and to derive its parentage from ancient puritanical precision. When 
 subject thus falsified, he sometimes so confirms himself in his error as 
 never to be able to detect it. Sometimes one event, from its magni- 
 tude or importance obliterates, or covers over many that are of less 
 consequence. Sometimes, when we are eye-witnesses of,a transaction, 
 our attention is exclusively directed to one object, and thus many others 
 escape it. In fact there are as many different memories as there are 
 different minds, or states of the same mind. Twenty.different persons 
 may witness the same transaction — an affray, for instance — and they 
 may honestly, each speaking according to his own memory, give twen- 
 ty different accounts of the affair, at least each differing in some respects 
 from the others. There are some who are never more collected than 
 in moments of great danger, or excitement ; and who retain in their 
 memories, an indelible impression of the slightest event that takes 
 place on such occasions. Whilst there are others that lose all distinct 
 recollections. Between these extremes there is an infinitude of de- 
 grees, and consequently a great variety of memory. Since then the 
 memory of every one may be more or less defective, what shall a wit- 
 ness do who anxiously desires not to mislead. I answer, let him calm- 
 ly take the stand — throw open the windows of his breast — show all 
 the workings of his mind — where it is doubtful, where it is confused, 
 and, even, where it is biased ; and then leave the court or jury to place 
 their own estimate on his testimony. Such a witness may rest assured, 
 that if it be their opinion that he has erred, it will also be their opin- 
 ion, that he has honestly erred. Those who are accustomed to examine 
 witnesses, or to attend to their examination, after a thorough exami- 
 nation, almost as easily distinguish the true from the false, as a skilful 
 cashier of a bank can distinguish a genuine, from a counterfeit bill. 
 Witnesses may rest assured that there is in general no escaping their 
 scrutiny — though when perjury has been committed it may not be 
 possible for them to say precisely in what the perjury consists, or 
 whether it be merely moral, or legal. 
 
 Grentlemen, there is one part of the oath to which I have not called 
 your particular attention — it is the solemn adjuration with which it 
 terminates. The meaning of the phrase, "So help me God," is often, 
 I am afraid, not fully appreciated, and, sometimes wholly misunder- 
 stood. To one who looks beyond the bourn of space and time, who 
 considers that he lives, moves, and breathes in that Being, who instantly 
 notes the slightest moral discord in the grand organic harmony of his 
 all-comprehending existence — who considers that he is to subsist in 
 this relation through a never ending eternity ; these words are of the 
 
PERJURY. 501 
 
 most solemn and awful import — and that import is : " As I speak truly 
 or falsely, so may God help me in my utmost need." But to him, (if 
 indeed there be such,) who has said in his heart " There is no God," 
 and who considers this little life as rounded by an eternal sleep, these 
 words can have no meaning. In his vocabulary they have at least lost 
 their original import, and can mean nothing more than an asseveration 
 to speak the truth ; and with that asservation on his lips, he com- 
 mits his character to the sound and enlightened sense of the 
 Court and jury — to be sustained if he speak truly, to be condemned 
 and reprobated if he speak falsely. But the existence of such 
 downright and positive atheism is hardly to be credited. A spec- 
 ulative atheism may indeed be no uncommon thing ; but an atheism 
 springing naturally from the human mind, and acted upon on trying 
 and serious occasions, seems an utter impossibility. We are so consti- 
 tuted as instinctively and necessarily to believe in the existence of a 
 Great First Cause, and as instinctively to feel ourselves in the midst 
 of a great system of things over which an unseen power presides, who, 
 whatever may be our course, eventually controls and orders all. And 
 every witness, whatever may be his avowed creed, must irresistibly 
 and instinctively feel and believe, that if his course be not in accord- 
 ance with this all-pervading order, he must eventually be crushed to 
 atoms beneath the movement of its almighty force. There is no man, 
 Gentlemen, whatever may be his professions, but that, instinctively, 
 believes, that his life here, is but a span in a never-ending existence, 
 and that in some step of the progress of being, this all-pervading order, 
 will bring the hour of retribution. The perjured witness is not in 
 harmony with Divine order and he must be thrown out of it. Though 
 he may be borne up for the moment upon the surge of a vitiated popu- 
 lar opinion, yet it will soon sink from under him, and leave him a 
 wrecked and broken hulk. So his own conscience will tell him, and 
 to his conscience I here leave him. 
 
 Gentlemen — Justice herself is nothing but truth carried into action. 
 She appears here in the shape of legal evidence — she passes through 
 the forms of judicial proceeding in the verdict of a jury — thence into 
 a judgment or sentence of the law, and thence into final execution. 
 He is a superficial lawyer, and worse philosopher, who holds with 
 Helvetius, that justice is created by legislative enactment. She is 
 created by truth. She is truth herself, ever in substance the same, 
 yet manifesting herself under a variety of forms — now in the shape of 
 laws, which are nothing but instruments declarative of the pre-existent 
 requirements of society, giving them definite forms, and bringing them 
 
502 PERJURY. 
 
 within the scope of judicial power — now in the shape of evidence, which 
 is but declarative of the relations in which an individual stands to 
 those laws, — and now in a combination of these two declarative forms, 
 in the judicial sentence or judgment. 
 
 Truth, G-entlemen, to conclude, is everything to society, and that 
 man, who can come into court and commit deliberate perjury, is an 
 enemy to himself, and a traitor to all mankind. 
 
CHARGE. 
 
 THE MORAL OBLIGATION OF OBEYING THE LAW. 
 
 Gentlemen of the Grand Jury: 
 
 There seems to be a disposition in some minds to make a distinction 
 between laws enacted by the legislature for the prevention of crime, 
 and those which provide for the punishment of it, when committed. 
 It seems, sometimes, to be thought, that a man may commit a breach 
 of the preventive law without forfeiting his reputation as a good citi- 
 zen. Is there any rational foundation for this opinion ? Is not pre- 
 vention better than punishment, and ought not that law, which pre- 
 vents a riot, a battery, or a homicide, to be considered full as sacred as 
 that which punishes it ? Gentlemen, sober and discreet citizens do so 
 consider it. 
 
