/ 3 
 
University of California Berkeley 
 
 
AMEEICAN MISCELLANY. 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 HEADLEY, CHANNING-, WEBSTER, BRYANT, 
 
 COOPER, AMES, STORY, WILLIS, 
 
 IRVING. JEFFERSON,' HAVENS, PERCIVAL, 
 
 POE, WIRT, ADAMS, HALLECK, 
 
 WOODWORTH, MELVILLE, ALLSTON, BRAINARD. 
 
 AND OTHER ENGLISH AUTHORS. 
 
 BATH, N. Y. 
 , L. UNDERBILL & Co. 
 
 1851. 
 
AMERICA! MISCELLAM. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 NARATIVE PIECES. 
 
 Mount Tabor. 
 
 WHAT strange contrasts this earth of ours presents. 
 It seems to be the middle spot between heaven and hell, and 
 to partake of the character of both. Beings from both 
 are found moving over its surface, and scenes from both are 
 constantly occurring upon it. The glory from one and the 
 midnight shades from the other meet along its bosom, and 
 the song of angels and the shriek of fiends go up from the 
 same spot. Noonday and midnight are not more opposite 
 than the scenes that are constantly passing before our eyes. 
 The temple of God stands beside a brothel, and the place 
 of prayer is separated only by a single dwelling from the 
 " hell " of the gambler. Truth and falsehood walk side by 
 side through our streets, and vice and virtue meet and pass 
 every hour of the day. The hut of the starving stands in 
 the shadow of the palace of the wealthy, and the carriage of 
 the Dives every day throws the dust of its glittering wheels 
 over the tattered garments of Lazarus. Health and sickness 
 lie down in the same apartment : joy and agony look out of 
 the same window; and hope and' despair dwell under the 
 same roof. The cry of the new born infant and groan of 
 the dying rise together. from the same dwelling : the funeral 
 procession treads close on the heels of the bridal party, and 
 the tones of the lute and viol have scarcely died away before 
 the requiem for the dead comes swelling after. Oh ! the 
 beautiful and the deformed, the pure and corrupt, joy and 
 sorrow, ecstacies and agonies, life and death, are strangely 
 blent on this restless planet oif ours. 
 
 Bat the past and future present as strange contrasts as 
 
MOUNT TABOR. 
 
 the present. What different events have transpired on the 
 same spot. Where the smoke of the Indian's wigwam arose, 
 and the stealthy tread of the wolf and panther was heard 
 over the autumn leaves at twilight, the population of New 
 York now surges along. Where once Tyre the queen of the 
 sea stood, fishermen are spreading their nets on the desolate 
 rocks, and the bright waves are rolling over its marble col- 
 umns. In the empty apartments of Edom the fox makes his 
 den, and the dust of the desert is sifting over the forsaken 
 ruins of Palmyra. The owl hoots in the ancient halls of 
 kings, and the wind of the summer night makes sad music 
 through the rents of once gorgeous palaces. The Arab spurs 
 his steed along the streets of ancient Jerusalem, or scornfully 
 stands and curls his lip at the pilgrim pressing wearily to the 
 sepulchre of the Saviour. The Muezzin's voice rings over the 
 bones of the prophets, and the desert wind heaps the dust 
 above the foundations of the seven churches of Asia. Oh, 
 how good and evil, light and darkness, chase each other over 
 the world. 
 
 Forty-seven years ago, a form was seen standing on 
 Mount Tabor with which the world has since become 
 familiar. It was a bright spring morning, and as he 
 sat on his steed in the clear sunlight, his eye rested on a 
 scene in the vale below, which was sublime and appalling 
 enough to quicken the pulsations of the calmest heart. That 
 form was Napoleon Bonaparte, and the scene before him 
 the fierce and terrible " BATTLE OF MOUNT TABOR." From 
 Nazareth, where the Saviour once trod, Kleber had marched 
 with three thousand French soldiers forth into the plain, 
 when lo, at the foot of Mount Tabor he saw the whole Turk- 
 ish army drawn up in order of battle. Fifteen thousand 
 infantry and twelve thousand splendid cavalry moved down 
 in majestic strength on this band of three thousand French. 
 Kleber had scarcely time to throw his handful of men into 
 squares, with the cannon at the angles, before those twelve 
 thousand horse, making the earth smoke and thunder as they 
 came, burst into a headlong gallop upon them. But round 
 those steady squares rolled a fierce devouring fire, emptying 
 the saddles of those wild horsemen with frightful rapidity, 
 and strewing the earth with the bodies of the riders and 
 steeds together. Again and again did those splendid squad- 
 rons wheel, re-form and charge with deafening shouts, while 
 their uplifted and flashing scimitars gleamed like a forest of 
 steel through the smoke of battle ; but that same wasting fire 
 received them ; till those squares seemed bound by a girdle 
 
MOUNT TABOR. 
 
 of flame, so rarid and constant were the discharges. Before 
 the certain and deadly aim as they stood fighting for exist- 
 ence, the charging squadrons fell so fast that a rampart of 
 dead bodies was soon formed around them. Behind this 
 embankment of dead men and horses this band of warriors 
 stood and fought for six dreadful hours, and was still steadily 
 thinning the ranks of the enemy, when Napoleon debouched 
 with a single division on Mount Tabor, and turned his eye 
 below. What a scene met his gaze. The whole plain was 
 filled with marching columns and charging squadrons of 
 wildly galloping steeds, while the thunder of cannon and 
 fierce rattle of musketry, amid which now and then was 
 heard the blast of thousands of trumpets, and strains of 
 martial music, filled all the air. The smoke of battle waa 
 rolling furiously over the hosts, and all was confusion and 
 chaos in his sight. Amid the twenty-seven thousand Turks 
 that crowded the plain and enveloped their enemy like a 
 cloud, and amid the incessant discharge of artillery and mus- 
 ketry, Napoleon could tell where his own brave troops were 
 struggling, only by the simultaneous vollies which showed 
 how discipline was contending with the wild valor of over- 
 powering numbers. The constant flashes from behind that 
 rampart of dead bodies were like spots of flame on the tu- 
 multuous and chaotic field. Napoleon descended from 
 Mount Tabor with his little band, while a single twelve- 
 pounder, fired from the heights, told the wearied Kleber that 
 he was rushing to the rescue. Then for the first time he 
 took the offensive, and pouring his enthusiastic followers on 
 the foe, carried death and terror over the field. Thrown into 
 confusion, and trampled under foot, that mighty army rolled 
 turbulently back towards the Jordan, where Murat was anx- 
 iously waiting to mingle in the fight. Dashing with his cav- 
 alry among the disordered ranks, he sabered them down 
 without mercy, and raged like a lion .amid the prey. This 
 ohivalric and romantic warrior declared that the remem- 
 brance of the scenes that once transpired on Mount Tabor, 
 and on these thrice consecrated spots, came to him in the 
 hottest of the fight, and nerved him with tenfold courage. 
 
 As the sun went down over the plains of Palestine, 
 and twilight shed its dim ray over the rent and trodden and 
 dead-covered field, a sulphurous cloud hung around the sum- 
 mit of Mount Tabor. The smoke of battle had settled there 
 where once the cloud of glory rested, while groans and 
 shrieks and cries rent the air. Nazareth, Jordan ami Mount 
 Tabor ! what spots for battle-fields ! 
 
MOUNT TABOR. 
 
 Roll back twenty centuries and again view that. hill. 
 The day is bright and beautiful, and the same rich oriental 
 landscape is smiling 'on the same sun. There is Nazareth 
 with its busy population, the same Nazareth from which 
 Kleber marched his army : and there is Jordan rolling its 
 bright waters along, the same Jordan along whose banks 
 charged the glittering squadrons of Murat's cavalry; and 
 there is Mount Tabor, the same on which Bonaparte stood 
 with his cannon ; and the same beautiful plain where rolled 
 the smoke of battle, and struggled thirty thousand men in 
 mortal combat. But how different is the scene that is passing 
 there. The Son of God stands on that height and casts his 
 eyes over the quiet valley through which Jordan winds its 
 silver current Three friends are beside Him : they have 
 walked together up the toilsome way, and now the four stand 
 mere specks on the distant summit. Far away to the north- 
 west shines the blue Medeterranean all around is the great 
 plain of Esdradon and Galilee eastward, the Lake Tiberias 
 dots the landscape, while Mount Carmel lifts its summit in 
 the distance. But the glorious landscape at their feet is 
 forgotten in a sublimer scene that is passing before them. 
 The son of Mary the carpenter of Nazareth the wanderer 
 with whom they have ate and drank and travelled on foot 
 many a weary league, in all the intimacy of companions and 
 friends, begins to change before their eyes. Over his soiled 
 and coarse garments is spreading a strange light, steadily 
 brightening into intenser beauty, till that form glows with 
 such splendor that it seems to waver to and fro and dissolve 
 in the still radiance. 
 
 The three astonished friends gaze on in speechless admi- 
 ration, then turn to that familiar face. But lo, a greater 
 change has passed over it. The man has put on .the God. 
 and that sad and solemn countenance which has been so often 
 seen stooping over the- couch of the dying, and entering the 
 door of the hut of poverty, and passing through the streets 
 of Jerusalem, and pausing by the weary wayside aye, be- 
 dewed with the tears of pity, now burns like the sun in his 
 midday splendor. Meekness has given away to majesty 
 sadness to dazzling glory the look of pity to the grandeur of 
 a God. The still radiance of heaven sits on that serene brow, 
 and all around that divine form flows an atmosphere of 
 strange and wondrous beauty. Heaven has poured its 
 brightness over that consecrated spot, and on the beams 
 of light which glitter there, Moses and Elias have descended ; 
 and, wrapped in the same shining vestments, Btand beside 
 
MOUNT TABOR. 
 
 him. Wonder follows wonder, for those three glittering 
 forms are talking with each other, and amid the thrilling 
 accents are heard the words "Mount Olivet,' 1 "Calvary,"' the 
 agony and the death of the crucifixion. Peter, awe-struck 
 and overcome, feeling also the influence of that heavenly 
 atmosphere, and carried away by a sudden impulse, says to 
 Jesus, in low and tremulous accents : ; ' Tt is good to be here ; 
 let us build three tabernacles; one for thee, one for Moses, 
 and one for Elias." Confused by the scene and dazzled by 
 the splendor, he was ignorant what he was saying. Ho 
 knew not the meaning of this sudden appearance, but he 
 knew that heaven was near and God revealing himself, and 
 he felt that some sacred ceremony would be appropriate to 
 the scene; and while his bewildered gaze was fixed on the 
 three forms before him, his unconscious lips murmured forth 
 the feeling of his heart. No wonder a sudden fear came 
 over him, that paralyzed his tongue and crushed him to the 
 earth, when in the midst of his speech he saw a cloud fall 
 like a falling star from heaven, and, bright and dazzling, 
 balance itself over those forms of light. Perhaps his indis- 
 creet interruption had brought this new messenger down, 
 and from its bosom the thunder and flame of Sinai were to 
 burst; and he fell on his face in silent terror. But that 
 cloud was only a canopy for its God, and from its bright 
 foldings came a voice, saying. "This is beloved Son, in whom 
 I am well pleased, hear ye Him." 
 
 How long the vision lasted we cannot tell, but all that 
 night did Jesus, with his friends, stay on that lonely moun- 
 tain. Of the conversation that passed between them there 
 we know nothing : but little sleep, we imagine, visited their 
 eyes that night; and as they sat on the high summit and 
 watched the stai-s, as they rose one after another above 
 the horizon, and poured her light over the dim and darkened 
 landscape, words were spoken that seemed born of heaven, 
 and truths never to be forgotten were uttered in the ears of 
 the subdued and reverent disciples. 
 
 Oh, how different is heaven and earth ! Can there bo 
 a stranger contrast than the Battle and Transfiguration of 
 Mount Tabor ? One shudders to think of Bonaparte and tho 
 Son of God on the same "mountain : one with his wasting 
 cannon by his side, and the other with Moses and Elias just 
 from heaven. 
 
 But no other desecration can destroy the first consecra- 
 tion of Mount Tabor ; for baptised with the glory of heaven, 
 and honored with the wondrous scene of the Transfiguration, 
 it btands a Sacred Mountain on the earth. 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 The Shipwreck. 
 
 " When the tide falls," he said in a voice that betrayed 
 the agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal of 
 hope, "we shall be enabled to walk to land. 1 ' 
 
 "There was One, and only One, to whom the waters 
 were the same as a dry deck," returned the cockswain ; 
 " and none but such as have his power will ever be able to 
 walk from these rocks to the sands." The old seaman paused 
 and turning his eyes, which exhibited a mingled expression 
 of disgust and compassion, on his companion, he added, with 
 reverence, '-Had you thought more of him in fair weather, 
 your case would be less to be pitied in this tempest." 
 
 u Do you think there is much danger 1" asked Dillon. 
 
 " To them that have reason to fear death. Listen ! do 
 you hear that hollow noise beneath ye '?" 
 
 u 'Tis the wind, driving by the vessel!" 
 
 ''Tis the poor thing herself," said the affected cock- 
 swain, u giving her last groans. The water is breaking 
 up her decks, and in a few minutes more the handsomest 
 model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips that fell 
 from her timbers in framing!" 
 
 ;t Why, then, did you remain here ?" cried Dillon, wildly. 
 
 " To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God," 
 returned Tom. " These waves, to me. are what the land is 
 to you ; I was born on them, and I always meant that they 
 should be my grave*" 
 
 " But I I," shrieked Dillon, " I am not ready to die ! 
 I cannot die ! I will not die !" 
 
 " Poor wretch !" muttered his companion; "you must 
 go, like the rest of us ; when the death-watch is called, none 
 can skulk from the muster." 
 
 " I can swim," Dillon continued, rushing with frantic 
 eagerness to the side of the wreck. u Is there no billet of 
 wood, no rope, that I can take with me !'' 
 
 " None ; everything has been cut away or carried off by 
 the sea. If ye* are about to strive for your life, take with ye 
 a stout heart and a clean conscience, and trust the rest 
 to God !" 
 
 11 God!" echoed Dillon in the madness of his phrensy; 
 "T know no God ! there is no God that knows me !" 
 
 " Peace !" said the deep tones of the cockswain, in 
 a voice that seemed to speak in the elements ; " blasphemer 
 peace !" 
 
FAYAWAY, THE TYPEE GIRL. 9 
 
 The heavy groaning, produced by the water in the 
 timbers of the Ariel, at that moment added its impulse to 
 the raging feeling of Dillon, and he cast himself headlong 
 into the sea. 
 
 ******** 
 
 " Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow ! sheer to the 
 southward !" 
 
 Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much 
 obscured by terror to distinguish their object; he, however, 
 blindly yielded to the call, and gradually changed his direc- 
 tion, until his face was once more turned towards the vessel. 
 The current swept him diagonally by the rocks, and he wa* 
 forced in an eddy, where he had nothing to contend against 
 but the waves, whose violence was much broken by the 
 wreck. In this state he continued still to struggle, but 
 with a force that was too much weakened to overcome the 
 resistance he met. Tom looked around him for a rope, but 
 all had gone over with the spars, or been swept away by the 
 waves. At this moment of disappointment his eyes met those 
 of the desperate Dillon. Calm, and inured to horrors, as- 
 was the veteran seaman; he involuntarily passed his hand 
 before his brow, to exclude the look of despair he encountered ~ T 
 and when a moment afterwards, he removed the rigid mem- 
 ber, he beheld the sinking form of the victim, as it gradually- 
 settled in the ocean, still struggling, with regular, but impo- 
 tent strokes of the arms and feet, to gain the wreck, and 
 to preserve an existence that had been so much abused in 
 its hour of allotted probation. 
 
 " He will soon know his God, and learn that his God 
 knows him !" murmured the cockswain to himself As he 
 yet spoke, the wreck of the Ariel yielded to an overwhelming 
 sea, and, after a universal shudder, her timbers gave way, 
 and were swept towards the cliffs, bearing the body of the 
 simple-hearted cockswain among the ruins." 
 
 Cooper* 
 
 Fayaway, the Typee Girl. 
 
 The beauteous nymph Fayaway was my particular fa- 
 vorite. Her free pliant figure was the perfection of female 
 grace and beauty. Her complexion was a rich and mantling 
 olive, and when watching the glow upon her cheeks I could 
 almost swear that beneath the transparent medium there 
 lurked the blushes of a faint vermilion. The face of this 
 
 1* 
 
10 FAYAWAY, THE TYPEE GIRL. 
 
 girl was a rounded oval, and each feature as perfectly formed 
 as the heart or imagination of man could desire. Her full 
 lips, when parted with a smile, disclosed teeth of dazzling 
 whiteness ; and when her rosy mouth opened with a burst of 
 merriment, they looked like the milk-white seeds of " arta," 
 a fruit of the valley, which, when cleft in twain, shows them 
 reposing in rows on either side, imbedded in the red and 
 juicy pulp. Her hair of the deepest brown, parted irregu- 
 larly in the middle, flowed in natural ringlets over her 
 shoulders, and whenever she chanced to stoop, fell over and 
 hid from view her lovely bosom. Gazing into the depths of 
 her strange blue eyes, when she was in a contemplative 
 mood, they seemed most placid yet unfathomable ; but 
 when illuminated by some lively emotion, they beamed upon 
 the beholder like stars. The hands of Fayaway were as soft 
 and delicate as those of any countess ; for an entire exemp- 
 tion from rude labor marks the girlhood and even prime of a 
 Typee woman's life. Her feet, though wholly exposed, were 
 as diminutive and fairly shaped as those which peep from 
 beneath the skirts of a Lima lady's dress. The skin of this 
 young creature, from continual ablutions and the use of mol- 
 lifying ointments, was inconceivably smooth and soft. 
 