 We have laws of this description — laws that were enacted for the 
 prevention of immorality and crime. Are those laws observed as they 
 should be 1 Are those acts held sacred, as they ought to be, as long 
 as they are the law of the land ? Most undoubtedly they are open to 
 discussion — we may question their policy; but, whilst they are in 
 force, we ought as religiously to obey them as any other law. Oppose 
 them we may — but the highest principle of all law — that upon which 
 society is based — that in virtue of which the state exists, requires that 
 this opposition should be conducted in a particular manner — that is, 
 in a mode pointed out by law. 
 
 Gentlemen: the whole community — the whole people of this State 
 are organized, as a body, for the purpose of enacting and administer- 
 ing laws. When the people speak through the legislature, their voice 
 is law, and courts and juries hear and obey them ; but, when they 
 speak in any other way, courts and juries do not hear them, or should 
 not ; but proceed straight forward and administer the law as it is. 
 
 An act having a good object, as long as it is law, has a morally 
 binding force not only upon every magistrate but upon every citizen, 
 and the man who wilfully violates it, does a lasting injury to his own 
 
504 THE MORAL OBLIGATION 
 
 moral constitution by the prostitution of his moral reason — a reason 
 which the sound philosophy of all time has regarded as a divine inspi- 
 ration. Whence is it that law derives its obligation ? Let us enquire : 
 it may be useful to go back occasionally and seek for first principles 
 and look at the foundation of all law, and see what it is ; and we may 
 find that a violation of law always involves a violation of the moral 
 principle, and is, in that sense, an offence against God and man. 
 
 Grentlemen : Where is this foundation ? I care not for the specu- 
 lations of theorists ; I cast aside their puerile supposition of a social 
 compact, and find this foundation in the constitution of the human 
 mind, such as it came from the hand of God, and has grown to bo 
 under his providence. It is from the eternal laws, which God ordains 
 for the government of mind, that human society comes, that human 
 institutions emanate, and continue to subsist. 
 
 Law is well defined to be " a rule of action dictated by some supe- 
 rior power." What is this superior power ? Within our own commu- 
 nity we refer it to the law-making power. But there is a rule of action 
 which extends beyond this community and includes it, for there is 
 that rule which is called the law of Nature — common to all mankind. 
 By what superior power is this dictated ? Unquestionably, if there 
 be truth in the above definition, it is dictated by the Supreme Intelli- 
 gence. And in fact we find that it is no other than the dictates of a 
 universal spontaneous reason, present in the heart of every human 
 being, teaching what is to be done and what is not to be done — its 
 omnipresence and uniformity everywhere vindicating its diversity. It 
 is variously designated. It is called the moral law — the law of God 
 — the law of Nature — the law of Beason ; but under every designa- 
 tion meaning the same thing. It is of a reason ever present, ever 
 dictating what is right and denouncing what is wrong, whether we 
 obey or not. 
 
 This law lies at the foundation of human nature. It is the same in 
 every breast and in every community, savage and civilized. But like 
 every thing else that enters human nature, be it from above or be- 
 neath, it takes hue from its medium, and has its growth, progress, and 
 development. For, when the criminal appetites have their growth 
 must not that which counteracts them necessarily have its correspond- 
 ing growth and development ? If the criminal propensities pass into 
 all variety of action upon the objects of interest and cupidity, that 
 multiply with every step of human progress, from the nakedness of the 
 savage to the abundance of the civilized state ; must not that reason — 
 that element of mind — which is itself law, written or unwritten, pass 
 
OF OBEYING THE LAW. 605 
 
 into a correspondmg variety, everywhere to encounter its antagonist 
 power — its eternal foe. 
 
 Laws, therefore, multiply, as objects of human appetite and cupidity 
 multiply ; but however multifarious they may be, they still have — their 
 object being legitimate and their form as perfect as may be — their 
 foundation — their spirit — their soul, in the same divine reason. The 
 distinction between natural and municipal law is truly a distinction 
 made with reference to the objects of those laws, and not with refer- 
 ence to their origin. Natural law protects life, liberty, and the neces- 
 saries of life in immediate possession. Municipal law protects whatever 
 the genius or industry of man superadds to these. Natural law in its 
 simple form pertains to the whole human family. Municipal law is a 
 modification of the natural through the instrumentality of man, where- 
 by it adjusts itself to the various states and conditions of each partic- 
 ular member of this great family. Legitimate municipal law, there, 
 fore, and natural law, flow from the same common fountain, and the 
 obligations of both are essentially the same. They are the same uni- 
 versal reason translated into the language of time and space, and speak- 
 ing through circumstances and things as they are, various in various 
 communities. 
 
 I know not, gentlemen, by what strange whim it is that some men, 
 certainly not in other respects deficient, bring themselves to believe 
 that certain of these municipal laws may be violated without moral 
 guilt — ^without any actual offence against good conscience. The moral 
 sense of the community has not become so perverse that it can tolerate 
 a heresy like this. Suppose a man keeps a gambling establishment, 
 that becomes the resort of young and old — there vice begins its riots ; 
 for a time it spreads distress and ruin around ; carries misery, and 
 poverty, and wretchedness, and rags, to the domestic hearth, and finally 
 plunges its victims into a premature grave. The legislature, taking 
 into consideration the injuries inflicted on the community, passes a law 
 prohibiting the keeping of such an establishment ; are there not some 
 who would secretly think that the keeper had certain rights, which 
 had been infringed by the lagislature, and that he would not be a bad 
 man, if he still continued his establishment in violation of law ? This 
 is a wrong principle, gentlemen, and that man's heart cannot be right 
 that, for a moment, can tolerate it — and that community, which can 
 think lightly of this or a similar error, places its own peace and wel- 
 fare in jeopardy? It is not the indifference manifested toward a 
 particular offence, that is to be followed by any very serious conse- 
 quences ; but it is the fact, which this indifference establishes, that 
 
 64 
 
506 THE MORAL OBLIGATION 
 
 the law is losing its authority and the bonds of society are breaking 
 asunder, and that spirits, from which everything is to be feared, are 
 gaining an ascendancy. Let it be remarked, that when freemen, who 
 are, in this State, the fountain of law, tread the laws under foot, they 
 are trampling on their own authority — they are putting themselves 
 down, which can be done only by putting up something that is beneath 
 them. They are committing treason against themselves. 
 