 I may succeed, perhaps, in particularising some of the 
 individual features of Fayaway's beauty, but that gei eral 
 loveliness of appearance which they all contributed to pro- 
 duce I will not attempt to describe. The easy unstudied 
 graces of a child of nature like this, breathing from infancy 
 an atmosphere of perpetual summer, and nurtured by the 
 simple fruits of the earth ; enjoying a perfect freedom from 
 care and anxiety, and removed effectually from all injurious 
 tendencies, strike the eye in a manner which cannot be por- 
 trayed. This picture is no fancy sketch : it is drawn from 
 the most vivid recollections of the person delineated. 
 
 Were I asked if the beauteous form of Fayaway was 
 altogether free from the hideous blemish of tatooing. I should 
 be constrained to answer that it was not. But the practi- 
 tioners of this barbarous art so remorseless in their inflic- 
 tions upon the brawny limbs of the warriors of the tribe, 
 seem to be conscious that it needs not the resources of their 
 profession to augment the charms of the nTaidens of the vale. 
 
 The females are very little embellished in this way. and 
 Fayaway, and all other young girls of her age, were even 
 less so than those of their sex more advanced in years. The 
 reason of this peculiarity will be alluded to hereafter. All 
 the tattooing that the nymph in question exhibited upon her 
 
FAYAWAY, THE TYPEE GIRL. 11 
 
 person may be easily described. Three minute dots, no 
 bigger than pin-heads, decorated either lip, and at a little 
 distance were not at all discernable. Just upon the fall of the 
 shoulder were drawn two parallel lines half an inch apart, and 
 perhaps three inches in length, the interval being filled with 
 delicately executed figures. These narrow bands of tattoo- 
 ing, thus placed, always reminded me of those stripes of 
 gold lace worn by officers in undress, and which are in lieu 
 of epaulettes to denote their rank. 
 
 Thus much was Fayaway tattooed. The audacious 
 hand which had gone so far in its desecrating work stopping 
 short, apparently wanting a heart to proceed. 
 
 But [ have omitted to describe the dress worn by this 
 nymph of the valley. 
 
 Fayaway I must avow the fact for the most part 
 clung to the primitive and summer garb of Eden. But how 
 becoming the costume ! It showed her fine figure to the 
 best possible advantage ; and nothing could have been better 
 adapted to her peculiar style of beauty. At times, when, 
 rambling among the groves, or visiting at the houses of her 
 acquaintance, she wore a tunic of white tappa, reaching 
 from her waist to a little below the knees; and when ex- 
 posed for any length of time to the sun, she invariably pro- 
 tected herself from its rays by a floating mantle of the same 
 material, loosely gathered about the person. 
 
 As the beauties of our own land delight in bedecking 
 themselves with fanciful articles of jewelry, suspending them 
 from their ears, hanging them about their necks, and clasp- 
 ing them about their wrists ; so Fayaway and her compan- 
 ions were in the habit of ornamenting themselves with simi- 
 lar appendages. 
 
 Flora was their jeweller. Sometimes they wore neck* 
 laces of small carnation flowers, strung like rubies upon a 
 fibre of tappa, or displayed in their ears a single white bud, 
 the stem thrust backward through the aperture, and showing 
 in front the delicate petals folded together in a beautiful 
 sphere, and looking like a drop of the purest pearl. Chap- 
 lets too, resembling in their arrangement the strawberry 
 coronal worn by the English peeress, and composed of inter- 
 twined leaves and blossoms, often crowned their temples; 
 and bracelets and anklets of the same tasteful pattern were 
 frequently to be seen. Indeed, the maidens of the Island 
 were passionately fond of flowers, and never wearied of dec- 
 orating their persons with them ; a lovely trait in their 
 character, and one that ere long will be more fully alluded to. 
 
12 DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 
 
 Though, in my eyes at least, Fayaway was indisputably 
 the loveliest female 1 saw in Typee. yet the description 1 have 
 given of her will in some measure apply to nearly all the 
 youthful portion of her sex in the valley. Judge ye then, 
 reader, what beautiful creatures they must have been. 
 
 Melville. 
 
 A Descent into the Maelstrom. 
 
 BY this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, 
 or perhaps we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before 
 it, but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept 
 down by the wind, and lay flat and frothing, now got up into 
 absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had come 
 over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as 
 black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at 
 once, a circular rift of clear sky as clear as I ever saw 
 and of a deep bright blue and through it there blazed forth 
 the full moon with the lustre that I never before knew her 
 to wear. She lit up every thing about us with the greatest 
 distinctness but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up! 
 
 I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother 
 but, in some manner which I could not understand, the 
 din had so increased that I could not make him hear a single 
 word, although 1 screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. 
 Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and 
 held up one of his fingers, as if to say l listen. n 
 
 At first 1 could not make out what he meant but soon 
 a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch 
 from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by the 
 moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away 
 into the ocean. It had run down at seven o'clock! We 
 were behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the Strom 
 was in full fury ! 
 
 When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not 
 deep laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she is going 
 large, seem always to slip from beneath her which appears 
 very strange to a landsman and this is what is called riding, 
 in a sea phrase. Well, so far we had ridden the swell very 
 cleverly; but presently a gigantic sea happ3ned to take us 
 right under the counter, and bore us with it as it rose up 
 up as if into the eky. I would not have believed that any 
 wave oould rise so high. And then down we came with a 
 
DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 13 
 
 sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and 
 dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a 
 dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance 
 around and that one glance was all sufficient. I saw our 
 exact position in an instant. The JVJoskoe-strom, whirl- 
 pool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead but no moro 
 like the-every-day Moskoe-strom, than the whirl, as you now 
 see it. is like a mill-race. If I had not known where we 
 were and what we had to expect, I should not have recog- 
 nised the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my 
 eyes in horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if 
 in a spasm. 
 
 It could not have been more than two minutes afterward 
 until we suddenly felt the waves subside, and were envel- 
 oped in foam. The boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, 
 and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. 
 At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was com- 
 pletely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek such a sound as- 
 you might imagine given out by the waste-pipes of many 
 thousand steam-vessels, letting off their steam all together. 
 We were now in the belt of surf that always surrounds the 
 whirl ; and I thought, of course, that another moment would 
 plunge us into the abyss down which we could only see in- 
 distinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we 
 were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the- 
 water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface- 
 of the surge. Her starboard side was next to the whirl, and 
 on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It 
 stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon. 
 
 It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the 
 very jaws of the gulf, I felt more composed than when w& * 
 were only approachiug it. Having made up my mind to- 
 hope no more, I got rid of a good deal of that terror which 
 unmanned me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung 
 my nerves. 
 
 Tt may look like boasting but what I tell you is truth 
 I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in 
 such a manner, and how foolish it was for me to think of so 
 paltry a consideration as my own individual life, in view of 
 so wonderful a manifestation of God's power. I do believe 
 that 1 blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. 
 After a little while I be came possessed with the keenest 
 curiosity about the whirl itself. I positively felt a wish to 
 explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to 
 raako ; and my principal grief was that I should never 
 
14 DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 
 
 be able to tell ray old companions on shore about the mys- 
 teries I should see. These, no doubt, -were singular fancies 
 to occupy a man's mind in such extremity and 1 have often 
 thought since, that the revolutions of the boat around the 
 pool mi^ht have rendered me a little light-headed. 
 
 There was another circumstance which tended to restore 
 my self-possession ; and this was the cessation of the wind, 
 which could not reach us in our present situation for the 
 belt of the surf is considerable lower tha"h the general bed of 
 the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, 
 black mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in 
 a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind 
 occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, 
 deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action 
 or reflection. But we were now in a great measure, rid of 
 these annoyances just as death-condemned felons in prison 
 are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their 
 doom is yet uncertain. 
 
 How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossi- 
 ble to say. We careered round and round for perhaps an 
 hour, flying rather than floating, getting gradually more and 
 more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and 
 nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never 
 let go of the ring-bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding 
 on to a small empty water-cask which had been securely 
 lashed under the coop of the counter, and was the only thing 
 on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale 
 first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let 
 go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in 
 the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as 
 it was not large enough to afford up both a secure grasp. I 
 never felt a deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this 
 act although 1 knew he was a madman when he did it a 
 raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, 
 to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no 
 difference whether either of us held on at all ; so I let him 
 have the bolt, and went astern to the cask. This there was 
 no great difficulty in doing ; for the smack flew round stead- 
 ily enough, and upon an even keel only swaying to and fro, 
 with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely 
 had I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a 
 wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss, 
 I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was 
 over. 
 
 As I felt the sickening sweep of the deseed, I had in- 
 
DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 16 
 
 stinctively tightened ray hold upon the barrel, and closed my 
 eyes. I" or some seconds I dared not open them while 1 
 expected instant destruction, and wondered that I was not 
 already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment 
 after moment elapsed. 1 still lived. The sense of falling 
 had ceased; and the motion of 'the vessel seemed much as it 
 had been before, while in the belt of foam, with the exception 
 that sbe now lay more along. I took courage and looked 
 once again upon the scene. 
 
 Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and 
 admiration with which 1 gazed about me. The boat appeared 
 to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the inte- 
 rior surface of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in 
 depth and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been 
 mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with 
 which they spun around, and for the gleaming and' ghastly 
 radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, from 
 that circular rift amid the clouds which I have already 
 described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the 
 black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of 
 the abyss. 
 
 At first I was too much confused to observe anything 
 accurately. The general burst of terrific grandeur was all 
 that I beheld. When I recovered myself a little, however, 
 my gaze fell instintively downward. In this direction 1 was 
 able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in 
 which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. 
 She was quite upon an even keel that is to say, her deck 
 lay in a plane parallel with that of the water but this latter 
 sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we 
 seemed to be laying upon our beam-ends. 1 could not help 
 observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty in 
 maintaining my hold and footing in this situation, than if 
 we had been a dead level ; and this, 1 suppose, was owing 
 to the speed at which we revolved. 
 
 The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom 
 of the profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing 
 distinctly, on account of a thick mist in which every thing 
 there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnifi- 
 cent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which 
 Mussulmen say is the only pathway between Time and Eter- 
 nity. The mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the 
 clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as they all met 
 together at the bottom but the yell that went up to the 
 Heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe. 
 
16 DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 
 
 Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam 
 above, had carried us a great distance down the slope ; but 
 our farther descent was by no means proportionate. Round 
 and round we swept not with any uniform movement but 
 in dizzying swings and jerk* that sent us sometimes only a 
 few hundred yards sometimes nearly the complete circuit 
 of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each revolution, 
 was slow, but very perceptible. 
 
 Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony 
 on which we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was 
 not the only object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above 
 and below us were visible fragments pf vessels, large masses 
 of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller 
 articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, 
 barrels and staves. I have already described the unnatural 
 curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. 
 It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer 
 to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange 
 interest, the numerous things that floated in our company. 
 I must have been been delirious for 1 even sought amuse- 
 ment in speculating upon the relative velocities of their seve- 
 ral descents towards the foam below. 'This fir tree, 1 1 found 
 myself at one time saying, ' will certainly be the next thing 
 that takes the awful plunge and disappears,' and then 1 
 was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant 
 ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after 
 making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in 
 all this fact the fact of my invariable miscalculation set 
 me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again 
 tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more. 
 
 It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the 
 dawn of a more exciting hope. This hope arose partly from 
 memory and partly from present observation. I called to 
 mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the 
 coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown 
 forth by the Moskoe-strom. By far the greater number of 
 the articles were shattered in the most extraordinary way 
 so chafed and roughened as to have the appearance of being 
 stuck full of splinters but then I distinctly recollected that 
 there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. 
 Now I could not account for this difference except by suppo- 
 sing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which 
 had been completely absorbed that the others had entered 
 the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or for some reason, 
 had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not 
 
DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. 17 
 
 reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of 
 the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in 
 either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to 
 the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those 
 which had been drawn in more early, or absorbed more rap- 
 idly. I made, also, three important observations. The first 
 was, that, as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the 
 more rapid their descent the second, that between two 
 masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of 
 any other shape, the superiority in the speed of descent was 
 with the sphere the third that between two masses of equal 
 size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the 
 cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, 
 I have had sever il conversations on this subject with an old 
 school-master of the district ; and it was from him that I 
 learned the use of the words 'cylinder' and 'sphere.' He 
 explained to me although I have forgotten the explanation 
 how what I observed was, in fact the natural consequence 
 of the forms of the floating fragments and showed me how 
 it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered 
 more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater 
 difficulty than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever. 
 
 There was one startling circumstance which went a 
 great way in enforcing these observations, and rendering me 
 anxious to turn them to account, and this was that, at every 
 revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard 
 or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which 
 had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the 
 wonders of the whirlpool, were now high above us, and 
 seemed to have moved but little from their original station. 
 
 I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash 
 myself securely to the water cask upon which I now held, to 
 cut it loose from the counter, and to throw myself with it into 
 the water. I attracted my brother's attention by s'gne, 
 pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did 
 everything in my power to make him understand what I was 
 about to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my 
 design but. whether this was the case or not, he shook his 
 head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by 
 the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach him ; the emer- 
 gency admitted of no delay and so with a bitter struggle, 
 I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by 
 means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and 
 precipitated myself with it into the sea, without another 
 
18 THE LOST COMRADE. 
 
 moment's hesitation. The result was precisely what I had 
 hoped it might be. Poc. 
 
 A Hunt for a lost Comrade. 
 
 THE morning dawned, and an hour or two passed without 
 any tidings of the Count. We began to feel uneasiness lest, 
 having no compass to aid him, he might, perplex himself 
 and wander in some opposite direction. Stragglers are 
 thus often lost for days ; what made us more anxious about 
 him was, that he had no provisions with him, was totally 
 unversed in " wood craft," and liable to fall into the hands 
 of some lurking or straggling party of savages. 
 
 As soon as our people, therefore, had made their break- 
 fast, we beat up for volunteers for a cruise in search of the 
 Count. A dozen of the rangers, mounted on some of the 
 best and freshest horses, and armed with rifles, were soon 
 ready to start ; our half-breeds Beatte and Antoine also, 
 with our little mongrel Frenchman, were zealous in the 
 cause ; so Mr. L. and myself taking the lead, to show the 
 way to the scene of our little hunt, where we had parted 
 company with the Count, we all set out across the prairie. 
 A ride of a couple miles brought us to the carcasses of the 
 two buffaloes we had killed. A legion of ravenous wolves 
 were already gorging upon them. At our approach they 
 reluctantly drew off, skulking with a caitiff look to the dis- 
 tance of a few hnndred yards, and there awaiting our de- 
 parture, that they might return to their banquet. 
 
 I conducted Beatte and Antoine to the spot whence the 
 young Count had contiuned the chase alone. It was like 
 putting hounds upon the scent. They immediately distin- 
 guished the track of his horse amidst the trampings of the 
 buffaloes, and set off at a round pace, following with the 
 eye in nearly a straight course, for upwards of a mile, when 
 they came to where the herd had divided, and run hither 
 and thither about a meadow. Here the track of the horse's 
 hoofs wandered and doubled and often crossed each other; 
 our half-breeds were like hounds at fault. While we were 
 at a halt, waiting until they should unravel the maze, 
 
THE LOST COMRADE. 19 
 
 Beatte suddenly gave a short Indian whoop, or rather yelp, 
 and pointed to a distant hill. On regarding it attentively, 
 we perceived a horseman on the summit. u It is the Count !" 
 cried Beatte, and set off at full gallop, followed by the whole 
 company. In a few moments he checked his horse. Ano- 
 ther figure on horseback had appeared on the brow of the 
 hill. This completely altered the case. The Count had 
 wandered off alone; no other person had been missing from 
 the camp. If one of these horsemen were indeed the Count, 
 the other must be an Indian. If an Indian, in all probability 
 a Pawnee. Perhaps they were both Indians ; scouts of some 
 party lurking in the vicinity. While these and other sug- 
 gestions were hastily discussed, the two horsemen glided 
 down from the profile of the hill, and we lost sight of them. 
 One of the rangers suggested that there might be a strag- 
 gling party of Pawnees behind the hill, and that the Count 
 might have fallen into their hands. The idea had an electric 
 effect upon the little troop. In an instant every horse was at 
 full speed, the half-breeds leading the way; the young rang- 
 ers as they rode set up wild yelps of exultation ac the 
 thoughts of having a brush with the Indians. A neck or 
 nothing gallop brought us to the skirts of the hill, and re- 
 vealed our mistake. In a ravine we found the two horsemen 
 standing by the carcass of a buffalo which they had killed. 
 They proved to ba two rangers, who, unperceived, had leffc 
 the camp a little before us, and had come here in a direct 
 line, while we had made a wide circuit about the prairie. 
 