 Let it be understood and universally believed that municipal and 
 natural law have the same common basis, that an offence against the 
 one involves as much guilt as an offence against the other, and, then, 
 let the public act on this faith, by placing the offenders on the same 
 level. The great error of the times seems to me to be in this, that 
 we lose sight of the community in our anxiety for the individual. The 
 public feeling is such, that one who betrayed his country and involved 
 a nation in ruin, would be less severely punished than one who com- 
 mitted an individual homicide. And this results from losing sight of 
 the great principle, that all laws have the same common moral basis, 
 and whenever truly announced by the legislature, are equally sacred. 
 
 All criminal legislation, whether it consists of acts that define offences 
 or those that prescribe punishments, is but a repetition, in a more pal- 
 pable and definite form, of that which already exists in the mind. In 
 fact, all social institutions and all the forms of government, are no oth- 
 er than a sort of outward manifestation of those principles, which 
 operate within us, and constitute the very foundation of our nature. 
 And herein consists the necessity of obedience to the laws of our coun- 
 try. We cannot obey them without acting in conformity to the con- 
 stitution of our own nature — we cannot disobey them without com- 
 mitting a violence on that constitution. True, the law itself may be 
 imperfect — it may not truly express the demands of that constitution 
 — what then 1 — shall the law be resisted by force ? — or shall it be 
 fraudulently evaded 1 No ! To say nothing about the conscience, 
 that freeman who does either, does not know his duty to himself — it 
 cannot be that he sees that in violating the law he is violating his own 
 rights, as a freeman and a citizen. But there is a way in which such 
 law may be opposed, and in that way, let it be opposed ; but, in every 
 other, sustained and respected as of the sovereign authority of the 
 State. 
 
 Gentlemen, in looking at the letter of the law, we are too apt to for- 
 get that it has a spirit — almost invariably a spirit in the great social 
 mind from which it springs — ^that in violating it we do more than vio- 
 late the letter or offend against the intent of the legislature. Indeed, 
 
OF OBEYING THE LAW. 507 
 
 we hardly ever think that a violence done to it is a violence done to 
 those high and sacred moral principles within us, that have given it 
 birth. Even the technical language in which the law speaks, contri- 
 butes to withdraw our attention from this fact. For instance, legal 
 
 writers divide offences into two classes. One they call rrmla in se 
 
 evils in themselves— the other, malaprohibita — evils prohibited. Does 
 not this phraseology tend to produce the impression, that the offences 
 included in the first class, are bad in themselves, whilst those in the 
 second, are bad merely because they are prohibited ? Now, is this a 
 correct idea? 
 
 Gentlemen : We have seen that all laws may be considered as rela- 
 ting to two classes of objects ; the first of which is universal — (as life, 
 liberty and the necessaries of life) — and that the laws in relation to 
 this class, are the laws of the whole human family. Now offences 
 against these are what are as above designated — evils in themselves. 
 But there are certain objects which are to be found only in possession 
 of particular communities — objects superadded to those belonging to 
 everybody ; and the law in relation to these objects, though not less 
 the offspring of the omnipotent reason than the first, is called munici- 
 pal law. Offences against this law are named evils prohibited. Why ? 
 Not as I apprehend because they are not evils in themselves, but be- 
 cause they can be perpetrated only within the sphere of particular 
 portions of the human family, and so come there to be specially pro- 
 hibited. But they are not the less violations of the great law of rea- 
 son for being less than universal. 
 
 To illustrate: mere savages deal only in barter and exchange. 
 They have no circulating medium, and consequently the crime of 
 counterfeiting cannot with them exist. But let them take one step 
 and introduce coins ; instantly the offence of counterfeiting becomes 
 possible. It exists. Moral reason repels it ; that is, counterfeiting is 
 already a crime in itself — really malum in se. Human legislation 
 now comes and describes the crime, and provides a special punishment 
 for it. Now from this legislative act it takes its place in the class 
 called mala prohibita. But this prohibition has only brought an 
 offence, which already existed in foro consdenticB^ within the jurisdic- 
 tion of a court by prescribing punishment. The class mala jprohihita 
 is criminal for precisely the same reason that the class mxila in se is 
 criminal. Both are criminal, because both are violations of the great 
 social principle, which gives life to all law. An act may be unwise, 
 impolitic ; individuals may know it to be so, (or think they know) 
 and thus it may not be the legitimate offspring of this principle ; but 
 
608 THE MORAL OBLIGATION, &C. 
 
 if it be constitutional, the great duty of sustaining the government, of 
 sustaining its forms inviolate, overrules all such objections, and re- 
 quires obedience, as long as the act is in force. There is too strong a 
 tendency to overlook this consideration — not so much among ourselves, 
 for by the blessings of G-od we have enjoyed a greater share of quiet 
 than most of our neighbors ; but the contagion is around us and may 
 be among us, and it is our special duty, as courts and juries, to use 
 every precaution to prevent its introduction. It may be thought that 
 the establishment of a despotism in this country is impossible ; but, 
 whenever the people shall deem it a light and trifling matter to disre- 
 gard laws, of which they deem themselves the very fountain-head, then 
 will they be in a fair way to anarchy and confusion ; and from anarchy, 
 under our social forms, there is no escape but through despotism. 
 When a democracy passes into anarchy, nothing but the iron weight 
 of a despotism can repress and bring within due compass the elements 
 of disorder and confusion, 
 
 I have thus, gentlemen, endeavored to show why it is, that all that 
 is truly law, considered with reference to its origin, is equally sacred ; 
 and that there can never be any wilful violation of it, without some 
 degree of moral as well as legal guilt in the ojffender. It seems to be 
 not inappropriate at this time to call your attention to this great truth, 
 and to remind you that, in obeying the letter of the law and the intent 
 of the law-making power, you obey something higher than either, you 
 are acting in obedience to those eternal laws of mind, by which God 
 governs in the progress and destiny of our race. 
 
CHARGE. 
 
 THE RELATIVE DUTIES OF COURT AND JURY. 
 
 GrENTLEMEN OF THE GrRAND JuRY : 
 
 Before entering upon a description of STich. oiFences as may at this 
 time require your special consideration, I propose to say something of 
 the tribunal to which your presentments are to be made. I propose 
 in particular, to point out, as briefly as may be, the line of distinction 
 which the law draws between the duties of the petty jury in the trial 
 of causes, whether civil or criminal, and those of the court in delivering 
 its opinion in the charge. It is true that, in doing this, I am depart- 
 ing in some degree from the common routine of duty ; but you, gentle- 
 men, are the grand inquest of the county, and as such, you judicially 
 represent it, and through you the court may promulgate its views to 
 parties and counsel, and to all those who may, at present and hereafter, 
 be called on to discharge the important duty of trying an issue to the 
 country. 
 
 I am the rather induced to present these views at this time, from a 
 belief that juries have, in several instances, within my own limited 
 judicial experience, disagreed among themselves and failed to find ver- 
 dicts, from not clearly distinguishing between those responsibilities 
 which belong to the court, and those which belong to themselves. The 
 act of '27, reorganizing this court, recognizes this distinction, and 
 construed in connection with other laws, leaves it, in civil cases, too 
 definite and certain to admit of a doubt. This act makes it the im- 
 perative duty of the court to instruct the jury in the law, and by neces- 
 sary implication it makes it the correlative duty of the jury to receive 
 the court's instruction as such. But this distinction, though plainly the 
 necessary construction of the act, appears to be sometimes forgotten 
 and sometimes rendered obscure, by the habits formed in the public 
 mind through a long succession of years, when it was rare for the jury 
 to receive instructions from the court. Under the influence of this 
 habit, giving a wrong direction to their sense of duty, the most con- 
 
510 THE RELATIVE DUTIES 
 
 scientious jurors have, doubtless, sometimes been induced to assume re- 
 sponsibilities which they would otherwise have most decidedly shunned. 
 For it cannot be in the nature of any man, unless prompted by a sense 
 of duty, real or supposed, to assume a burthen which belongs to another, 
 when, by that assumption, he gains nothing but the inconvenience of 
 bearing it. 
 
 You all know, gentlemen, that prior to the act of '27, every issue to 
 the country, involving law and fact, was argued exclusively to the jury 
 — that the jury then retired without any instructions from the court, 
 and, in their chamber, always found themselves under the necessity of 
 .discharging the double duty of jury — to determine the fact — and, of 
 a judicial tribunal, to establish or decide on general legal principles- 
 They there reviewed the ingenious arguments of counsel — ^weighed 
 authority against authority — precedent against precedent — and some- 
 times sophism against sophism — till lost and confounded in the com- 
 plexity of the discussion, they gave up the hopeless task of untying the 
 gordian knot of the case and cut it assunder by a compromise of indi- 
 vidual opinions — or, (an event equally to be regretted,) in consequence 
 of disagreeing on a legal point, failed to find any verdict at all, and so 
 left the parties to travel over the same ground again, with scarcely a 
 better hope, than when they commenced, of finding an end of the law. 
 
 It was therefore an object, well worthy of the act of '27, reorganizing 
 this court, to remove, as far as might be, these imperfections in jury 
 trials. And by expressly requiring a charge from the court, it was 
 manifestly one of its principal objects, to confine the jury to the appro- 
 priate duty of weighing the evidence — a duty which they are abun- 
 dantly better fitted to perform than the court, and at the same time, 
 to relieve them, in all civil cases, from the very responsible burthen of 
 deciding questions of law, by imposing that responsibility on the court, 
 to whom it should alone belong. 
 
 This act requires the court " to instruct the petit jury in the law 
 that may be applicable to each cause by them tried, by giving them 
 publicly in charge, before they retire to consider their verdict, the 
 opinion of the co\irt upon the law." If this language could admit of 
 a doubt, what I have already said of the evils, which it was designed 
 to remedy, would render its meaning perfectly clear. But its words 
 are clear and need no resort to the occasion of its provision in order 
 to aid in its interpretation. It is made the duty of the court to instruct 
 by giving its opinion in charge, and, when it does so instruct, it is the 
 correlative duty of the jury to be instructed by it, to receive its charge 
 as an exposition of the law expressed by the organ designated by the 
 
OF COURT AND JURY. 511 
 
 legslaturCj and, not as mere matter of advice, to be adopted or rejected 
 as may best suit the convenience or feelings of the moment. It can 
 never be admitted that, whilst the opinions of legal writers and foreign 
 courts are read to the jury as law, that the legislature intended that 
 the enjoined opinions of their own supreme judicial tribunal should be 
 received by the jury as mere matter of advice. It would be, indeed, 
 a singular state of things, in which jurors should feel themselves bound 
 to accept law from foreign courts, whilst they would receive nothing 
 but advice from their own. 
 
 It is an error to suppose that the oath of the juror, in civil cases, 
 (and it is of these only that I now speak) is inconsistent with this act. 
 That oath does not require him to decide what the law is, but to give 
 a true verdict according to it, and the evidence given him. In order 
 to decide according to law, when uninstructed in it by the court, he 
 must indeed decide for himself what the law is. But this he will not 
 do in virtue of his oath, for he has a right to call for the court's opin- 
 ion — ^but in consequence of the absence of judicial instruction. This 
 was ever the situation of the jury, with the exception of a few years 
 prior to the act of '27, and this circumstance, perhaps, has caused the 
 necessities, arising from that situation, to be confounded with the obli- 
 gations of their oath. As the oath, to give a verdict according to 
 evidence, presupposes the existence of evidence and of a court to decide 
 what is evidence and what is not — so when the same oath requires a 
 verdict according to law, it in like manner presupposes the existence 
 of a competent tribunal to determine what is law and what is not law 
 — ^what act is constitutional and what unconstitutional — what is re- 
 pealed and what unrepealed — what has fallen into disuse and become 
 obsolete, and what is still in force. And when the law is thus deter- 
 mined, the jury, by their oaths, are to return a verdict according to it. 
 The opposite construction of their oath invests the jury with judicial 
 power, and involves the whole judicial system in contradiction. Ac- 
 cording to such construction, the jury decide questions of law by their 
 verdict under oath, whilst the court are invested with authority to set 
 aside their verdict as against law — their oath obliges them to decide 
 what the law is, and yet they may return a special verdict, and ask the 
 opinion of the court on the law. The truth is, that the oath prescribed 
 by our statute, is in effect nothing more than the common law oath, 
 well and truly to try the issue between the parties, and a true verdict 
 to give according to the evidence. Under both oaths, the jury in the 
 first place determine the facts, and then apply the law, as the same has 
 been determined by the court, and bring in their verdict accordingly. 
 