 This episode being at an end, and the sudden excite- 
 ment being over, we slowly and coolly retraced our steps to 
 the meadow; but it was some time before our half-breeds 
 could again get on the track of the Count. Having at 
 length found it, they succeeded in following it through all 
 its doublings, until they came to where it was no longer 
 mingled with the tramp of Buffaloes, but became single 
 and separate, wandering here and there about the prai- 
 ries, but always tending in a direction opposite to that 
 of the camp. Here the Count had evidently given up the 
 pursuit of the herd, and had endeavored to find his way to 
 the encampment, but had become bewildered as the evening 
 shades thickened around him, and had completely mistaken 
 the points of the compass. 
 
 In all this quest our half-breeds displayed that quickness 
 of eye, in following up a track, for which Indians are so 
 noted. Beatte, especially, was as staunch as a veteran 
 
20 THE LOST COMRADE, 
 
 hound. Sometimes he would keep forward on an easy trot ; 
 his eyes fixed on the ground a little ahead of his horse, clearly 
 distinguishing prints in the herbage, which to me were in- 
 visihle, except on the closest inspection. Sometimes he 
 would pull up and walk his horse slowly, regarding the 
 ground intensely, where to my eye nothing was apparent. 
 Then he would dismount, lead his "horse by the bridle, and 
 advance cautiously step by step, with his face bent toward 
 the earth, just catching here and there, a casual indication 
 of the vaguest kind to guide him onward. In some places 
 where the soil was hard, and the grass withered, he would 
 lose the track entirely, and wander backwards and forwards, 
 and right and left, in search of it; returning occasionally to 
 the place where he had lost sight of it, to take a new departure. 
 If this failed he would examine the banks of the neighboring 
 streams, or the sandy bottoms of the ravines, in hopes of 
 finding tracks where the Count had crossed. When he again 
 came upon the track he would remount his horse, and resume 
 his onward course. At length after crossing a stream, in 
 the crumbling banks of which the hoofs of the horse were 
 deeply dented, we came upon a high dry prairie, where our 
 half-breeds were completely baffled. Not a foot-print was 
 to be discerned, though they searched in every direction; 
 and Beatte at length coming to a pause, shook his head 
 despondingly. 
 
 Just then a small herd of deer, roused from a neighbor- 
 ing ravine, came bounding by us. 'Beatte sprang from hia 
 horse and levelled his rifle, and wounded one slightly, but 
 without bringing it to the ground. The report of the rifle 
 was almost immediately followed by a long halloo from a 
 a distance. We looked around but could see nothing. 
 Another long halloo was heard, and at length a horseman 
 was descried, emerging out of a skirt of forest. A single 
 glance showed him to be the young Count; there was a 
 universal shout and scamper, every one setting off full gallop 
 to greet him. It was a joyful meeting to both parties; for, 
 much anxiety had been felt by us all on account ot his youth 
 and inexperience, and for his part with all his love of 
 adventure, he seemed right glad to be once more among his 
 friends. 
 
 As we supposed, he had completely mistaken his course 
 on the preceding evening, and had wandered about until 
 dark when he thought of bivouacking. The night was cold 
 yet he feared to make a fire, lest it might betray him to some 
 
EULOGY ON MADISON. 21 
 
 lurking party of Indians. Hobbling his horse with his pocket 
 handkerchief, and leaving him to graze on the margin of the 
 prairie, he clambered into a tree, fixed his saddle in the fork 
 of the branches, and placing himself securely with his back 
 against the trunk, prepared to pass a dreary and anxious 
 night, regaled occasionally with the howlings of the wolves. 
 He was agreeably disappointed. The fatigue of the day soon 
 brought on a sound sleep ; he had delightful dreams about 
 his home in Switzerland, nor did he wake until it was broad 
 daylight. 
 
 He then descended from his roosting-place, mounted his 
 horse, and rode to the naked summit of a hill, whence he 
 beheld a trackless wilderness around him, but at no great 
 distance, the Grand Canadian, winding its way between bor- 
 ders of forest land. The sight of this river consoled him with 
 the idea that, should he fail in finding his way back to the 
 camp, or, in being found by some party of his comrades, he 
 might follow the course of the stream, which could not fail to 
 conduct him to some frontier post, or Indian hamlet. So 
 closed the events of our hap-hazard buffalo hunt. 
 
 Irving. 
 
 Extract from Adam's Eulogy on Madison. 
 
 AND what my friends and fellow citizens what is our 
 duty to our own ? Is it not to preserve, to cherish, to improve 
 the inheritance which they have left us won by their toils 
 watered by their tears saddened but fertilized by their 
 blood ? Are we the sons of worthy sires, and in the 
 onward march of time have they achieved in the career of 
 human improvement so much, only that our posterity and 
 theirs may blush for the contrast between their unexampled 
 energies and our nerveless impotence ? between their more 
 than Herculanean labors and our indolent repose ? No, my 
 fellow citizen, far be from us ; far be from you, for he who 
 now addresses you has but a few short days before he shall 
 be called to join the multitude of ages past far be from 
 you the reproach or suspicion of such a degrading contrast. 
 You too have the solemn duty to perform, of improving the 
 condition of your species, by improving your own. Not in 
 the great and strong wind of a revolution, which rent the 
 mountains and break in pieces the rocks before the Lord 
 for the Lord is not in the wind not in the earthquake of a 
 revolutionary war, marching to the onset between the battle 
 
22 CATHARINA, EMPRESS OF RUSSIA. 
 
 field and the scaffold for the Lord is not in the earthquake 
 notin^the fire of civil dissension in war between the 
 members and the head in nullification of the laws of the 
 Union by the forcible resistance of one refractory State for 
 the Lord is not in the fire ; and that fire was never kindled 
 by your fathers ! No ! it is in the still small voice that 
 succeeded the whirlwind, the earthquake and the fire. The 
 voice that stills the raging of the waves and the tumults of 
 the people that spoke the words of peace of harmony 
 of union. And for that voice, may you and your children's 
 children, " to the last syllable of recorded time," fix your 
 eyes upon the memory, and listen with your ears to the life 
 of James Madison. 
 
 Catharina, Empress of Russia. 
 
 CATHAP.INA ALRXOWNA, born near Derpat, a little city 
 in Livonia, was heir to no other inheritance than the virtues 
 and frugality of her parents. Her father being dead, she 
 lived with her aged mother, in her cottage covered with 
 straw, and both, though very poor, were very contented. 
 Here, retired from the gaze of the world, by the labor of her 
 hands she supported her parent, who was now incapable of 
 supporting herself. 
 
 Though Catharina's face and person were models ot 
 perfection, vet her whole attention seemed bestowed upon 
 Iier mind. Her mother taught her to read, and an old Lu- 
 theran minister instructed her in the maxims and duties of 
 religion. Nature had furnished her not only with a ready, 
 but a solid turn of thought; not only with a strong, but a 
 right understanding. 
 
 Catharina was fifteen years old when her mother died. 
 She then left her cottage, and went to live with the Luther- 
 an minister, by whom she had heen instructed from her 
 childhood. In his house she resided in quality of governess 
 to his children ; at once reconciling in her character, uner- 
 ring prudence with surprising vivachy. The old man, who 
 regarded her as one of his own children, had her instructed 
 
CATHARINA, EMPRESS OF RUSSIA. 28 
 
 ip the elegant parts of female education, by the masters who 
 attended the rest of his family. 
 
 Thus she continued to improve until he died ; by which 
 accident she was reduced to her former poverty. The coun- 
 try of Livonia was at that time wasted by war, and lay in a 
 miserable state of desolation. Those calamities are ever 
 most heavy upon the poor; wherefore, Catharina, though 
 possessed of so many accomplishments, experienced all the 
 miseries of hopeless indigence. Provisions becoming every 
 day more scarce, and her private stock being entirely ex- 
 hausted, she resolved at last to travel to Marienburgh, a city 
 of greater plenty. 
 
 With the effects of her scanty wardrobe packed up in 
 a wallet, she set out on her journey on foot. She was to 
 walk through a region, miserable by nature, but rendered 
 still more hideous by the Swedes and Russians, who, as 
 each happened to become masters, plundered it at discre- 
 tion : but hunger had taught her to despise the danger and 
 fatigues of the way. One evening upon her journey, as she 
 had entered a cottage by the way-side, to take up her lodg. 
 ing for the ni^ht, she was insulted by two Swedish soldiers. 
 
 They might, probably, have carried their insults into 
 violence, had not a subaltern officer, accidentally passing 
 by, come to her assistance. Upon his appearing, the soldiers 
 immediately desisted; but her thankfulness was hardly 
 greater than her surprise, when she instantly recollected in 
 ker deliverer, the son of the Lutheran minister, her former 
 instructor, benefactor, and friend. 
 
 This was a happy interview for Catharina. The little 
 stock of money she had brought from home was by this time 
 quite exhausted ; her clothes were gone, piece by piece, in 
 order to satisfy those who had entertained her in their 
 houses: her generous countryman, therefore, parted with 
 what he could spare to buy her clothes ; furnished her with 
 a horse ; and gave her letters of recommendation to a faithful 
 friend of his father, the superintendent of Marienburgh. 
 
 The beautiful stranger was well received at Marien- 
 burgh. She was immediately admitted into the superin 
 tendent's family, as governess to his two daughters ; and 
 though but seventeen, showed herself capable of instructing 
 her sex, not only in virtue, but in politeness. Such were her 
 good sense and beauty, that her master himself in a short 
 time offered her his hand, which to his great surprise she 
 thought proper to refuse. Actuated by a principle of grati- 
 
24 CATHARINA; EMPRESS OF RUSSIA. 
 
 tude, she resolved to marry her deliverer -only, though he 
 had lost an arm, and was otherwise disfigured by wound* 
 received in the service. 
 
 In order, therefore, to prevent further solicitations from 
 others, as soon as the officer came to town upon duty, she 
 offered him her hand which he accepted with joy, and theii 
 nuptials were accordingly solemnized. But all the line* 
 of her fortune were to be striking. The very day on whict 
 they were married, the Russians laid siege to Marienburgh ; 
 'and the unhappy soldier was immediately ordered to an at- 
 tack from which he never returned. 
 
 In the meantime the siege went on with fury, aggra- 
 vated on one side by obstinacy, on the other by revenge. 
 The war between the two northern powers at that time was 
 truly barbarous: the innocent peasant, and the harmless 
 virgin, often shared the fate of the soldier in arms. Mari- 
 enburgh was taken by assault; and such was the fury of the 
 assailants, that not only the garrison, but almost all the in- 
 habitants, men, women, and children were put to the sword. 
 At length, when the carnage was pretty well over, Caiha- 
 rina was^bund hid in an oven. 
 
 She had hitherto been poor, but free ; she was now to 
 conform to her hard fate, and learn what it was to be a slave. 
 In this situation, however, she behaved with piety and hu- 
 mility; and though misfortunes had abated her vivacity, yet 
 she was cheerful. The fame of her merit and resignation, 
 reached even prince Menzikoff, the Russian general. He 
 desired to see her; was pleased with her appearance, bought 
 her from the soldier, her master ; and placed her under the 
 direction of his own sister. Here she was treated with all 
 the respect which her merit deserved, while her beauty 
 everv day improved with her good fortune. 
 
 She had not been long in this situation, when Peter 
 the Great paying the prince a visit, Catharina happened to 
 come in with some dried fruits, which she served round with 
 peculiar modesty. The mighty monarch saw her, and was 
 struck with her beauty. He returned the next day ; called 
 for the beautiful slave ; asked her several questions ; and 
 found the charms of her mind superior even to those of her 
 person. 
 
 He had been forced, when young, to marry from mo- 
 tives of interest : he was now resolved to marry pursuant 
 to his own inclinations. He immediately inquired into th? 
 
EXECUTION OF CRANME1 . 25 
 
 history of the fair Livonian, who was not yet eighteen. He 
 traced her through the vale of obscurity ; through the vicis- 
 situdes of her fortune ; and found her truly great in them 
 all. The meanness of her birth was no obstruction to his 
 design. The nuptials were solemnized in private ; the prince 
 declaring to his courtiers that virtue was the surest ladder 
 to a throne. 
 
 We now see Catharina. raised from the low, mud 
 walled cottage, to be Empress of the greatest kingdom upon 
 earth. The poor, solitary wanderer, is now surrounded by 
 thousands who find happiness in her smile. She, who for- 
 merly wanted a meal, is now capable of diffusing plenty 
 upon whole nations. To her good fortune she owed a part 
 of this pre-eminence, but to her virtues more. She ever after 
 retained those great qualities which first placed her on a 
 throne; and, while the extraordinary prince, her husband, 
 labored for the reformation of his male subjects, she studied 
 in her turn, the improvement of her own sex. She altered 
 their dresses ; introduced mixed assemblies; instituted an 
 order of female knighthood ; promoted piety and virtue ; and, 
 at length, when she had greatly filled all the stations of 
 empress, friend, wife, and mother, bravely died without re- 
 gret regretted by all. Goldsmith. 
 
 Execution of Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 Q,UEEN MARY determined to bring Cranmer, whom she 
 had long detained in prison, to punishment ; and in order 
 more fully to satiate her vengeance, she resolved to punish 
 him for heresy, rather man for treason. He was cited by 
 the Pope to stand his trial at Rome ; and though he was 
 known to be kept in close custody at Oxford, he was, upon 
 his not appearing, condemned as contumacious. Bonner, 
 bishop of London, and Thirleby, bishop of Ely, were sent to 
 degrade him ; and the former executed the melancholy 
 ceremony, with all the joy and exultation which suited nil 
 savage nature. 
 
 The implacable spirit of the Queen, not satisfied with 
 the future misery of Cranmer, which she believed inevitable, 
 and with the execution of that dreadful sentence to which he 
 was condemned, prompted her also to seek the ruin of his 
 
EXECUTION OF GRANMER. 
 
 honor, and the infamy of his name. Persons were employ- 
 ed to attack him, not in the way of disputation, against which 
 he was sufficiently armed; but by flattery, insinuation, and 
 address ; by representing the dignities to which his charac- 
 ter still entitled him, if he would merit them by a recanta- 
 tion; by giving him hopes of long enjoying those powerful 
 friends, whom his beneficent disposition had attached to him 
 during the course of his prosperity. 
 
 Overcome by the fond love of life ; terrified by the 
 prospect of those tortures which awaited him ; he allowed, 
 in an unguarded hour, the sentiment of nature to prevail over 
 l)is resolution, and agreed to subscribe to the doctrines of the 
 papal supremacy, and of the real presence. The court, 
 equally perfidious and cruel, was determined that this recan- 
 tation should avail him nothing ; and sent orders that he 
 should be required to acknoAvledge his errors in church, be- 
 fore the whole people ; and that he should thence be imme- 
 diately carried to execution. 
 
 Cranmer, whether he had received a secret intimation 
 of their design, or had repented of his weakness, surprised 
 the audience by a contrary declaration. He said that he 
 was well apprised of the obedience which he owed to his 
 sovereign and the laws; but that his duty extended no far- 
 ther than to submit patiently to their commands, and to bear, 
 without resistance, whatever* hardships they should impose 
 qpon him ; that a superior duty, the duty which he owed to 
 his Maker, obliged him to speak truth on all occasions, and 
 ot to relinquish, by a ba-e denial, the holy doctrine which 
 the (Supreme Being had revealed to mankind ; that there 
 was cme miscarriage in his life, of which above all others he 
 severely repented, the insincere declaration of faith to which 
 he had the weakness to consent, and which the fear of death 
 alone had extorted from him ; that he took this opportunity 
 of atonipg for his error by a sincere and open recantation, 
 and was willing to seal with his blood that doctrine, which 
 he firmly believed to be communicated from heaven ; and 
 that, as his hand had erred by betraying his heart, it should 
 first he punished by a severe and just doom, and should first 
 pay the forfeit of its offenses, 
 
 He was then led to the stake, amidst the insults of his 
 enemies, and having now summoned up all the force of his 
 mjnd, he bore their scorn, as well as the torture of his pun- 
 Isjiment, with singular fortitude. He stretched out his hand, 
 anid, without betraying, either by his countenance or motions, 
 th.p least sign of weakness, or eyen of feeling, he held it in 
 
VOYAGE OF LIFE 27 
 
 the flames till it was entirely consumed. His thoughts seemed 
 wholly occupied with reflections on his former faults ; and 
 he called aloud several times, "this hand has offended." 
 
 Satisfied with that atonement, he then discovered a se- 
 renity in his countenance ; and when the fire attacked his 
 body, he seemed to be quite insensible of his outward suffer- 
 ings, and by the force of hope and resolution, to have col- 
 lected his mind altogether within itself, and to repel the fury 
 of the flames. He was undoubtedly a man of merit, pos- 
 sessed of learning and capacity, and adorned with candor, 
 sincerity, and beneficence, and all those virtues which were 
 fitted to render him useful and amiable in society. Hume. 
 
 The Voyage of Life an Allegory. 
 
 "LiFE," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of 
 which we are perpetually changing our scenes. We first 
 leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years of ri- 
 pened manhood, then the better, or more pleasing part of old 
 age." The perusal of this passage having excited in me a 
 train of reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluc- 
 tuation of his wishes, the gradual change of his disposition 
 to all external objects, and the thoughtlessness with which 
 'he floats along the stream of time, 1 sunk into a slumber 
 amidst my meditations, and, on a sudden, found my ears filled 
 with the tumult of labor, the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks 
 of alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of waters. 
 