512 THE RELATIVE DUTIES 
 
 If the jury choose to rely on any authority, other than that of the 
 court, for the law, they do so on their own responsibility, and if they 
 err they err without the possibility of redeeming their error. It is 
 not so with the court — ample means are in its hands for the correction 
 of its mistakes. We know, gentlemen, that we have our full share of 
 human fallibility. We know that in the common course of things we 
 shall err, and perhaps greatly err ; but the law foresees this, and has 
 made a special provision for it. The jury on returning their verdict 
 depart never again to meet ; but the court remains a permanent body, 
 and has it in its power, on an application for a new trial, to revise — 
 deliberately revise its decisions and correct its errors. Let it not be 
 supposed, that anything like pride of opinion will prevent its reversing 
 a wrong decision or granting a new trial, on a wrong direction to the 
 jury. Pride of opinion can never actuate a court that knows its duty. 
 That man, in a public or private station, who is too poor in character 
 or intellect to honor the draft of an occasional error, is already a bank- 
 rupt in both. 
 
 The sources of error are too numerous not to exact the most unre- 
 mitted vigilance, and, at the same time, afford an ample apology for all 
 ordinary mistakes in judgment. The cases which are called for trial 
 are generally such as the court know nothing of until the moment they 
 are presented for its consideration, and that mind must be great indeed 
 and far beyond any thing that the person addressing you can pretend 
 to, which can, at the moment, seize the essential point in controversy 
 and concentrate all its natural energies and all its legal acquisitions, 
 to illustrate whatever in it is obscure, and develope whatever is com" 
 plicated. To a mind engaged in the progress of a trial, in separating 
 from the case that which is irrelevant, and, in reducing to order and 
 appropriate graduation the various details of a mass of evidence, but 
 little time is given for deliberation, and its passing opinions must often 
 be the mere expression of its present and unpremeditated impressions. 
 
 As to all cases having a novel and complicated aspect, much must 
 depend on their preparation by the counsel. The labor of counsel 
 should be such as to abridge the labor of the Court. Too much time 
 is no doubt often consumed on the minor details of a case — too much 
 wasted on irrelevant matters, but, with all this deduction, the aid which 
 counsel do or should bring to the court, in the preparation of every 
 complicated case, is indespensable to the dispatch of business and often 
 to the correctness of the court's decision. Present such a case with- 
 out such preparation to any tribunal, and what is it, but a mass of facts 
 without order, suggesting a variety of legal principles, some relevant 
 
OF COURT AND JURY. 513 
 
 and others irrelevant — all bringing into the mind a perfect chaos ? To 
 reduce tliis chaos to order — to throw upon it the light of a legal reason 
 — to arrange its facts in the luminous order of cause and effect — and 
 to bring the whole variety of evidence within the dominion of the legal 
 principles which appertain to the case, is generally the result of dili- 
 gent application and a severe and close study of the cause. When a 
 case, thus prepared, is as well presented in argument, the labors of the 
 court will be, comparatively, light and brief, and their decisions rarely 
 erroneous. But if counsel, with too confident a reliance on the justice 
 of their cause, or from the pressure of professional engagements, enter 
 on the trial with little or no investigation or reflection, the labor of 
 reducing the voluminous mass to order and selecting its appropriate 
 legal principles will mainly fall to the court, and, if, for want of suffic- 
 ient deliberation, error should be the consequence, though it may be in 
 name yet it is not in fact wholly of a judicial character. 
 
 Without saying anything of the qualifications or deficiencies of the 
 court, other sources of error might be enumerated, but I have men- 
 tioned these that it might be seen that the court will not exercise the 
 exclusive right of determining what is law and what is not law, from 
 any overweening confidence in themselves — from any vain idea of their 
 own judicial infalibility ; but, because the law, giving them the means 
 of correcting their errors, imposes this duty upon them, and, also, be- 
 cause they are satisfied that, unless each part of the whole judicial 
 machinery performs its duty and refrains from doing more, nothing 
 like harmonious results can be expected from the joint operation of 
 the whole. 
 
 We cannot expect an institution, which is intended to operate as an 
 entirety and which derives its unity from the singleness of its object 
 — the administration of the same justice in the same cases — to bring 
 about the same result, if each part undertakes to perform the duty of 
 the whole. It will not do, for instance, for the court to weigh the 
 evidence and say that it proves this point or that point and, therefore, 
 that it brings the case within this or that principle of law, for such is 
 the exclusive duty of the jury, where law and fact pass to them in the 
 same issue. Nor will it do for the jury, in civil cases, to take upon 
 themselves to establish principles of law, where they are instructed by 
 the charge, for the enunciation of general legal principles and the con- 
 struction of laws is made the peculiar duty of the court. Such intru- 
 sions of the court upon the jury or of the jury upon the court, are 
 almost sure to produce collisions of opinion somewhere, and, when 
 
 65 
 
514 THE RELATIVE DUTIES 
 
 they are produced, the whole labor of the trial often terminates in no 
 verdict, or in one that is worse than none. 
 
 When such a state of things exists between court and jury, it can- 
 not long continue without terminating the just authority of the one or 
 the other. If the court intrude on the province of the jury, the trial 
 by jury is in danger of becoming a mere form ; if the jury intrude on 
 that of the court, the authority of the court in jury trials becomes lit. 
 tie more than a name — in one word we are in danger of becoming a 
 mere bench of judges or a mere box of jurors. 
 
 The power of granting new trials, when the verdict is against law, 
 affords but an imperfect protection to the authority of the court. For 
 where fact and law have passed to the jury it is sometimes impossible 
 to say whether their verdict has turned upon their estimation of the 
 evidence or their own misconstruction of the law. In such cases, the 
 court can rarely interfere ; for the legal presumption is, that the jury 
 have confined themselves to their duty. 
 
 The relation, then, of the court and jury to each other, imposes upon 
 each a serious obligation to confine itself within its appropriate sphere. 
 In order to define the sphere of each, generally and with as much pre- 
 cision as possible, it may be said to be the duty of the court to lay 
 down general legal principles in their charge on the case, whilst it is 
 the duty of the jury to weigh the evidence, ascertain within what prin- 
 ciple, thus laid down, it brings the case and to return a verdict accord- 
 ingly. In this way the jury take the law of the case, in the shape of 
 general principles, from the court. The court take the sum of the 
 evidence, in the shape of a verdict, from the jury — and there is noth- 
 ing unequal in their relations to each other. Each, acting within its 
 appropriate sphere, aids the other ; and both harmoniously move on, in 
 the furtherance of justice, to the same common result. The law pre- 
 sumes the jury to be best qualified to weigh the evidence and confides 
 in them the application of general principles to the particular case, 
 whilst it presumes the court to be best qualified to construe the laws 
 and establish general principles. And there is good reason for this 
 distinction. The jury are considered most conversant with the affairs 
 of common life, and their daily experience, no doubt, fits them for 
 placing a true value upon the evidence of witnesses, with whose char- 
 acter and modes of thought and expression they may be presumed to 
 be best acquainted. But nothing, gentlemen, but an educated and 
 disciplined reason can qualify the mind of any one to decide new 
 questions of law. 
 
 The law, gentlemen, is an extremely complicated and artificial sys- 
 
OF COURT AND JURY. 515 
 
 tcm. It indeed begins with natural reason — it is based on principles 
 of a plain common sense ; but takes character in its superstructure 
 from the thousand artificial forms which spring up from the bosom of 
 society, or are engendered by the ever-advancing industry and genius 
 of man. "With the plain principles on which it is based, all mankind 
 may be acquainted, for they are the eternal and universal principles 
 of right and wrong ; but, with the adventitious and invented forms 
 and modes of proceeding, which each community establishes for itself 
 to carry those principles into all their variety of effects, none can be 
 acquainted but those who have made them a study. These principles 
 bear the same relation to the artificial forms through which they pass 
 to their effects, that thought does to language. As the same thought 
 may be expressed in a thousand different languages, so the same jus- 
 tice may be administered under a thousand different forms. The same 
 moral reason, common to all mankind, spontaneously dictates that 
 crimes should be tried and punished ; but it does not spontaneously 
 dictate who shall try them, how they shall be tried, nor the kind nor 
 degree of punishment which shall be inflicted on each. The same moral 
 reason spontaneously dictates that a debt should be paid ; but it does 
 not at once suggest the institution of courts to try and establish the 
 liability of the debtor nor create the mode of proceeding by which pay- 
 ment shall be compelled. It dictates that on the decease of the pre- 
 sent owner, property should descend to those to whom he is most 
 closely bound by the ties of affection or natural obligation ; but it 
 does not point out the mode of distribution or manner of descent. 
 Now just where this spontaneous moral reason of the individual stops, 
 the broad and general legislative reason of communities and nations 
 begins and translates its vague and somewhat uncertain requirements 
 into the definite language of legislative enactments and judicial decis- 
 ions. It establishes courts — modes of trial — prescribes penalties — 
 provides proceedings to compel the payment of debts — points out tbe 
 mode in which property shall descend — gives definitions and establishes 
 general maxims and principles — all suggested by and responsive to 
 the demands of this moral reason. It is thus that the dictates of the 
 reason necessarily pass into the artificial forms established by society, 
 in order to reach their ultimate effects. In the new form it is still 
 reason but reason no longer as nature has left it, but as legislative and 
 judicial wisdom and the requirements of society have made it. "With 
 the exception of certain positive enactments to protect the body politic, 
 every man, however uninstructed, knows enough of the law to act in 
 obedience to the artificial forms, in which the general sense of the 
 
516 THE RELATIVE DUTIES 
 
 community thus recognises it, for he carries its elements in his own 
 bosom ; but nothing but a reason educated and disciplined in the study 
 and practice, and perfectly naturalized to the peculiar logic of those 
 forms, can venture to speak in the spirit of their system and announce 
 its consistent dictates. This is, therefore, made the particular duty 
 of the court ; and it is not to be disguised that it will sometimes be 
 an arduous and an important duty. 
 
 For the growth of a system of laws is not that of a single age, but 
 of a long succession of ages. Many of its parts fall more or less into 
 disuse with the progress of society, and these, sometimes, come in con- 
 flict with individual cases ; it then becomes a serious question, whether 
 the partially disused principle shall be sacrificed to the case, or the 
 case to the principle. But it more frequently happens that an indi- 
 vidual whose claims are undeniably meritorious, has omitted to perform 
 some act, or committed some error, either as to the evidence of his 
 claim, or the form of his action, and thereby brought himself in con- 
 flict with some recognised legal principle, which it is the duty of the 
 court to sustain. In such case the court must perform its duty, how- 
 ever painful it may be — important general principles must be sus- 
 tained against individual cases that cannot be reconciled to them. 
 The action of gravitation is not suspended in favor of the inconsider- 
 ateness of infancy, or the heedlessness of maturer years, and it is from 
 the inflexibility of the laws of Society, as well as of Nature, that man 
 is taught circumspection and cautiousness, and becomes wise by expe- 
 rience. Were the laws of Nature or Society bent to suit every par- 
 ticular case, the human mind, in its most important faculties, would 
 soon cease to develope itself, and law would no longer be law. It 
 requires a mind, thoroughly disciplined in legal science, always to feel 
 the force of this great truth, and habitually to act upon it. But in 
 the decision of these technical points, the progress of the social mind 
 requires something more than even this — it requires the action of an 
 enlightened legal philosophy — a philosophy that passes beyond the 
 mere letter of the technical rule — embraces its substance — carries it 
 forward by its decision with the progress of society, and reconciles it, 
 if possible, with the liberal spirit of the age. 
 
 Whenever a decision fails in this, it cannot be permanent ; it will 
 be either reversed by subsequent decisions, or abrogated by legisla- 
 tive enactments. To perform this duty in such a manner as shall 
 produce the greatest possible good and the least possible evil, requires 
 at once a comprehensive knowledge of the whole system of jurispru- 
 dence and of the progress of society. Whether the court be or be 
 
OF COURT AND JURY. 517 
 
 not competent to perform this great task, the law goes upon the pre- 
 sumption that they are, and enjoins it upon them as their exclusive 
 duty. 
 
 All powers, gentlemen, whether judicial or political, may he per- 
 verted by an abuse of the confidence in which they are founded, and 
 the court absolutely considered have the 'power to charge the jury, not 
 merely that the law is so and so, but that the facts in the case are 
 such that they should bring in this or that verdict. The court could 
 so charge the jury if they pleased, but such a charge would, in my ap- 
 prehension, be a gross abuse of judicial authority. In like manner, it 
 is in \\\Q power of the jury to disregard the law, as laid down by the 
 court, and to lay down legal principles of their own — for the case is in 
 their hands — they may so hazard their consciences and their oaths, if 
 they please — they may take upon them the court's responsibility, and 
 decide law questions at their own risk, if they choose ; but then it will, 
 in my apprehension, be an abuse of that confidence which the law re- 
 poses in them. 
 