 My astonishment for a time suppressed my curiosity; 
 but soon recovering myself so far as to inquire whither we 
 were going, and what was the cause of such clamor and con- 
 fusion, I was told that we were launching out into the ocean 
 of life; that we had already passed the straits of infancy, in 
 which multitudes had perished, some by the weakness and 
 fragility of their vessels, and more by the folly, perverseness, 
 or negligence of those who undertook to steer them, and 
 that we were now on the main sea, abandoned to the winds 
 and billows, without any other means of security than the 
 care of the pilot, whom it was always in our power to choose, 
 among great numbers that offered their direction and assist- 
 ance. 
 
 I then looked around with anxious eagerness ; and, first 
 
28 VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 turning my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through 
 flowery islands, which every one that sailed along seemed 
 to behold with pleasure ; but no sooner touched them, than 
 the current, which though not noisy nor turbulent was yet 
 irresistible, bore him away. Beyond these islands all was 
 darkness; nor could any of the passengers describe the shore 
 at which he first embarked. 
 
 Before me, and on each side, was* an expanse of waters 
 violently agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the 
 most perspicacious eye could see but little way. It appeared 
 to be full of rocks and whirlpools; for many sunk unexpect- 
 edly while they were courting the gale with full sails, and 
 insulting those whom they had left behind. So numerous, 
 indeed, were the dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no 
 caution could confer security. Yet there were many, who by 
 false intelligence, betrayed their followers into whirlpools, or 
 by violence pushed those whom they found in their way 
 against the rocks. 
 
 The current was invariable and insurmountable: but 
 though it was impossible to sail against it, or to return to the 
 place that was once passed, yet it was not so violent as to 
 allow no opportunities for dexterity or courage; since, though 
 none could retreat back from danger, yet they might often 
 avoid it by oblique direction. 
 
 It was, however, not very common to steer with much 
 care or prudence; for, by some universal infatuation, every 
 man appeared to think himself safe, though he saw his con- 
 sorts every moment sinking around him ; and no sooner had 
 the waves closed over them, than their fate and their miscon- 
 duct were forgotten ; the voyage was pursued with the same 
 jocund confidence; every man congratulated himself upon 
 the soundness of his vessel, and believed himself able to stem 
 the whirlpool in which his friend was swallowed, or glide 
 over the rocks on which he was dashed ; nor was it often ob- 
 served that the sight of a wreck made any man change his 
 course. If he turned aside for a moment, he soon forgot the 
 rudder, and left himself again to the disposal of chance. 
 
 This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or 
 from weariness of their present condition ; for not one of 
 those who thus rushed upon destruction, failed, when he was 
 sinking, to call loudly upon his associates for mat help which 
 could not now be given him ; and many spent their last mo- 
 ments in cautioning others against the folly, by which they 
 
VOYAGE OF LIFE. 20 
 
 were intercepted in the midst of their course. Their be- 
 nevolence was sometimes praised, but their admonitions 
 were unregarded. 
 
 The vessels in which we were embarked, being confess- 
 edly unequal to the turbulence of the stream of life, were 
 visibly impaired in the course of the voyage ; so that every 
 passenger was certain, that how long soever he might, by 
 favorable accidents, or by incessant vigilance, be preserved, 
 he must sink at last. 
 
 This necessity of perishing might have been expected 
 to sadden the gay, and to intimidate the daring; at least to 
 keep the melancholy and timorous in perpetual torment, and 
 hinder them from any enjoyment of the varieties and grati- 
 fications which nature ottered them as the ^solace of their 
 labors ; yet, in effect, none seemed less to expect destruction 
 than those to whom it was most dreadful : they all had the 
 art of concealing their danger from themselves; and those 
 who knew their inability to bear the sight of terrors that em- 
 barrassed their way, took care never to look forward ; but 
 found some amusement of the present moment, and general- 
 ly entertained themselves by playing wilh Hope, who was 
 the constant associate of the Voyage of Life. 
 
 Yet all that Hope ventured to promise, even to those 
 whom she favored most, was, not that they should escape, 
 but that they should sink last ; and with this promise every 
 one was satisfied, though he laughed at the rest for seeming 
 to believe it. Hope, indeed, apparently mocked the credu- 
 lity of her companions ; for, in proportion as their vessels 
 grew leaky, she redoubled her assurances of safety; and 
 none were more busy in making provisions fora long voyage, 
 than they whom all but themselves saw likely to perish soon 
 by irreparable decay. 
 
 In the midst of the current of Life, was the gulf oi 
 Intemperance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, 
 of which the pointed crags were concealed underwater, and 
 the tops covered with herbage, on which Ease spread couches 
 of repose, and with shades, where Pleasure warbled the song 
 of invitation. Within sight of these rocks, all who sailed 
 on the ocean of Life must necessarily pass. 
 
 Reason, indeed, was always at hand, to steer the pas- 
 sengers through a narrow outlet, by which they might escape ; 
 but very few could, by her entreaties or remonstrances, be 
 induced to put the rudder into her hand, without stipulating 
 that she should approach so near the rocks of Pleasure, that 
 
30 VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 they might solace themselves with a short enjoyment of 
 that delicious region : after which they always determined 
 to pursue their course without any deviation. 
 
 Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these 
 promises, as to venture her charge within the eddy of the 
 gulf of Intemperance, where indeed the circumvolution 
 was weak, but yet interrupted the course of the vessel, and 
 drew it by insensible rotations toward the center. She then 
 repented her temerity, and with all her force endeavored to 
 retreat ; but the draught of the gulf was generally too strong 
 to be overcome ; and the passenger, having danced in circles 
 with a pleasing and giddy velocity, was at last overwhelmed 
 and lost. 
 
 Those few whom Reason was able to extricate, gen- 
 erally suffered so many shocks upon the points which shot 
 out from the rocks of Pleasure, that they were unable to con- 
 tinue their course with the same strength and facility as be- 
 fore, but iloated along, timorously and feebly, endangered by 
 every 'breeze, and shattered by every ruffle of the water, till 
 they sunk, by slow degrees, after long struggles and innu- 
 merable expedients, always repining at their own folly, and 
 warning others against the first approach toward the gulf of. 
 Intemperance. 
 
 There were artists who professed to repair the breaches, 
 and stop the leaks, of the vessels which had been shattered 
 on the rocks of Pleasure. Many appeared to have great 
 skill; and some, indeed, were preserved by it from, sinking, 
 who had received only a single blow ; but I remarked that 
 few vessels lasted long which had been much repaired ; nor 
 was it found that the artists themselves continued afloat, 
 longer than those who had least of their assistance. 
 
 The only advantage which, in the voyage of Life, the 
 cautious had afjove the negligent, was. that they sunk later, 
 and more suddenly ; for they passed forward till they had 
 sometimes seen all those in whose company they had issued 
 from the straits of Infancy, perish in the way ; and at last 
 were overset by a cross breeze, without the toil of resistance, 
 or the anguish of expectation. But such as had often fallen 
 against the rocks of Pleasure, commonly subsided by sensible 
 degrees ; contended long with the encroaching waters ; and 
 harassed themselves by labors that scarcely Hope herself 
 could flatter with success. 
 
 As I was looking upon the various fates of the multi- 
 tude about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an adrnonitioo. 
 
DEATH OF SOCRATES. 31 
 
 from some unknown power : " Gaze not idly upon others, 
 when thou thyself art sinking. Whence is this thoughtless 
 tranquillity, when thou and they are equally endangered f* 
 I looked, and seeing the gulf of Intemperance before me^ 
 started and awaked. Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Death of Socrates. 
 
 SOCRATES, the famous Greek philosopher, was born at 
 Athens, about 451 years before Christ. He gave early proofs 
 of his valor in the service of his country, but chiefly applied 
 himself to the study of philosophy ; and was a person of 
 irresistible eloquence, and accomplished virtue. His distin- 
 guishing characteristic was a perfect tranquillity of mind, 
 which enabled him to support, with patience, the most 
 troublesome accidents of life. 
 
 He used to beg of those with whdm he Usually conver- 
 sed, to put him on his guardj the moment they perceived in 
 him the first emotions of anger; and when they did so, he 
 instantly resumed perfect composure and complacency. 
 His wife, Xantippe, a woman of the most whimsical and 
 provoking temper, afforded him sufficient opportunity of ex- 
 ercising his patience, by the revilings and abuse with which 
 she was constantly loading him. 
 
 Socrates possessed, in a superior degree, the talent of 
 reasoning. His principal employment was the instruction 
 of youth an object to which he directed ail his care and 
 attention. He kept, however, no fixed public school, but 
 took every opportunity, without regarding times or places, 
 of conveying to them his precepts, and that in the most en- 
 ticing and agreeable manner. His lessons were so univer- 
 sally relished, that the moment he appeared, whether in the 
 public assemblies, walks, or feasts, he was surrounded with 
 a throng of the most illustrious scholare and hearers. The 
 young Athenians quitted eve*h their pleasures, to listen to the 
 discourse of Socrates. 
 
 He greatly exerted himself against the power of the 
 thirty tyrants, and in the behalf of Theramenes, whom 
 they had condemned to death ; insomuch, that they became 
 so much alarmed at his behavior, that they forbade him to 
 instruct the Athenian youth. Soon after, an accusation was 
 formally exhibited against him by Melitus, containing in 
 
32 DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 substance, "That he did not acknowledge the gods of the 
 republic, but introduced new deities in their room;" and fur- 
 ther, "that he corrupted the youth." He urged, in his de- 
 fense, that he had assisted, as others had, at the sacrifices 
 and solemn festivals. 
 
 He denied his endeavoring to establish any new wor- 
 ship. He owned, indeed, that he had received frequent ad- 
 monitions from a divine voice, which he called his genius, 
 that constantly attended him, and discovered to him future 
 events, that ne had often made use of this divine assistance 
 for the service of himself and his friends, but, that if he 
 had been thus particularly favored by Heaven, it was owing 
 chiefly to the regularity of his life and conduct; and that the 
 approbation of the Supreme Being, which was given him as 
 a reward for his virtue, ought not to be objected to him as 
 his crime. 
 
 Then, as to the other article, wherein he was accused 
 of corrupting the youth, and teaching them to despise the 
 settled laws and order of the commonwealth, he said he had 
 no other view in his conversation with them than to regu- 
 late their morals, that as he could not do this with any 
 public authority, he was therefore forced to insinuate him- 
 self into their company, and to use, in a manner, the same 
 methods to reclaim, which others did to corrupt them. 
 
 How far the whole charge affected him, it is not easy to 
 determine. It is certain, that amidst so much zeal and super- 
 stition as then reigned in Athens, he never dare openly op- 
 pose the received religion, and was therefore obliged to pre- 
 serve an outward show of it. But it is very probable, from 
 the discourses he frequently held with his friends, that, in 
 his heart, he despised and laughed at their monstrous opin- 
 ions and ridiculous mysteries, as having no other founda- 
 tion than the fables of the poets ; and that he had attained 
 to a notion of the one only true God, insomuch, that upon 
 the account of his belief of the Deity, and his exemplary 
 life, some have thought fit to rank him with Christian phi- 
 losophers. 
 
 And indeed his behavior upon his trial was more like 
 that of a Christian martyr than an impious pagan, where 
 he appeared with such a composed confidence, as naturally 
 results from innocence ; and rather, as Ciceros observes, as- 
 if he were to determine upon his judges, than to supplicate 
 them as a criminal. But how slight soever the proofs were 
 
DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 against him, the faction was powerful enough to find him 
 guilty. 
 
 It was a privilege, however, granted him, to demand a 
 mitigation b of punishment,- to change the condemnation of 
 death into banishment, imprisonment or a fine. But he 
 replied, generously, that he would choose neither of those 
 punishments, because that would be to acknowledge himself 
 guilty. This answer so incensed his judges, that they de- 
 termined he should drink the hemlock, a punishment at that 
 time much in use among them. 
 
 Thirty days were allowed him to prepare to die ; du- 
 ring which time he conversed with his friends with the same 
 evenness and serenity of mind he had ever done before. And 
 though they had bribed the jailer for his escape, he refused 
 it, as an ungenerous violation of the laws. He was about 
 seventy years old when he suffered ; which made him say, 
 he thought himself happy to quit life, at a time when it be- 
 gan to be troublesome ; and that his death was rather a de- 
 liverance than a punishment. 
 
 Cicero has described, with great eloquence, the lofty 
 sentiments aryl magnanimous behavior of Socrates. While 
 he held the fatal cup in his hand, he declared that he con- 
 sidered death, not as a punishment inflicted on him, but as 
 a help furnished him, of arriving so much sooner at heaven. 
 
 His children being brought before him, he spoke to 
 them a little, and then desired them to be taken away. The 
 hour appointed for drinking the hemlock being come, they 
 brought him the cup, which he received without any emo- 
 tion, and then addressed a prayer to heaven. It is highly 
 reasonable, said he, to offer my prayers to the Supreme Being 
 on this occasion, and to beseech him to render my departure 
 from earth, and my last journey, happy. Then he drank off 
 the poison with amazing tranquillity. 
 
 ObseTving his friends in this fatal moment weeping 
 and dissolved in tears, he reproved them with great mildness, 
 asking them whether their virtue had deserted them; "for," 
 added he, " I have always heard that it is our duty calmly to 
 resign our breath, giving thanks to God." After walking 
 about a little while, perceiving the poison beginning to work, 
 he lay down on his couch, and, in a few moments after, 
 breathed his last. Cicero declares, that he could never read 
 the account of the death of Socrates without shedding tears. 
 
 Soon after his death, the Athenians were convinced ol 
 his innocence, and considered all the misfortunes which after- 
 
 
34 PENN'S TREATY 
 
 ward befell the republic, as a punishment for the injustice of 
 his sentence. When the academy, and the other places oi 
 the city where he taught, presented themselves to the view 
 of his countrymen, they could not refrain from reflecting on 
 the reward bestowed by them, on one who had done them 
 such important services. They canceled the decree which 
 had condemned him, put Melitus to death. banished his 
 other accusers, and erected to his memory a statue of 
 brass, which was executed by the famous Lysippus. 
 
 Interesting account of William Perm's treaty with the 7n- 
 dians, previous to his settling in Pennsylvania. 
 
 THE country assigned to him by the royal charter, was 
 yet full of its original inhabitants ; and the principles of Wil- 
 liam Penn did not allow him to look upon that gift, as a war- 
 rant to dispossess the first proprietors of the land. He had 
 accordingly appointed his commissioners, the preceding year, 
 to treat with them for the fair purchase of a part of their 
 lands, and for their joint possession of the remainder; and 
 the terms of the settlement being now nearly agreed upon, 
 he proceeded, very soon after his arrival, to conclude the set- 
 tlement, and solemnly to pledge his faith, and to ratify and 
 confirm the treaty, in sight both of the Indians and planters. 
 
 For this purpose a grand convocation of the tribes had 
 been appointed, near the spot where Philadelphia now stands j 
 and it was agreed, that he and the presiding Sachems should 
 meet and exchange faith, under the spreading branches of a 
 prodigious elm-tree that grew on the bank of the river. On 
 the day appointed, accordingly, an innumerable multitude oi 
 the Indians assembled in that neighborhood, and were seen, 
 with their dark visages ' and brandished arms, "moving, in 
 vast swarms, in the depths of the woods which then over- 
 shaded the whole of that now cultivated region. 
 
 On the other hand, William Penn, with a moderate at- 
 tendance of friends, advanced to meet them. He came of 
 course unarmed, in his usual plain dress, without banners, 
 or mace, or guard, or carriages ; and only distinguished from 
 his companions by wearing a blue sash of silk net work, 
 (which it seems is still preserved by Mr. Kelt, of Seething- 
 hall, near Norwich,) and by having in his hand a roll of 
 
 
WITH THE INDIANS. 
 
 parchment, on which was engrossed the confirmation of 
 the treaty of purchase and arnity. 
 
 As soon as he drew near the spot where the Sachems 
 were assembled, the whole multitude of Indians threw dowtt 
 their weapons, and seated themselves on the ground in 
 groups, each under his own chieftain ; and the presiding 
 chief intimated to William Penn, that the nations were ready 
 to hear him. Having been thus calico 1 upon, he began: 
 " The great Spirit," he said, " who made him and them, who 
 ruled the heaven and the earth, and who knew the innermost 
 thoughts of man, knew that he and his friends had a hearty 
 desire to live in peace and friendship with them, and to* 
 serve them to the utmost of their power. 
 * " It was not their custom to use hostile weapons against 
 their fellow creatures ; for which reason they had come un- 
 armed. Their obje t ct was not to do injury, and thus provoke 
 the Great Spirit, but to do good. They were then met OH 
 the broad pathway of good faith and good will; so that no 
 advantage was to be, taken on either side, but all was to be 
 openness, brotherhood and love." 
 
 After these and other words, he unrolled the 1 parchment, 
 and, by means of the same interpreted, conveyed to them, 
 article by article^ the conditions of the purchase, and the 
 words of the compact then made for their eternal union/ 
 Among other things, they were not to be molested in thei* 
 lawful pursuits, eVen in the territory they had alienated $ 
 for it was to be common to them and the English. 
 
 They were to have the same liberty to do all things- 
 therein, relating to the improvement of their grounds, fc(! 
 the providing of sustenance for their families, which i>he 
 English had. If any disputes should arise between the Hwo\ 
 they should be settled by twelve persons, half of whom shotild 
 be English and half Indians. He then paid them fof the 
 land, and made them many presents besides, from the mer- 
 chandise that had been spread before them. Having (Zone 
 thisj he laid the roll of parchment on the ground, observing 
 again, that the ground should be common to both people/ 
 
 He then added, he would not do> as the* Marylanders 
 did, that is, call them Children or Brothers only : for often 
 parents were apt to whip their children too severely, and 
 brothers sometimes would differ; neifhef Would he compare 
 the friendship between him and them to- a chain, for the rain 
 might sometimes rust it, or a tree might fall and breafe it ; 
 but he should consider them as the same flesh and 
 
36 RELIGION AND 
 
 with the Christians, and the same as it one man's body were 
 to be divided into two parts. He then took up the parch- 
 ment, and presented it to the Sachem who wore the horn in 
 the chaplet, and desired him and the other Sachems to pre- 
 serve it carefully for three generations, that their children 
 might know what had passed between them, just as if he 
 himself had remained with them to repeat it. 
 
 The Indians, in return, made long and stately ha- 
 rangues : of which, however, no more seems to have been 
 remembered but that "they pledged themselves to live in 
 love with William Penn and his children, as long as the sun 
 and moon should endure." And thus ended this famous 
 treaty : of which Voltaire has remarked, with so much truth 
 and severity, that " it was the only one ever concluded be- 
 tween savages and Christians that was not ratified by an 
 oath, and the only one that never was broken." 
 
 Such, indeed, was the spirit in which the negotiation* 1 
 was entered into, and the corresponding settlement conduct- 
 ed, that, for the space of more than seventy years, and so 
 long indeed as the Quakers retained the chief power in the 
 government, the peace and amity which had been thus so- 
 lemnly promised and concluded, never was violated ; and a 
 great and most striking, though solitary example afforded, 
 of the facility with which they who are really sincere and 
 friendly in their own views, may live in harmony, even with 
 those who are supposed to be peculiarly fierce and faithless. 
 
 Edinburgh Review. 
 
 Religion and Superstition contrasted. 
 
 I HAD lately a very remarkable dream, which made so 
 strong an impression upon me, that I remember every word 
 of it ; and if you are not better employed, you may read the 
 relation of it as follows ; I thought I was in the midst of a 
 very entertaining set of company, and extremely delighted 
 in attending to a lively conversation, Avhen, on a sudden, I 
 perceived one of the most shocking figures that imagination 
 can frame, advancing toward me. 
 
 She was dressed in black, her skin was contracted into 
 a thousand wrinkles, her eyes deep sunk in her head, and 
 her complexion pale and livid f as the countenance of death. 
 Her looks were filled with terror and unrelenting severity, 
 
SUPERSTITION CONTRASTED. 37 
 
 and her hands armed with whips and scorpions. As soon 
 as she came near, with a horrid frown, and a voice that chill- 
 ed my very blood, she bade me follow her. I obeyed; and 
 she led me through rugged paths, beset with briers and 
 thorns, into a deep, solitary valley. 
 
 Wherever she passed, the fading verdure withered be- 
 neath her steps ; her pestilential breath infected the air with 
 malignant vapors obscured the luster of the sun, and in- 
 volved the fair face of heaven in universal gloom. Dismal 
 bowlings resounded through the forest : from every baleful 
 tree the night-raven uttered his dreadful note ; and the pros- 
 pect was filled with desolation and horror. In the midst of 
 this tremendous scene, my execrable guide addressed me 
 in the following manner : 
 
 " Retire with me, O rash, unthinking mortal ! from the 
 vain allurements of a deceitful world ; and learn that plea- 
 sure was not designed as the portion of human life. Man 
 was born to mourn and to be wretched. This is the condi- 
 tion of all below the stars ; and whoever endeavors to oppose 
 it, acts in contradiction to the will of heaven. Fly, then, 
 from the enchantments of youth and social delight, and here 
 consecrate thy solitary hours to lamentation and wo. Misery 
 is the duty of all sublunary beings ; and every enjoyment 
 is an offense to the Deity, who is to be worshiped only by 
 the mortification of every sense of pleasure, and the ever- 
 lasting exercise of sighs and tears," 
 
 This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, 
 and seemed to annihilate every principle of joy within me. 
 I threw myself beneath a blasted yew, where the winds blew 
 cold and dismal around my head, and dreadful apprehensions 
 chilled my heart. Here I resolved to lie till the hand of 
 death, which I impatiently invoked, should put an end to 
 the miseries of a life so deplorably wretched. In this sad 
 situation, I espied on one hand of me a deep muddy river, 
 whose heavy waves rolled on, in slow, sullen murmuas. 
 
 Here I determined to plunge ; and was just upon the 
 brink, when I found myself suddenly drawn back. I turned 
 about, and was surprised by the sight of the loveliest object 
 I had ever beheld. The most engaging charms of youth 
 and beauty, appeared in all her form ; effulgent glories spar- 
 kled in her eyes, and their awful splendors were softened, 
 by the gentlest looks of compassion and peace. 
 
 At her approach, the frightful sp "*' 1 ' 1 . who had before 
 
RELIGION AND 
 
 tormented me. Vanished away, and with her all the horrors 
 she had caused, The gloomy clouds brightened into cheer- 
 ful sunshine, the groves recovered their verdure, and the 
 whole region looked gay and blooming as the garden of 
 Eden, I was quite transported at this unexpected change, 
 and reviving pleasure began to gladden my thoughts, when, 
 with a look of inexpressible sweetness, my beauteous deliv- 
 erer thus uttered her divine instructions: 
 
 " My name is Religion, I am the offspring of Truth 
 and Love, and the parent of Benevolence, Hope,. and Joy. 
 That monster, from whose power I have freed yofy is called 
 Superstition; slie is the child of Discontent, and her follow- 
 ers are Fear and Sorrow. Thus, different as we are, she 
 has often the insolence to assume my name and character j 
 and seduces unhappy mortals to think us the same, till she 
 at length drives them to the borders of Despair that dread- 
 ful abyss into Which you were just going to sink. 
 
 'Look around and survey the various beauties of the 
 globe, which heaven has destined for the seat of the human 
 race, and consider whether a world thus exquisitely framed, 
 could be intended for the abode of misery and pain. For 
 what end has the lavish hand of Providence diffused innu- 
 merable objects of delight, but that all might rejoice in the 
 privilege of existence, and be filled with gratitude to the be- 
 neficent Author of it. 
 
 " Thus to enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue and 
 obedience; and to reject them merely as means of pleasure, 
 is pitiable ignorance, or absurd perverseness. Infinite <?.ood- 
 ness is the source of created existence. The proper tenden- 
 cy of every rational being, from the highest order of raptured 
 seraphs to the meanest rank of men, is, to rise incessantly 
 from lower degrees of happiness to higher. They have fa- 
 culties assigned them for various orders of delights." 
 
 " What !" cried I, "is this the language of Religion 1 
 Does she lead her votaries through flowery paths, arid bid 
 them pass an unlaborious life ? Where are the painful toils 
 of virtue, the mortifications of penitents, and the self-denying 
 exercises of saints and heroes ?" 
 
 " The true enjoyments of a reasonable being," an- 
 swered she, mildly, " do not consist in unbounded indulgence, 
 or luxurious ease', in the tumult of passions, the languor of 
 indulgence, or the nutter of light amusements. Yielding to 
 immoral pleasures corrupts the mind j living to animal and 
 
SUPERSTITION CONTRASTED. 39 
 
 trifling ones debases it both in their degree, disqualify it for 
 its genuine good, and consign it over to wretchedness 
 Whoever would be really happy, must make the diligent and 
 regular exercise of his superior powers his chief attention, 
 adoring the perfections of his Maker, expressing good will 
 to his fellow-creatures, and cultivating inward rectitude. 
 
 " To his corporeal faculties he must allow such grati 
 flcations, as will, by refreshing, invigorate him for nobler 
 pursuits. In the regions inhabited by angelic natures, un- 
 mingled felicity forever blooms ; joy flows there with a per- 
 petual and abundant stream, nor needs any mound to check 
 its course. Beings, conscious of a frame of mind originally 
 diseased, as all the human race have cause to be, must use 
 the regimen of a stricter self-government. 
 
 " Whoever has been guilty of voluntary excesses, must 
 patiently submit, both to the painful workings of nature, and 
 needful severities of medicine, in order to his cure. Still he 
 is entitled to a moderate share, of whatever alleviating ac- 
 commodations this fair mansion of his merciful Parent af- 
 fords, consistent with his recovery. And, in proportion as 
 this recovery advances, the liveliest joy will spring from his 
 secret sense of an amended and improved heart, So far 
 from the horrors of despair is the condition even of the 
 guilty. Shudder, poor mortal, at the thought of the gulf into 
 which thou wast just now going to plunge. 
 
 " While the most faulty have every encouragement to 
 amend, the more innocent soul will be supported with still 
 sweeter consolations under all its experience of human infir* 
 mities-~supported by the gladdening assurances, that every 
 sincere endeavor to outgrow them, shall be assisted, accept- 
 ed, and rewarded. To such a one, the lowest self-abasement 
 is but a deep-laid foundation for the most elevated hopes 5 
 since they who faithfully examine and acknowledge what 
 they are, shall be enabled, under my conduct } to become 
 what they desire. 
 
 " The Christian, and the hero are inseparable ; and to 
 the aspirings of unassuming trust and filial confidence, are 
 set no bounds. To him who is animated with a view of ob- 
 taining approbation from the Sovereign of the universe, no 
 difficulty is insurmountable. Secure, in this pursuit, of eve- 
 ry needful aid, his conflict with the severest pains and trials, 
 is little more than the vigorous exercises of a mind in health. 
 
 " His patient dependence on that providence which 
 looks through all eternity, his silent resignation, his ready 
 
40 THE PLEASURE OP 
 
 accommodation of his thoughts and behavior to its inscrutk- 
 ble ways, are at once the most excellent sort of self-denial^ 
 and a source of the most exalted transports. Society is the 
 true sphere of human virtue. In social, active life, difficul- 
 ties will perpetually be met with ; restraints of many kinds 
 will be necessary ; and studying to behave right in respect 
 of these, is a discipline of the human heart, useful to others, 
 and improving to itself. 
 
 " Suffering is no duty, but where it is necessary to 
 avoid guilt, or to do good ; nor pleasure a crime, but where it 
 strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or lessens the 
 generous activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to man 
 in his present state, is indeed faint and low, compared with 
 his immortal prospects, and noble capacities: but yet, what 
 ever portion of it the distributing hand of heaven offers to 
 each individual, is a needful support and refreshment for the 
 present moment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining of 
 his final destination. 
 
 " Return, then, with me, from corrtinued misery to 
 moderate enjoyment and grateful alacrity : return, from 
 the contracted views of solitude, to the proper duties of a rela- 
 tive and dependent being. Religion is not confined to cells 
 and closets, nor restrained to sullen retirement. These are 
 the gloomy doctrines of Superstition, by which she endea- 
 vors to break those chains of benevolence .and social affeo 
 tion, that link the welfare of every particular with that of the 
 whole. Remember that the greatest honor you can pay the 
 Author of your being is a behavior so cheerful, as discovers 
 a mind satisfied with his dispensations." 
 
 Here my preceptress paused ; and I was going to ex- 
 press my acknowledgments for her discourse, when a ring- 
 ing of bells from the neighboring village, and the new rising 
 sun, darting his beams through my windows, awoke me. 
 
 Mrs. Carter. 
 
 DIDACTIC PIECES 
 
 On the pleasure of acquiring knowledge. 
 
 IN every period of life, the acquisition of knowledge is 
 one of the most pleasing employments of the human mind. 
 
ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE. 41 
 
 But in youth, there are circumstances which make it produc- 
 tive of higher enjoyment. It is then that every thing has the 
 charm of novelty j that curiosity and fancy are awake ; and 
 that the heart swells with the anticipations 11 of future emi- 
 nence and utility. Even in those lower branches of instruc- 
 tion which we call mere accomplishments, there is some- 
 thing always pleasing to the young in their acquisition. 
 
 They seem to become every well educated person ; they 
 adorn, if they do not dignify humanity ; and what is far more, 
 while they give an elegant employment to hours of leisure 
 and relaxation, they afford a means of contributing to the 
 purity and innocence of domestic life. But in the acquisi- 
 tion of knowledge of the higher kind, in the hours when, 
 the young gradually begin the study of the laws of nature, 
 and of the faculties of the human mind, or of the magnifi- 
 cent revelations of the Gospel, there is a pleasure of a sub- 
 limer nature. 
 
 The cloud, which in their infant years seemed to cover 
 nature from their view, begins gradually to resolve. The 
 world in which they are placed, opens with all its wonders 
 upon their eye; their powers of attention and observation 
 seem to expand with the scene before them ; and while they 
 see, for the first time, the immensity of the universe of God, 
 and mark the majestic simplicity of those laws by which its 
 operations are conducted, they feel as if they were awakened 
 to a higher species of being, and admitted into nearer inter- 
 course with the Author of Nature. 
 
 It is this period, accordingly, more than all others, that 
 determines our hopes or fears of the future fate of the young. 
 To feel no joy in such pursuits, to listen carelessly to the 
 voice which brings such magnificent instruction, to see the 
 veil raised which conceals the counsels of the Deity, and to 
 show no emotion at the discovery, are symptoms of a weak 
 and torpid spirit of a mind unworthy of the advantages 
 it possesses, and fitted only for the humility of sensual and 
 ignoble pleasure. 
 
 Of those, on the contrary, who distinguish themselves 
 by the love of knowledge, who follow with ardor the career 
 that is open to them, we are apt to form the most honorable 
 presages. It is the character which is natural to youth, and 
 which, therefore, promises well of their maturity. We fore- 
 see for them, at least a life of pure and virtuous enjoyment-: 
 and we are willing to anticipate no common share of future 
 usefulness and splendor. 
 
42 USES OF KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 In the second place, the pursuits of knowledge lead no A 
 only to happiness, but to honor. " Length of days is in her 
 right hand, and in her left are riches and honor." It is hon- 
 orable to excel, even in the most trifling species of knowl- 
 edge in those which can amuse only the passing hour. It 
 is more honorable to excel in those different branches of sci- 
 ence, which are connected with the liberal professions of life 
 and which tend so much to the dignity and well-being of 
 humanity. 
 
 It is the means of raising the most obscure to esteem 
 and attention ; it opens to the just ambition of youth some of 
 the most distinguished and respected situations in society ; 
 and it places them there, with the consoling reflection, that it 
 is to their own industry and labor, in the providence of God, 
 that they are alone indebted for them. But, to excel in the 
 higher attainments of knowledge, to he distinguished in 
 those greater pursuits which have commanded the attention, 
 and exhausted the abilities of the wise in every former age, 
 is, perhaps, of all the distinctions of human understanding, 
 the most honorable and grateful. 
 
 When we look back upon the great men who have gone 
 betore us in every path of glory, we feel our eye turned from 
 the career of war and of ambition, and involuntarily rest 
 upon those who have displayed the great truths of religion, 
 who have investigated the laws of social Avelfare, or extend- 
 ed the sphere of human knowledge. These are honors, we 
 feel, which have been gained without a crime, and which 
 can be enjoyed without remorse. They are honors also 
 which can never die, which can shed lustre even upon the 
 humblest head, and to which the young of every succeed- 
 ing age will look up, as their brightest incentive to the pur- 
 suit of virtuous fame. 
 
 On the uses of knowledge. 
 
 THE first end to which all wisdom or knowledge ought 
 to be employed, is. to illustrate the wisdom or goodness of 
 the Father of Nature. Every science that is cultivated by 
 men leads naturally to religious thought from the study 
 of the plant that grows beneath our feet, to that of the Host 
 of Heaven above us, who perform their stated revolutions in 
 majestic silence, amid the expanse of infinity. When in the 
 youth of Moses, " The Lord appeared to him in Horeb," a 
 voice was heard, saying, "draw nigh hither, and put off thy 
 
USES OF KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 shoes from thy feet ; for the place where thou standest is 
 holy ground." 
 
 It is with such reverential awe that every great or ele- 
 vated mind will approach to the study of nature ; and with 
 such feelings of adoration and gratitude, that he will receive 
 the illumination that gradually opens upon his soul. It is 
 not the lifeless mass of matter, he will then feel, that he is 
 examining; it is the mighty machine of Eternal Wisdom, 
 the workmanship of Him, "in whom every thing lives, and 
 moves, and has its being." 
 
 Under an aspect of this kind, it is impossible to pursue 
 knowledge without mingling with it the most elevated senti- 
 ments of devotion ; it is impossible to perceive the laws of 
 nature, without perceiving, at the same time, the presence 
 and the Providence of the Lawgiver; and thus it is, that, 
 in every age, the evidences of religion have advanced with 
 the progress of true philosophy; and that science, in erect- 
 ing a monument to herself, has at the same time erected an 
 altar to the Deity. 
 