 The foregoing remarks I have made with reference to civil cases, 
 and, in them, the relations of court and jury are so far explained that, 
 in order to show the diff'erence between a charge in a civil case and 
 one in a criminal case, I need do little more than point out two 
 changes which take place in those relations, on the court's passing 
 from its civil to its criminal jurisdiction. These two changes consist 
 firstly, in its relations to the state, which is the prosecuting party, 
 and, secondly, in the absence or want of power to grant new trials, at 
 least in all cases where the accused is acquitted. These changes are 
 so important, that they may be considered as reacting on the statute 
 of '27, and as measurably limiting its general intent as to criminal 
 cases. 
 
 The judges of a court receive their commissions from the executive 
 or appointing power, and, in times of turbulence and civil commotions, 
 there have been occasions when they have been made the instruments 
 to establish the sway of a despot, or to promote the ascendancy of a 
 faction. In such cases, a jury, independent from being empanelled 
 for the trial of the particular cause, without other special relations 
 to the State, are the true bulwark of the rights and liberties of the 
 citizen ; and courts regard them, on such occasions, as invested with 
 more than ordinary power. Whilst the law, denying to the court the 
 right of setting aside their verdicts and granting new trials in favor 
 of the State, seems to leave them in the undisputed possession of all 
 the powers with which the particular occasion invests them. In such 
 
518 THE RELATIVE DUTIES, &C. 
 
 cases, the charge of the court presents to the jury a question of confi- 
 dence. If they choose to trust it, they may — if they choose to take 
 upon themselves the responsibility of deciding questions of law, they 
 may do it, without a breach of their relations to the court, and the 
 court must record and leave their verdict as they choose to return it. 
 But, in such cases, the responsibility is all their own, and if the de- 
 cision be wrong the error is solely theirs. 
 
 The exercise, by the jury, of this power of deciding law questions in 
 criminal, differs from the exercise of like power in civil cases, perhaps 
 in this, that in criminal cases it is an exertion of power which the law 
 does not deny to them, and is not therefore an abuse of authority, 
 unless made contrary to their honest convictions, and in violation of 
 conscience. But, in civil cases, when the court stand as indifferent 
 as the jury to the parties, and where it has the power of granting new 
 trials, to disregard its instruction, is at once to lose sight of the rela- 
 tions which should subsist between court and jury, and thereby to vio- 
 late the conscientious obligations which those relations impose upon 
 them. 
 
CHARGE, 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF CHIEF JUSTICE EDDY. 
 
 GrENTLEMEN OF THE JuRY : 
 
 Before saying one word as to our official duties, permit me to offer 
 some tribute of respect (very short and imperfect though it be) to the 
 memory of one with whom I have had the honor to be associated dur- 
 ing a considerable part of my public life ; first as a member of Con- 
 gress, afterwards as a member of this Court. I speak of my immediate 
 predecessor on this bench, the Hon. Samuel Eddy, now deceased. It 
 is this last relation only that justifies the mention of his memory here, 
 and on this occasion. He held for a long time, as you well know, gen- 
 tlemen, the highly responsible office of Secretary of this State, an office 
 to which even his political adversaries, during the heat of the most 
 vehement contests for power, concurred in electing him. For six years 
 he was one of the representatives of the people of this State in Con- 
 gress. He was afterwards, for seven years, Chief Justice of this Court ; 
 an office to which he was elected, and in which he was likewise contin- 
 ued, with the concurrence of all political parties. He was discharging 
 the duties of this station to the entire satisfaction of the public, when 
 attacked by. that infirmity, which, after prompting his resignation, 
 eventually bore him to the tomb. 
 
 Gentlemen — These facts afford strong historical evidence of the 
 merits of the man — and they are facts which do not mislead, or deceive. 
 Judge Eddy was not a man to surround himself with false appearances, 
 and then glide into universal confidence and esteem in their disguise. 
 He knew not how to appear to be other than exactly what he was, and 
 he is one of those few characters, who stand forth occasionally as wit- 
 nesses to all time, how much superior, and, in the long run, more suc- 
 cessful, is that plain honesty, which looks straight forward to nothing 
 but a conscientious discharge of duty, to that versatile duplicity, which 
 puts on any appearance that may answer best a present purpose. In 
 the little I have to say, I shall follow the example whicli my pre- 
 
520 THE CHARACTER OF 
 
 decessor has left me ; I shall deal plainly in all things^'and knowingly 
 exaggerate nothing. It has been said, and truly said, that Judge 
 Eddy's ruling idea or attribute was the love of the true. I would, how- 
 ever, qualify this general proposition a little. He loved the true well, 
 wherever he could clearly see it ; but he loved it best, in that form in 
 which it was the most positive^ definite^ and certain. His love of the 
 true, in this form, was so intense, that he would sometimes appear to 
 be opposed to it in any other. This love was the fountain of all his 
 perfections, and imperfections — for he was human. His mind was 
 rather strong and active, than comprehensive and far-reaching. Not 
 that it was deficient in the latter qualities, but that he loved a general 
 truth, a general proposition, less than the particulars which it repre- 
 sented ; th^ reason of things less than the things themselves. For 
 particular truths — facts — his search was most diligent ; for these his 
 curiosity was insatiable ; his avarice unbounded. He picked them up 
 wherever they could be found, and was continually hoarding the pre- 
 cious specimens. A glance at the course of his studies, will show that 
 the tendency of his mind was continually to the more and more 
 definite and palpable. He seems in early manhood to have turned 
 his attention to the study of Theology ; not for a profession, but from 
 inclination or a sense of duty. In some of the general propositions of 
 this science, there was something too vague and indefinite to satisfy a 
 mind like his. He sought, therefore, to realize it in that definite and 
 positive form of the true, (in which his mind so much delighted,) by 
 the strict interpretation of the letter of the Sacred Book. 
 