 The knowledge of nature is not exhausted. There are 
 many great discoveries yet awaiting the labors of science; 
 and with them there are also awaiting to humanity, many 
 additional proofs of the wisdom and benevolence "of Him 
 that made us." To the hope of these great discoveries, few 
 indeed can pretend; yet let it be ever remembered, that he 
 who can trace any one new fact, or can exemplify any one 
 new instance of divine wisdom or benevolence in the sys- 
 tem of nature, has not lived in vain, that he has added to 
 the sum of human knowledge, -and, what is far more, that 
 he has added to the evidence of those greater truths, upon 
 which the happiness of time and eternity depends. 
 
 The second great end to which all knowledge ought to 
 be employed, is, to the welfare of humanity. Every science 
 is the foundation of some art, beneficial to men; and while 
 the study of it leads us to see the beneficence of the laws of 
 nature, it calls upon us also to follow the great end of the 
 Father of Nature, in their employment and application. I 
 need not say what a field is thus opened to the benevolence 
 of knowledge : I need not tell you that in every department 
 of learning there is good to be done to mankind ; I need not 
 remind you, that the age in which we live has given us the 
 noblest examples of this kind, and that science now finds its 
 highest glory, in improving the condition, or in allaying the 
 miseries of humanity. 
 
44 USES OF KNOWLEDGE, 
 
 But there is one thing of which it is proper ever to 
 remind you, because the modesty of knowledge often leads 
 us to forget it, and that is, the power of scientific benevo- 
 lence is far greater than that of all others to the welfare ot 
 society. The benevolence ot the opulent, however emi- 
 nent it may be perishes with themselves. The benevolence, 
 even of sovereigns, is limited to the narrow boundary of hu- 
 man life; and not unfrequently is succeeded by different 
 and discordant counsels. But the benevolence of knowledge 
 is of a kind as extensive as the race of man, and as perma- 
 nent as the existence of society. 
 
 He, in whatever situation he may be, who in the study 
 of science has discovered a new means of alleviating pain, 
 or of remedying disease, who has described a wiser method 
 of preventing poverty, or of shielding misfortune, who has 
 suggested additional means of increasing or improving the 
 beneficent productions of nature, has left a memorial ol 
 himself which can never be forgotten, which will commu- 
 nicate happiness to ages yet unborn, and which, in the em- 
 phatic language of scripture, renders him a " fellow-worker'' 
 with God himself, in the improvement of his Creation. 
 
 The third great end of ail knowledge is the improve 
 ment and exaltation of our own minds. It was the voice 01 
 the apostle, " What manner of men ought ye to be, to whom 
 the truths of the Gospel have come ?" It is the voice of na- 
 ture also, " What manner of men ought ye to be, to whom 
 the treasures of wisdom are opened ?" Of all the spectacles, 
 indeed, which life can offer us, there is none more painful, or 
 unnatural, than that of the union of vice with knowledge. 
 It counteracts the great designs of God in the distribution ol 
 wisdom; and it assimilates men, not to the usual character 
 of human frailty, but to those dark and malignant spirits who 
 fell from heaven, and who excel in knowledge only that 
 they may employ it in malevolence. 
 
 To the wise and virtuous man, on the contrary, to him 
 whose moral attainments have kept pace with his intellec- 
 tual, and who has employed the great talent with which he 
 is intrusted to the glory of God, and to the good of humani- 
 ty, is presented the sublimest prospect that mortality can 
 know. " In my father's house," says our Savior, " are many 
 mansions ;" mansions, we may dare interpret, fitted to the 
 different powers that life has acquired, and to the uses to 
 which they have been applied. 
 
INTEGRITY THE GUIDE OF LIFE. 45 
 
 Integrity the guide of life. 
 
 EVERY one who has begun to make any progress in the 
 world, will be sensible, that to conduct himself in human af- 
 fairs with wisdom and propriety, is often a matter of no small 
 difficulty. Amidst that variety of characters, of jarring dis- 
 positions, and of interfering interests, which take place among 
 those with whom we have intercourse, we are frequently at 
 a stand as to the part most prudent for us to choose. Igno- 
 rant of what is passing in the breasts of those around us, 
 we can form no more than doubtful conjectures concerning 
 the events that are likely to happen. 
 
 They may take some turn altogether different from the 
 course in which we have imagined they were to run, accord- 
 ing to which we had formed our plans. The slightest inci- 
 dent often shoots out into important consequences, of which 
 we were not aware. The labyrinth, becomes so intricate, 
 that the most sagacious can lay hold of no clue to guide him 
 through it : he finds himself embarrassed, and at a loss how 
 to act. In public and in private life, in managing his own 
 concerns, and in directing those of others, the doubt started 
 by the wise man frequently occurs ; Who knoweth, what is 
 good for man in this life ? 
 
 While thus fatigued with conjecture, we remain per- 
 plexed and undetermined in our choice ; we are at the same 
 time pulled to different sides by the various emotions which 
 belong to our nature. On one hand, pleasure allures us to 
 what is agreeable ; on the other, interest weighs us down 
 toward what seems gainful. Honor attracts us to what is 
 splendid; and indolence inclines us to what is easy. In the 
 consultations which we hold with our own mind concerning 
 our conduct, how often are we thus divided within our- 
 selves, puzzled by the uncertainty of future events, and 
 distracted by the contest of different inclinations ' 
 
 It is in such situations as these, that the principle of in- 
 tegrity interposes to give light and direction. While worldly 
 men fluctuate in the midst of those perplexities which I have 
 described, the virtuous man has one oracle to which he re- 
 sorts in every dubious case, and whose decisions he holds to 
 be infallible. He consults his own conscience ; he listens to 
 the voice of God. Were it only on a few occasions that this 
 
46 PROOF OP 
 
 oracle could be consulted, its value would be less. But it is 
 a mistake to imagine that its responses are seldom given. 
 
 Hardly is there any material transaction whatever in 
 human life any important question that holds us in suspense 
 as to practice but the difference between right and wrong will 
 show itself; and the principle of integrity will, if we listen 
 to it impartially, give a clear decision. Whenever the mind 
 is divided in itself, conscience is seldom or never neutral. 
 There is always one scale of the balance, into which il 
 throws the weight of some virtue, or some praise ; of some- 
 thing that is just and true, lovely, honest, and of good report. 
 
 These are the forms which rise to the observation of 
 the upright man. By others they may be unseen or over 
 looked; but in his eye, the luster 01 virtue outshines al] 
 other brightness. Wherever this pole-star directs him, he 
 steadily holds his course. Let the issue of that course be 
 ever so uncertain ; let his friends differ from him in opin 
 ion ; let his enemies clamor ; he is not moved ; his pur- 
 pose is fixed. 
 
 He asks but one question of his heart, What is the 
 part most becoming the station which he possesses, the 
 character which he wishes to bear, the expectations which 
 good men entertain o/him? Being once decided as to this, 
 he hesitates no more. He shuts his ears against every solici- 
 tation. He pursues the direct line of integrity without turn- 
 ing either to the right hand or to the left. "It is the Lord 
 who calleth. Him 1 follow. Let him order what seemeth 
 good in his sight." It is in this manner that the integri- 
 ty of the upright acts as his guide. Blair 
 
 The happiness of animals a proof of divine benevolence. 
 
 THE air, the earth, the water, teem with delighted ex- 
 istence. In a spring noon or summer evening, on whicli 
 ever side we turn our eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd 
 upon our view. " The insect youth are on the wing." 
 Swarms of new born flies are trying their pinions in the air 
 Their sportive motions, their gratuitous activity, their 
 continual change of place, without use or purpose, testify 
 their joy, and the exultation which they feel in their lately 
 discovered faculties. 
 
 A bee, among the flowers in spring, is one of the most 
 cheerful objects that can be looked upon. Its life appears to 
 
DIVINE BENEVOLENCE. '47 
 
 be all enjoyment, so busy and so pleased, yet it is only a 
 specimen of insect life, with which, by reason of the animal's 
 being half domesticated, we happen to be better acquainted 
 than we are with that of otners. The whole winged insect 
 tribe, it is probable, are equally intent upon their proper em- 
 ployments, and under every variety of constitution, gratified, 
 and perhaps equally gratified, by the offices whicfy the Au- 
 thor of their nature has assigned to them. 
 
 But the atmosphere is not the only scene of their en- 
 joyment. Plants are covered with little insects, greedily- 
 sucking their juices. Other species are running about, with 
 an alacrity in their motions, which carries with it every mark 
 of pleasure. Large patches of ground are sometimes half 
 covered with these brisk and sprightly natures. 
 
 If we look to what the waters produce, shoals of fish 
 frequent the margins of rivers, of lakes, and of the sea itself- 
 These are so happy, that they know not what to do with 
 themselves. Their attitudes, -their vivacity their leaps 
 out of the water their frolics in it all conduce to show 
 their excess of spirits, and are simply the effects of that ex- 
 'cess. Walking by the seaside, in a cairn evening, upon a 
 sandy shore and with an ebbing tide, I have frequently re- 
 marked the appearance of a dark cloud, or rather very thick 
 mist, hanging over the edge of the water to the height per- 
 haps of half a yard, and ofthe breadth of two or three yards, 
 stretching along the coast as far as the eye could reach, and 
 always retiring with the water. 
 
 When this cloud came to be examined, it proved to be 
 so much space filled with young shrimps, in the act of 
 bounding into the air from the shallow margin of the water, 
 or from the wet sand. If any motion of a mute animal 
 could express delight, it was this: if they had designed to 
 make signs of their happiness, they could not have done it 
 more intelligibly. Suppose, then, what there is no reason 
 to doubt, each individual of this number to be in a state of 
 positive enjoyment, what a sum, collectively, of gratifica- 
 tion and pleasure have we here before our view ! 
 
 The young of all animals appear to receive pleasure, 
 simply from the exercise of their limbs and bodily faculties, 
 without reference to any end to be attained, or any use to be 
 answered by the exertion. A child, Avithout knowing any 
 thing of the use of language, is in a high degree delighted 
 with being able to speak. Its incessant repetition of a few 
 articulate sounds, or perhaps of a single word which it has 
 learned to pronounce, proves this point clearly. 
 
48 DIVINE BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Nor is it less pleased with its first successful endeavors 
 to walk, although entirely ignorant of the importance of the 
 attainment to its future life, and even without applying it to 
 any present purpose. A child is delighted with speaking, 
 without having any thing to say, and with walking, without 
 knowing whither to go. And previously to both these, it is 
 reasonable to believe, that the waking hours of infancy are 
 agreeably taken up with the exercise of vision, or perhaps 
 more properly speaking, with learning to see. 
 
 But it is not for youth alone that the great Parent of 
 creation has provided. Happiness is found with the purring 
 cat, no less than with the playful kitten, in the arm-chair 
 of dozing age, as well as in the sprightliness of the dance, or 
 the animation of the chace. To novelty, to acuteness of 
 sensation, to hope, to ardor of pursuit, succeeds, what is in 
 no inconsiderable degree an equivalent for them all, "per- 
 ception of ease." 
 
 Herein is the exact difference between the young* and 
 the old. The young are not happy but when enjoying plea- 
 sure; the old are happy when free from pain. And this 
 constitution suits with the degrees of animal power which 
 they- respectively possess. The vigor of youth was to be 
 stimulated to action by impatience of rest ; while to the im- 
 becility of age, quietness and repose become positive gratifi- 
 cations. In one important respect the advantage is with the 
 old. A state of ease is, generally speaking, more attainable 
 than a state of pleasure. A constitution, therefore, which can 
 enjoy ease, is preferable to that which can taste only pleasure. 
 This same perception of ease oftentimes renders old 
 age a condition of great comfort ; especially when riding at 
 its anchor, after a busy or tempestuous life. It is well de- 
 scribed by Rousseau to be the interval of repose and enjoy- 
 ment, between the hurry and the end of life. How far the 
 same cause extends to other animal natures, cannot be 
 judged of with certainty. The appearance of satisfaction 
 with which most animals, as their activity subsides, seek 
 and enjoy rest, affords reason to believe, that this source of 
 gratification is appointed to advanced life, under all, or most 
 of its various forms. 
 
 There is much truth in the following representation 
 given by Dr. Percival, a very pious writer, as well as excel- 
 lent man : " To the intelligent and virtuous, old age pre- 
 sents a scene of tranquil enjoyments, of obedient appetites, 
 of well regulated affections, of maturity in knowledge, and 
 of calm preparation for immortality. In this serene and dig 
 
THE SEASONS. 49 
 
 nified state, placed as it were on the confines of the two 
 worlds, the mind of a good man reviews what is past with 
 the complacency of an approving conscience; and looks for- 
 ward, with humble mercy in the confidence of God, and with 
 devout aspirations towards his eternal and ever-increasing 
 favor." Paley. 
 
 The Seasons. 
 
 PERSONS of reflection and sensibility, contemplate with 
 interest the scenes of nature. The changes of the year impart 
 a color and character to their thoughts and feelings. When 
 the seasons walk their round. when the earth buds, the 
 corn ripens, and the leaf falls not only are the senses im- 
 pressed, but the mind is instructed; the heart is touched 
 with sentiment, the fancy amused with visions. To a lover 
 of nature and of wisdom, the vicissitudes of the season con- 
 vey a proof and exhibition of the wise and benevolent con- 
 trivance of the Author of all things. 
 
 When suffering the inconveniences of the ruder parts 
 of the year, we may be tempted to wonder why this rotation 
 is necessary why we could not be constantly gratified with 
 vernal bloom and fragrance, or summer beauty and profusion. 
 We imagine that, in a world of our creation, there would al- 
 ways be a blessing in the air, and flowers and fruits on the 
 earth. The chilling blasts and driving snow, the desolated 
 field, withered foliage, and naked tree, should make no 
 part of the scenery which we would produce. A little 
 thought, however, is sufficient to show the folly, if not im- 
 piety, of such distrust in the appointments of the great 
 C-reator. 
 
 The succession and contrast of the seasons, give scope 
 to that care and foresight, diligence and industry, which are 
 essential to the dignity and enjoyment of human beings, 
 whose happiness is connected with the exertion of their fa- 
 culties. With our present constitution and state, in which 
 impressions on the senses enter so much into our pleasures 
 and pains, and the vivacity of our sensations is affected by- 
 comparison, the uniformity and continuance of a perpetual 
 spring, would greatly impair its pleasing effect upon our feel- 
 ings. 
 
 The present distribution of the several parts of the 
 year, is evidently connected with the welfare of the whole. 
 
60 THE SEASONS. 
 
 and the production of the greatest sum of bein^ and enjoy- 
 ment. That motion in the earth, and change of place in the 
 sun, which cause one region of the globe to be consigned to 
 cold, decay, and barrenness, impart to another heat and life, 
 fertility and beauty. While in our climate the earth is bound 
 with frost, and the " chilly smothering snows" are falling, 
 the inhabitants of another behold the earth planted with ve- 
 getation and appareled in verdure, and those of a third are 
 rejoicing in the appointed weeks of a harvest. 
 
 Each season comes, attended with its benefits and 
 pleasures. All are sensible of the charms of spring. Then 
 the senses are delighted with the feast that is furnished on 
 every field, and on every hill. The eye is sweetly delayed 
 on every object to which it turns. It is grateful to perceive 
 how widely, yet chastely, nature has mixed her colors and 
 painted her robe, how bountifully she has scattered her 
 blossoms aud flung her odors. We listen with joy to the 
 melody she has awakened in the groves, and catch health 
 from the pure and tepid gales that blow from the mountains. 
 
 When the summer exhibits the whole force of active 
 jiature, and shines in full beauty and splendor, when the 
 succeeding season offers its "purple stores and golden grain," 
 or displays its blended and softened tints, when the winter 
 puts on its sullen aspect, and brings stillness and repose, 
 affording a resptt from the labors which have occupied the 
 preceding months, inviting us to reflection, and compensa- 
 ting for the want of attractions abroad, by fireside delights, 
 and home-felt joys, in all this interchange and variety, we 
 find reason to acknowledge the wise and benevolent care of 
 the God of seasons. 
 
 We are passing from the finer to the ruder portions of 
 the year. The sun emits a fainter beam, and the sky is 
 frequently overcast. The gardens and fields have become a 
 waste and the forests have shed their verdant honors. The 
 hills are no more enlivened with the bleating of flocks, and 
 the woodland no longer resounds with the song of birds. In 
 these changes we see evidences of our own instability, and 
 images of our transitory state. 
 
 Our life is compared to a falling leaf. When we are 
 disposed to count on protracted years, to defer any serious 
 thoughts of futurity, and to extend our plans through a Ipng 
 succession of seasons, the spectacle of the "fading many- 
 colored woods," and the naked trees, affords a salutary ad- 
 monition of our frailty. It should teach us to fill the short 
 year of our life, or that portion of it which may be allotted 
 
SWIFTNESS OF TIME. 51 
 
 to us, with useful employments and harmless pleasures, to 
 practice that industry, activity, and order, which the course 
 of the natural world is constantly preaching. 
 
 Let not the passions blight the intellect in the spring of 
 its advancement ; nor indolence nor vice canker the promise 
 of the heart in the blossom. Then shall the summer of life 
 be adorned with moral beauty, the autumn yield a harvest 
 of wisdom and virtue, and the winter of age be cheered 
 with pleasing reflections on the past, and bright hopes of the 
 future. Monthly Anthology. 
 
 On the Swiftness of Time. 
 
 THE natural advantages which arise from the position 
 of the earth we inhabit, with respect to the other planets, af- 
 ford much employment to mathematical speculation, by 
 which it has been discovered*, that no other conformation of 
 the system could have given such commodious distributions 
 of light and heat, or have imparted fertility and pleasure to 
 so great a part of a revolving sphere. 
 
 It may perhaps be observed by the moralist, with equal 
 reason, that our globe seems particularly fitted for the resi- 
 dence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose 
 task is to advance himself to a higher and happier state of 
 existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, and activity 
 of virtue. 
 
 The duties required of man, are such as human nature 
 does not willingly perform, and such as those are inclined to 
 delay, who yet intend, at some time, to fulfill them. It was 
 therefore necessary, that this universal reluctance should be 
 counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation wakened into 
 resolve, that the danger of procrastination should be always 
 in view, and the fallacies of security be hourly detected. 
 
 To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly 
 conspire. Whatever we see, on every side, reminds us of 
 the lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night 
 succeed each other; the rotation of seasons diversifies the 
 year ; the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines and sets j 
 and the moon, every night, changes its form. 
 
 The day has been considered as an image of the year, 
 and a year as the representation of life. The morning an- 
 swers to the spring, and the spring to childhood and youth. 
 The noon corresponds to the summer, and the summer to 
 
62 SWIFTNESS, OF TIME. 
 
 the strength of manhood. The evening is an emolem of 
 autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night, with its 
 silence and darkness, shows the winter, in which all the pow- 
 ers of vegetation are henumbed ; and the winter points out 
 the time Avhen life shall cease, with its hopes and pleasures. 
 
 He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a mo- 
 tion equable and easy, perceives not the change of place but 
 by the variation of objects. If the wheel of life which rolls 
 thus silently along, passed on with undistinguishable uni- 
 formity, we should never mark its approaches to the end of 
 the course. If one hour were like another, if the passage 
 of the sun did not show that the day is wasting, if the 
 change of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of the 
 year, quantities of duration, equal to days and years, would 
 glide unobserved. 
 
 If the parts of time were not variously colored, we 
 should never discern their departure or succession; but 
 should live, thoughtless of the past, and careless of the fu- 
 ture, without will, and perhaps without power to compute 
 the periods of life, or to compare the time which is already 
 lost with that which may probably remain. 
 
 But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is 
 even observed by the passage, and by nations who have 
 raised their minds very little above animal instinct: there 
 are human beings, whose language does not supply them 
 with words by which they can number live ; but I have read 
 of none that have not names for day and night, for summer 
 and winter. 
 
 Yet it is certain that these admonitions of nature, how- 
 ever importunate, are too often vain ; and that many, who 
 mark with such accuracy the course of time, appear to have 
 little sensibility of the decline of life. Every man has some- 
 hing to do which he neglects ; every man has faults to con- 
 quer which he delays to combat. 
 
 So little do we accustom ourselves to consider the ef- 
 fects of time, that things necessary and certain, often surprise 
 us like unexpected contingencies. We leave the beauty in 
 her bloom, and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder at 
 our return to find her faded. We meet those whom we left 
 children, and can scarcely persuade ourselves to treat them 
 as men. The traveler visits, in age, those countries through 
 which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for merriment at 
 the old place. The man of business, wearied with unsatis- 
 factory prosperity, retires to the town of his nativity, and ex- 
 
UNRESTRAINED PASSIONS. 53 
 
 pects to play away his last years with the companions of his 
 childhood, and recover youth in the fields where he once 
 was young. 
 
 From this inattention so general and so mischievous 
 let it he every man's study to exempt himself. Let him 
 that desires to see others happy, make haste to give while 
 his gift can he enjoyed; and remember, that every moment 
 of delay takes away something from the value of his benefac- 
 tion, and let him who proposes his own happiness, reflect, 
 that while he forms his purpose the day rolls on, and " the 
 night cometh when no man can work." Dr. Johnson. 
 
 The unhappiness resulting from unrestrained passions. 
 
 THE passions are those strong emotions of the mind, 
 which impel it to desire and to act with vehemence. When 
 directed toward proper objects, and kept within just bounds, 
 they possess a useful place in our frame, they add vigor 
 and energy to the mind, and enable it, on great occasions, to 
 act with uncommon force and success ; but they always re- 
 quire the government and restraint of reason. 
 
 It is in the mind just as it is in the body. Every mem- 
 ber of the body is useful, and serves some good purpose. Btrt 
 if any one swell to an enormous size, it presently becomes a 
 disease. Thus, when a man's passions go on in a calm and 
 moderate train, and no object takes an inordinate hold of 
 any of them, his spirit is in this part sound, and his life pro- 
 ceeds with tranquillity. But if any of them be so far indul- 
 ged and left without restraint as to run into excess, a danger- 
 ous blow will then be given to the heart. 
 
 Supposing, for instance, that some passion, even of the 
 nature of those which are reckoned innocent, shall so far 
 seize a man, as to conquer and overpower him ; his tranquil- 
 lity will be destroyed. The balance of his soul is lost; he is 
 ho longer his own master, nor is capable of attending prop- 
 erly to the offices of life which are incumbent on him, or of 
 turning his thoughts into any other direction than what pas- 
 sion points out. He may be sensible of the wound, may feel 
 the dart that is fixed in his breast, but is unable to extract it. 
 
 But the case becomes infinitely worse, if the passion 
 which has seized a man be of the vicious and malignant kind. 
 Let him be placed in the most prosperous situation of life, 
 eive him external ease and affluence to the full, and let his 
 
64 IDLE CURIOSITY. 
 
 character be high and applauded by the world, yet, if into 
 the heart of this man there has stolen some dark, jealous sus- 
 picion, some rankling envy, some pining discontent, that 
 instant his temper is soured, and poison is scattered over all 
 his joys. He dwells in secret upon his vexations and cares; 
 and while the crowd admire his prosperity, he envies the 
 more peaceful condition of the peasant and the hind. 
 
 If his passions chance to be of the more fierce and out- 
 rageous nature, the painful feelings they produce will be still 
 more intense and acute. By violent passions the heart is not 
 only wounded, but torn and rent. As long as a man is under 
 the workings of raging ambition, disappointed pride, and 
 keen thirst for revenge, he remains under immediate torment 
 Over his dark and scowling mind, gloomy ideas continually 
 brood. His transient fits of merriment and joy, are like 
 beams of light, breaking occasionally from the black clouds 
 that carries the thunder. 
 
 What greatly aggravates the misery of such persons, is, 
 that they dare make no complaints. When the body is dis- 
 eased or wounded, to our friends we naturally fly ; and from 
 their sympathy or assistance expect relief. But the wounds 
 given to the heart by ill-governed passions, are of an oppro- 
 brious nature, and must be stifled in secret. The slave of 
 passion can unbosom himself to no friend ; and, instead of 
 sympathy, dreads meeting with ridicule or contempt. 
 
 Blair. 
 
 Of curiosity concerning the affairs of others. 
 
 THAT idle curiosity, that inquisitive and meddling 
 spirit, which leads men to pry into the affairs of their neigh- 
 bors, is reprehensible on three accounts. It interrupts the 
 good order, and breaks the peace of society. It brings for- 
 ward and nourishes several bad passions. It draws men aside 
 from a proper attention to the discharge of their own duty. 
 
 It interrupts, I say, the order, and breaks the peace of 
 society. In this world we are linked together by many ties 
 We are bound by duty, and we are prompted by interest, to 
 give mutual assistance, and to perform friendly offices to 
 each other. But those friendly offices are performed to the 
 most advantage, when we avoid to interfere, unnecessarily, in 
 the concerns of our neighbor. Every man has his own part 
 
IDLE CURIOSITY. 65 
 
 to act has his own interest to consult has affairs of his 
 own to manage which his neighbor has no call to scrutinize. 
 
 Human life then proceeds in its most natural and orderly 
 train, when every one keeps within the bounds of his proper 
 province, when, as long as his pursuits are fair and lawful, 
 he his allowed, without disturbance, to conduct them in his 
 own way. That ye study to be quiet and do your own busi- 
 ness, is the apostolic rule, and indeed the great rule for the 
 preservation of harmony and order. 
 
 But so it is, that in every age a set of men have existed, 
 who, driven by an unhappy activity of spirit, oftener, per- 
 haps, than by any settled design of doing ill, or any motives 
 of ambition or interest, love to intermeddle where they have 
 no concern, to inquire into the private affairs of others, and, 
 from the imperfect information they collect, to form, conclu- 
 sions respecting their circumstances and character. These 
 are they who, in Scripture, are characterized as tattlers and 
 busy bodies in other men's matters, and from whom we are 
 called to turn away. 
 
 Though persons of this description should be prompted 
 by nothing but vain curiosity, they are, nevertheless, danger- 
 ous troublers of the world. While they conceive themselves 
 to be inoffensive, they are sowing dissension and feuds. 
 Crossing the lines in which others move, they create confu- 
 sion, and awaken resentment. For every man conceives 
 himself to be injured, when he finds another intruding into 
 his affairs, and, without any title, taking upon him to exam- 
 ine his conduct. Being improperly and unnecessarily dis- 
 turbed, he claims the right of disturbing, in his turn, those who 
 have wantonly troubled him. 
 
 Hence many a friendship has been broken ; the peace 
 of many a family has been overthrown ; and much bitter and 
 lasting discord has been propagated through society. While 
 this spirit of meddling curiosity, injures so considerably the 
 peace and good order^of the world, it also nourishes, among 
 individuals who are addicted to it, a multitude of bad passions. 
 Its most frequent source is mere idleness, which, in itself a 
 vice, never fails to engender many vices more. The mind of 
 man cannot be long without some food to nourish the activity 
 of its thoughts. 
 
 ' The idle who have no nourishment of this sort within 
 themselves, feed their thoughts with inquiries into the con- 
 duct of their neighbors. The inquisitive and curious are al- 
 ways talkative. What they learn, or fancy themselves to 
 have learned, concerning others, they are generally in haste 
 
56 IDLE CURIOSITY. 
 
 to divulge. A tale which the malicious have invented, and 
 the credulous have propagated, a rumor, which arising 
 among the multitude, and transmitted by one to another has 
 in every step of its progress gained fresh additions, hecomes 
 in the end the foundation of confident assertion, and of rash 
 and severe judgment. 
 
 It is often by a spirit of jealousy and rivalry, that the 
 researches of such persons are prompted. They wish to dis- 
 cover something that will bring down their neighbor's cha- 
 racter, circumstances, or reputation, to the level of their own ; 
 or that will flatter them with an opinion of their own supe- 
 riority. 
 
 A secret malignity lies at the bottom of their inquiries. 
 It may be concealed by an affected show of candor arid im- 
 partiality. It may even be veiled with the appearance of a 
 friendlv concern for the interest of others, and with affected 
 apologies for their failings. But the hidden rancor is easily 
 discovered. While, therefore, persons of this description 
 trouble the peace of society, they at the same time poison 
 their own minds with malignant passions. 
 
 Their disposition is entirely the reverse of that amia- 
 ble spirit of charity, on which our religion lays so great a 
 stress. Gharily covereth the multitude of sins ; but this 
 prying and meddling spirit seeks to discover and divulge them. 
 Charity thinketh no evil; but this temper inclines us always 
 to suspect the worst. Charity r e jo iceth not in iniquity ; this 
 temper triumphs in the discovery of errors and failings. Cha- 
 rity, like the sun, brightens every object upon which it shines : 
 a censorious disposition casts every character into the dark- 
 est shade it will bear. 
 
 To be entirely unemployed and idle, is the prerogative 
 of no one in any rank of life. Even that sex, whose task is 
 not to mingle in the labors of public and active business, have 
 their own part assigned them to act. In the quiet of domes- 
 tic shade, there are a variety of virtues to be exercised, and 
 of important duties to be discharged. Much depends on them, 
 for the maintenance of private economy and order, for the 
 education of the young, and for the relief and comfort of those 
 whose functions engage them in the toils of the world. 
 
 Even where no such female duties occur to be perform- 
 ed, the care of preparing for future usefulness and of attain- 
 ing such accomplishments as procure just esteem, is laudable. 
 In such duties and cares, how far better is time employed, 
 than in that search into private concerns, that circulation of 
 
MISERIES SELF PRODUCED. .57 
 
 rumors, those discussions of the conduct, and descants on 
 the character of others which engross conversation so much, 
 itnd which end, for the mo?t part, in severity of censure. 
 
 In whatever condition we are placed, to act always in 
 character should be our constant rule. He Avho acts in cha- 
 racter is above contempt, though His station be low. He who 
 acts out of character is despicable, though his station be ever 
 so high. \\ liat is that to l/iee what this or that man does 1 
 Think of what thou ought to do thyself, or what is suitable 
 to thy character and place, of what the world has a title to 
 expect from thee. Every excursion of vain curiosity about 
 others, is a subtraction from that time and thought which are 
 due to ourselves, and due to God. 
 
 In the great circle of human affairs, there is no room for 
 every one to be busy and employed in his own province, 
 without encroaching upon that of others. Art thou poor? 
 Show thyself active and industrious, peaceable and content- 
 ed. Art thou wealthy ? Show thyself beneficent and cha- 
 ritable, condescending and humane. If thou lives: much in 
 the world, it is thy duty to make the light of a good example, 
 shine conspicuously before others. 
 
 There is, indeed, no man so sequestered from active 
 life, but within his own narrow sphere he may find some op- 
 portunities of doing good. of cultivating friendship, promo- 
 ting peace, and discharging many of those lesser offices of 
 humanity and kindness, which are within the reach of every 
 one, and which we owe to one another. In all the various 
 relations which subsist among us in life, as husband and wife, 
 master and servant, parents and children, relations and 
 friends, innumerable duties stand ready to be performed; 
 innumerable calls to virtuous activity present themselves on 
 every hand, sufficient to fill up, with advantage and honor, the 
 whole time of man. Ulair. 
 
 The miseries of men mostly of their oicn procuring. 
 
 As far as inward disquietude arises from the stings of 
 conscience, and the horrors of guilt, there can be no doubt of 
 its being self-created misery, which it is altogether impossi- 
 ble to impute to Heaven. But even when great crimes and 
 deep remorse are not the occasions of torment, how often is 
 poison infused into the most flourishing conditions of fortune, 
 by the follies and the passions of the prosperous ? 
 
68 MISERIES SELF PRODUCED. 
 
 ' We see tnem peevish and restless, corrupted with lux- 
 ury, and enervated by ease. impatient of the smallest dis- 
 appointment, oppressed with low spirits, and complaining 
 of every thing around them. 'Dare such men, in their most 
 discontented moments, charge the providence of Heaven with 
 miseries of their own procuring? Providence had put into 
 their hands the fairest opportunity of passing their lives with 
 comfort. But they themselves blasted every comfort that 
 was afforded, and verified the prediction, that Ike prosperity 
 of fools shall destroy them. 
 
 As it is man's own foolishness which ruins his prospe- 
 rity, we must not omit to remark, that it is the same cause 
 which aggravates and imbitters his adversity. That you 
 suffer from the external afflictions of the world, may often be 
 owing to God's appointment; but when in the midst of 
 these you also suffer from the disorders of your mind and 
 passions, this is owing to yourselves; and they are those in- 
 ward disorders which add the severest sting to external af- 
 flictions. 
 
 Many are the resources of a good and wise man under 
 the disasters of life. In the midst of them, it is always in 
 his power to enjoy peace of mind and hope in God. He 
 may suffer ; but under suffering he will not sink, as long as 
 all is sound within. But when the spirit has been wounded 
 by guilt and folly, its wounds open and bleed afresh, upon 
 every blow that is received from the world. The mind be- 
 comes sensible and sore to the slightest injuries of fortune } 
 and a small reverse is felt as an insupportable calamity. 
 
 On the whole, the farther you search into human life, 
 and the more you observe the manners and the conduct ot 
 men, you will be the more convinced of this great truth 
 that of the distresses which abound in the world, we are the 
 chief authors. Among the multitudes who are at this day 
 bewailing their condition and lot, it will be found to hold of 
 far the greater part, that they are reaping the fruit of their 
 own doings. 
 
 Unattainable objects foolishly pursued, intemperate pas- 
 sions nourished, vicious pleasures and desires indulged, 
 these are the great scourges of the world, the great causes 
 of the life of man being so embroiled and unhappy. God 
 has ordained our state on earth to be a mixed and imperfect 
 state. We have ourselves to blame for its becoming an in- 
 supportable one. If it bring forth to us nothing but vexation 
 and vanity, we have sown the seeds of that vanity and rexa- 
 Uon ; and as we have sown we must reap. 
 
WORKS OF THE CREATOR. 59 
 
 The, Creator's works attest his greatness. 
 
 WE find ourselves in an immense universe, where it is 
 impossible for us, without astonishment and awe, to contem- 
 plate the glory and the power of Him who created it. From 
 the greatest to the least object that we behold ; from the star 
 that glitters in the heavens to the insect that creeps upon the 
 ground ; from the thunder that rolls in the skies, to the flower 
 that blossoms in the fields ; all things testify a profound 
 and mysterious Wisdom, a mighty and all powerful Hand, 
 before which we must tremble and adore. 
 