 In philosophy, Locke was his favorite. He found much in the mind 
 of that great philosopher which was in harmony with his own. They 
 both loved the positive, the tangible, and certain ; both equally con- 
 temned, whatever had not assumed that form as little better than a 
 dream of the imagination. Such minds may not be qualified to dive 
 into the yet unfathomed depths of science and philosophy — to explore 
 the vast and hitherto unknown, and bring to light new truths from 
 the spheres which favored genius alone can visit, but they are precisely 
 such minds as are absolutely necessary to bring those new truths and 
 discoveries to perfection— to educe from them, and apply to use, all 
 that they contain. Without precisely such minds, no great movement, 
 no great step in social progress, could ever be perfected. The progress 
 of Judge Eddy's study was to the last, from the less to the more cer- 
 tain. Thus in the latter part of his career, we find him engaged in 
 the study of mineralogy, conchology, and their kindred sciences, as an 
 amusement, and in the administration of the law as an official duty. 
 
CHIEF JUSTICE EDDY. 621 
 
 The same love of the true in its positive and definite form, is as man- 
 ifest in the Judge, as in the scholar or philosopher. On the bench 
 his love of the true took form in his love of the just, and he here sought 
 to ascertain what was the just — what was the legally true — in the 
 letter rather than in the spirit of the law. That is to say, he sought 
 for the spirit where it ought to be found (but is not always) in the 
 words of the statute, and in the dicta of Judges, and resorted to the 
 general intention — the scope and drift of the whole — to solve any 
 particular difiiculty, with great reluctance. These are safe rules, gen- 
 tlemen. They may result in some decisions of apparent hardship, but 
 they will not be without their general benefit, they will stimulate cau- 
 tion in the use of legal language, and promote precision in legal forms 
 and contracts. It is easy to see how they may diffuse their own spirit 
 through society, and bring every thing up to their own level. The 
 ruling idea of the mind of Judge Eddy, the love of the certain and 
 definite, caused him to delight in exactness — precision. That which 
 he felt so distinctly himself he looked for every where, and he sought 
 to create it where it was wanting. He expected to find it in the lan- 
 guage of the law, in the words of legislative enactments, and in the 
 phraseology of judicial decisions. He looked for it in legal instru- 
 ments, and required it in all legal proceedings, and in the complete 
 and perfect discharge of every duty, whether to be performed by the 
 highest public functionary, or by the waiter on the court. It is well, 
 aye, it is absolutely necessary, that we should have such minds among 
 us. There is a continual tendency in the conduct of human affairs, 
 and especially in the discharge of legal duties, to looseness — negligence, 
 which sooner or later runs into confusion, and produces a thousand 
 serious evils, without having been of the slightest benefit to any body. 
 The leading attribute of his mind could be satisfied only with this 
 exact and perfect discharge of duty, and his idea of what duty was, 
 bore the stamp of his own character. Hence, he at times appeared 
 harsh and hard to those who had formed a different standard and who 
 felt that a less punctilious performance was well enough. But to those 
 who observed whence this real or apparent harshness originated, it 
 presented only a new proof of the consistency of his mind ; they saw 
 in it nothing but his love of the exact and certain, carried into all his 
 judgments — even unto those rendered on the minor duties of life. If 
 fault this was, it was a fault springing from his very virtues, and with- 
 out which we could not have known them. But this hardness or 
 rigidity of character belonged altogether to the region of the intellect 
 — to the head and not the heart of the man. It presented itself in the^ 
 
 66 
 
522 THE CHARACTER OF 
 
 exterior — in the flinty surface, created and worn to a polish by attri- 
 tion ; but all beneath it was as soft and tender as the heart of child- 
 hood. I can remember very well, and perhaps there are those present 
 who may likewise remember, the occasion on which the sight of a dis- 
 tressed woman — the wife of a miserable man then on trial for his life 
 
 melted the stern Judge into tears, and disqualified him for the full 
 
 discharge of his ofiicial duty. Indeed when the infirmity which carried 
 him oiF began to impair the force of his intellect — when the spirit 
 was retiring from the head, and concentrating itself in the heart, as 
 if for its final flight — the child-like softness of his feelings was suf- 
 ficiently evident upon the mere mention of some of those transactions 
 which had formerly interested them. 
 
 Nobody could ever doubt the integrity of Judge Eddy ; his open 
 and fearless honesty spoke in every word and act ; it was this that 
 inspired the public with entire confidence in the man ; it was this 
 for which his fellow-citizens would have excused a thousand errors, 
 if such he had committed. Gentlemen, the public mind is always 
 indulgent, whatever may be the act, when satisfied that it is done 
 under a conscientious sense of duty. His judicial decisions were 
 generally the result of a thorough investigation of every fact and every 
 legal principle having a bearing upon the case, and when once he ar- 
 rived at a conscientious conviction of what the decision should be, nei- 
 ther men nor angels could have prevented his deciding according to 
 that conviction ; his warmest friend would have fared no better than 
 his worst enemy, if enemy he had. 
 
 In the discharge of a judicial duty, no thought of popularity ever 
 entered his mind. He held in small estimation that popularity which 
 is to be run after. The result showed that public favor, public confi- 
 dence, need not be sought for by him who honestly does his duty, but 
 that it follows him like his shadow. I would not be understood, gen- 
 tlemen, to say that Judge Eddy was a popular man, in the common 
 acceptation of the phrase. In a judicial station there is too much to 
 do, and there is too much to be done in a way that looks not to popu- 
 lar feeling, to the excitement of the day, to think of such sort of pop- 
 ularity ; on the bench, party must not only not be named, but not 
 thought of ; yet he had popularity, but it was something more than 
 that which grows out of the fever of a day, a week, or a year. 
 
 It was that sort of popularity which commanded public confidence, 
 public respect, which lasted through life, which endured without 
 changes, and gained strength in the midst of all that was mutable 
 and fluctuating around him. Parties rose— parties fell— formed anew 
 
CHIEF JUSTICE EDDY. 623 
 
 — divided — coalesced — ran through a hundred changes, yet he stood, 
 like " the brave old oak " of the song, in the midst of all these shift- 
 ing and stormy scenes, a permanent object of the respect and confi- 
 dence of all. But, gentlemen, it was not my purpose to pronounce an 
 eulogy, however worthy the subject, but to do what I have now done, 
 simply to offer a passing tribute of respect to the character of one with 
 whom I was for several years associated on the bench, and who has 
 now passed to 
 
 " That undiscovered country, from whose bourne 
 No traveller returns." 
 
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