 Neither the causes nor the issues of the events which 
 we behold, is it in our power to trace ; neither how wecame 
 into this world, nor whither we go when we retire from it, 
 are we able of ourselves to tell ; but, in the meantime, find 
 ourselves surrounded with astonishing magnificence on every 
 hand. We walk through the earth as through the apart- 
 ments of a vast palace, which fill every attentive spectator 
 with wonder. All the works which our power can erect, 
 all the ornaments which our art can contrive, are feeUe and 
 trifling in comparison with those glories, which nature every 
 where presents to our view. 
 
 The immense arch of the heavens, the splendor of the 
 sun in his meridian brightness, or the beauty of his rising 
 and setting hours, the rich landscape of the fields, and the 
 boundless expanse of the ocean, are scenes which mock 
 every rival attempt of human skill or labor. Nor is it only 
 in the splendid appearances of nature, but amid its rudest 
 forms that we trace the hand of the Divinity. In the solita- 
 ry desert and the high mountain, in the hanging precipice, 
 the roaring torrent, and the aged forest, though there be 
 nothing to cheer, there is much to strike the mind with awe, 
 to give rise to those solemn and sublime sensations, which 
 elevate the heart to an Almighty, All-creating Power. Blair. 
 
 The advantages of a taste for Natural History. 
 
 WHEN a young person who has enjoyed the benefit of a 
 liberal education, instead of leading a life of indolence, dis- 
 sipation, or vice, employs himself in studying the marks of 
 infinite wisdom and goodness, which are manifested in every 
 part of the visible creation, we know not which we ought 
 
00 TASTE FOR NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 most to congratulate, the public, or the individual. Self- 
 taught naturalists are often found to make no little progress 
 in knowledge, and to strike out many new lights, by the mere 
 aid of original genius and patient application. 
 
 But the well educated youth engages in these pursuits 
 with peculiar advantage. He takes more comprehensive 
 views, is able to consult a greater variety of authors, and, 
 from the early habits of his mind, is more accurate and more 
 methodical in all his investigations. The world at large, 
 therefore, cannot fail to he benefited by his labors; and the 
 value of the enjoyments which at the same time he secures 
 to himself, is beyond all calculation. 
 
 No tedious, vacant hour ever makes him wish for he 
 knows not what; complain he knows not why. Never 
 does a restless impatience at having nothing to do, compel 
 him to seek a momentary stimulus to his dormant powers in 
 the tumultuous pleasures of the intoxicating cup, or the agi-. 
 tating suspense of the game of chance. Whether he be at 
 home or abroad, in every different clime, and in every sea- 
 son of the year, universal nature is before him, and invites 
 him to a banquet, richly replenished with whatever can invig- 
 orate his understanding, or gratify his mental taste. 
 
 The earth on which he treads, the air in which he moves, 
 the sea along the margin of which he walks, all teem with 
 objects that keep his attention perpetually awake excite him 
 to healthful activity and charm him with an ever varying 
 succession of the beautiful, the wonderful, the useful, and the 
 new. And if, in conformity with the direct tendency of such 
 occupations, he rises from the creature to the Creator, and 
 considers the duties which naturally result from his own sit- 
 uation and rank in this vast system of being, he will derive 
 as much satisfaction from the anticipation of the future, as 
 from the experience of the present, and the recollection of the 
 past. 
 
 The mind of the pious naturalist is always cheerful 
 always animated with the noblest and most benign feelings. 
 Every repeated observation every unexpected discovery 
 directs his thought to the great Source of all order, and all 
 good ; and harmonizes all his faculties with the general 
 voice of nature 
 
 Whom nature's works can charm, \v 
 Hold converse grow familiar, day by day, 
 With his conception* act upon his plan, 
 And form to his the relish of llioir souls." 
 
 Thn men 
 
INDUSTRY NECESSARY TO GENIUS. 61 
 
 Necessity of ''Industry, even to Genius. 
 
 FROM the revival of learning to the present day, every 
 thing that labor and ingenuity can invent, has been produced 
 to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. Bat, notwithstand- 
 ing all the Introductions, the Translations, the Annotations 
 and the Interpretations, I must assure the student, that indus- 
 try, great and persevering industry, is absolutely necessary 
 to secure any very valuble and distinguished improvement. 
 Superficial qualifications are indeed obtained, at an easy 
 price of time and labor ; but superficial qualifications confer 
 neither honor, emolument, nor satisfaction. 
 
 The pupil may be introduced, by the judgment and the 
 liberality of his parents, to the best schools, the best tutors, 
 the best books ; and his parents may be led to expect, from 
 such advantages alone, extraordinary advancement. But 
 these things are all extraneous. The mind of the pupil 
 must be accustomed to submit to labor, sometimes to painful 
 labor. 
 
 The poor and solitary student, who has never enjoyed 
 any of these advantages but in the ordinary manner, will by 
 his own application emerge to merit, fame, and fortune ; while 
 the indolent, who has been taught to lean on the supports 
 which opulence supplies, will sink into insignificance. 
 
 I repeat, that the first great object is, to induce the mind 
 to work within itself, to think long and patiently on the 
 same subject, and to compose in various styles, and in vari- 
 ous meters. It must be led, not only to bear, but to seek oc- 
 casional solitude. If it is early habituated to all these exer- 
 cises, it will find its chief pleasure in them ; for the energies 
 of the mind affect it with the finest feelings. 
 
 But is industry, such industry as I require, necessary to 
 genius ? The idea that it is not necessary, is productive of 
 the greatest evils. We often form a wrong judgment in deter- 
 mining who is, and who is not endowed with this noble priv- 
 ilege. A boy who apf>ear.s lively and talkative, is often suppo- 
 sed by his parents to be a genius. He is suffered to be idle, for 
 he is a genius ; and genius is only injured by application. 
 
 Now it usually happens, that the very lively and talka- 
 tive boy is the most deficient in genius. His forwardness 
 arises from a defect of those fine sensibilities which, at the 
 same time, occasion diffidence, and constitute genius. He 
 
2 RELIGION THE BASIS OF SOCIETY. 
 
 ougnt to be inured to literary labor; for, without it, he will 
 be prevented, by levity and stupidity, from receiving any 
 valuable impressions. 
 
 Parents and instructors must be very cautious how they 
 dispense with diligence, from an idea that the pupil possesses 
 genius sufficient to compensate for the want of it. All men 
 are liable to mistake in decid ing on genius at a very early age ; 
 but parents more than all, from their natural partiality. 
 
 On no account, therefore, let them dispense with close 
 application. If the pupil has genius, this will improve and 
 adorn it; if he has not, it is confessedly requisite to supply 
 the defect. Those prodigies of genius which require not 
 instruction, are rare phenomena : we read, and we hear of 
 such ; but few of us have seen and known such. 
 
 What is genius worth without knowledge? But is a 
 man ever born with knowledge ? It is true that one man is 
 born with a better capacity than another, for the reception 
 and retention of ideas; but still the mind must operate in 
 collecting, arranging, and discriminating those ideas which 
 it receives with facility. And I believe the mind of a genius 
 is often very laboriously at work, when to the common ob- 
 server it appears to be quite inactive. 
 
 I most anxiously wish that a due attention may be paid 
 to my exhortations, when I recommend great and exemplary 
 diligence. All that is excellent in learning depends upon it. 
 And how can the time of a boy or a young man be better 
 employed? It cannot be more pleasantly; for I am sure, 
 that industry, by presenting a constant succession of various 
 objects, and by precluding the listlessness of inaction, ren- 
 ders life at all stages of it agreeable, and particularly so in 
 the restless season of youth. 
 
 It cannot be more innocently ; for learning has a con- 
 nexion with virtue : and he, whose time is fully engaged, 
 will escape many vices and much misery. It cannot be more 
 usefully; for he who furnishes his mind with ideas, and 
 strengthens his faculties, is preparing himself to become a 
 valuable member of society, whatever^ place in it he may ob- 
 tain ; and he is likely to obtain an exalted place. Knox. 
 
 Religion the only Basis of Society. 
 
 RELIGION is a social concern ; for it operates powerfully 
 on society, contributing, in various ways, to its stability and 
 
RELIGION THE BASIS OF SOCIETY. 63 
 
 prosperity. Religion is not merely a private affair; the com- 
 munity is deeply interested in its diffusion; for it is the best 
 support of the virtues and principles, on which the social 
 order rests. Pure and undefiled religion is, to do good ; and 
 it follows very plainly, that if God be the Author and Friend 
 of society, then the recognition of him must enforce all so- 
 cial duty, and enlightened piety must give its whole strength 
 to public order. 
 
 Few men suspect perhaps no man comprehends the 
 extent of the support given by religion to every virtue. No 
 man perhaps is aware, how much our moral and social sen- 
 timents are fed from this fountain, how powerless conscience 
 would become, without the belief of a God, how palsied 
 would be human benevolence, were there not the sense of a 
 higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it, how suddenly 
 the whole social fabric would quake, and with what a fearful 
 crash it would sink into hopeless ruin, were the ideas of a 
 supreme Being, of accountahleness, ana 1 of a future life, to be 
 utterly erased from every mind. 
 
 And, let men thoroughly believe that they are the work 
 and sport of chance, that no superior intelligence concerns 
 itself with human affairs, that the weak have no guardian, 
 and the injured no avenger, that there is no recompense for 
 sacrifices to uprightness and the public good, that an oath 
 is unheard in heaven, that secret crimes have no witness 
 but the perpetrator, that human existence has no purpose, 
 and human virtue no unfailing friend, that this brief life is 
 every thing to us, and death is total, everlasting extinction, 
 once let them thoroughly abandon religion, and who can 
 conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which would 
 fallow ! 
 
 We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sym- 
 pathy would hold society together. As reasonably might we 
 believe, that were the sun quenched in the heavens, our tor- 
 ches would illuminate, and our fires quicken and fertilize the 
 creation. What is there in human nature to awaken respect 
 and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of a day? 
 And what is he more if atheism be true? 
 
 Erase all fear and thought of God from a community, 
 and selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. 
 Appetite, knowing no restraint, and suffering, having no so- 
 lace or hope, would trample in scorn on the restraints of hu- 
 
C4 REASONABLENESS OF DEVOTION. 
 
 man laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked anrt 
 spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would 
 supplant every other feeling ; and man would become in fact, 
 what the theory of atheism declares him to be, a compan- 
 ion for brutes. Channing. 
 
 On the reasonableness of Devotion. 
 
 TRUE devotion is rational, and well founded. It takes 
 its rise from affections which are essential to the human frame. 
 We are formed by nature to admire what is great, and to 
 love what is amiable. Even inanimate objects have power 
 to excite these emotions. The magnificent prospects of the 
 natural world, fill the mind with reverential awe. Its beau- 
 tiful scenes create delight. When we survey the actions and 
 behavior of our fellow creatures, the affections glow \vit4i 
 greater ardor; and if to be unmoved in the former case, ar- 
 gues a defect of sensibility in our powers.it discovers in the 
 latter, an odious hardness and depravity in the heart. 
 
 The tenderness of an aiFectionate parent, the generosity 
 of a forgiving enemy, the public spirit of a patriot or a hero, 
 often fill the eyes with tears, and swell the breast with emo- 
 tions too big for utterance. The object of these affections is 
 frequently raised above us in condition and rank. Let us 
 suppose him raised also above us in nature. Let us imagine 
 that an angel, or any being of superior order, had conde- 
 scended to be our friend, our guide, and patron : no person, 
 sure, would hold the exaltation of his benefactors character, 
 to be an argument why he should love and revere him less. 
 
 Strange ! that the attachment and veneration, the warmth 
 and overflowing of heart, which excellence and goodness on 
 every other occasion command, should begin to be account- 
 ed irrational, as soon as the Supreme Being becomes their 
 object. For what reason must human sensibility be extinct 
 toward him alone? Are all benefits entitled to gratitude, 
 except the highest and the best? Shall goodness cease to be 
 amiable, only because it is perfect? 
 
 It will perhaps be said, that an unknown and invisible 
 being is not qualified to raise affection in the human heart. 
 Wrapt up in the mysterious obscurity of his nature, he es- 
 capes our search, and affords no determinate object to our 
 love or desire. We go forward, but he is not there, and 
 backward, but we cannot perceive him, on the left hand, 
 
REASONABLENESS OF DEVOTION. 
 
 where he worketh, but we cannot behold him : he hideth 
 himself on the, right hand, that we cannot see him. 
 
 5. Notwithstanding this obscurity, is there any being in the 
 universe more real and certain, than the Creator of the world, 
 and the Supporter of all existence ? Is he in whom we live 
 and move, too distant from us to excite devotion ? His form 
 arid essence, indeed, we cannot see ; but to be unseen and 
 imperfectly known in many other instances, precludes nei- 
 ther gratitude nor love. It is not the sight so much as the 
 strong conception, or deep impression of an object, which 
 affects the passions; 
 
 6. We glow with admiration of personages who have li- 
 ved in a distant age. Whole nations have been transported 
 with zeal and affection for the generous hero, or public de- 
 liverer, whom they knew only by fame. Nay, properly 
 speaking, the direct object of our love is in every case invi- 
 sible ; for that on which affection is placed is the mind, the 
 soul, the internal character of our fellow creatures, which, 
 surely, is no less concealed than the Divine Nature itself is 
 from the view of sense. 
 
 7. From actions, we can only infer the dispositions of men ; 
 from what we see of their behavior, we collect what is invi- 
 sible; but the conjecture which we form is at best imperfect ; 
 and when their actions excite our love, much of their heart 
 remains still unknown. 
 
 S. I ask, then, in what respect God is less qualified than 
 any other being, to be an object of affection? Convinced 
 that he exists ; beholding his goodness spread abroad in his 
 works exerted in the government of the world displayed 
 in some measure to sense, in the actions of his Son Jesus 
 Christ, are we not furnished with every essential requisite' 
 which the heart demands, in order to indulge the most warrrij 
 and at the same time the most rational emotions. 
 
 9. If these considerations justify the reasonableness of de- 
 votion, as expressed in veneration, love, and gratitude, the 1 
 same train of thought will equally justify it when appearing 
 in the forms of desire, delight, or resignation. The latter 
 are indeed the consequence of the former. For we cannot 
 but desire some communication with what we love ; and will 
 naturally resign ourselves to one, on whom we have placed 
 the full confidence of affection. The aspirations of a devout 
 man after the favor of God, are the effects of that earnest 
 wish for happiness which glows in every breast. 
 
 10. All men have somewhat that may be called the object 
 of their devotion reputation, pleasure learning, riches, e# 
 
 6 
 
CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 whatever apparent good has strongly attached their heart. 
 This becomes the center of attraction, which draws them to- 
 wards it, which quickens and regulates all their motions. 
 While the men of the world are thus influenced by the ob- 
 jects which they severally worship, shall he only, who directs 
 all his devotion toward the Supreme Being:, be excluded from 
 a place in the system of rational conduct ? Blair. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Character of Washington; 
 
 IT \6 natural that the gratitude of mankind should fce 
 drawn to their benefactors. A number of these have succes- 
 sively arisen, who were no less distinguished for the eleva- 
 tion of their virtues, than the luster of their talents. Of those, 
 however, who were born, and who acted through life as if 
 they were born, not for themselves, but for their country, and 
 the whole human race, how few, alas ! are recorded on the 
 long annala of ages, and how wide the intervals of time and 
 space that divide them. 
 
 In all this dreary length of way, they appear like five 
 or six light-houses on as many thousand miles of coast: they 
 gleam upon the surrounding darkness with an inextinguish- 
 able splendor 'like stars seen through a mist; but they are 
 seen like stars, to cheer, to guide, and to save. WASHINGTON 
 is now added to that small number. Already he attracts cu- 
 riosity like a newly discovered star, whose benign light 
 will travel on to the world's and time's farthest bounds. Al- 
 ready his name is hung up by history, as conspicuously as it 
 it sparkled in one of the constellations of the sky. 
 
 The best evidence of reputation is a man's whole life. 
 We have now, alas ! all WASHINGTON'S before us. There has 
 scarcely appeared a really great man, whose character has 
 been more admired in his life time, or less correctly under- 
 stood by his admirers. When it is comprehended, it is no 
 easy task to delineate its excellencies in such a manner, as 
 to give to the portrait both interest and resemblance : for it 
 requires thought and study to understand the true ground dl 
 
CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 6t 
 
 the superiority of his character, over many others whom hf 
 resembled in the principles of action, and even in the man- 
 ner of acting. 
 
 But perhaps he excels all the great men that ever lived, 
 in the steadiness of his adherence to his maxims of life, and 
 in the uniformity of all his conduct to the same maxims. 
 These maxims, though wise, were yet not so remarkable for 
 their wisdom, as for their authority over his life; for if there 
 were any errors in his judgment, we know of no blemishes 
 in his virtue. He was the patriot without reproach : he loved 
 his country well enough to hold his success in serving it an 
 ample recompense. 
 
 Thus far, self-love and love of country coincided: but 
 when his country needed sacrifices that no other man could, 
 or perhaps would be willing to make, he did not even hesi- 
 tate. This was virtue in its most exalted character. More 
 than once he put his fame at hazard, when he had reason to 
 think it would be sacrificed, at least in this age. 
 
 It is indeed almost as difficult to draw his character, as 
 the portrait of virtue. The reasons are similar : our ideas of 
 moral excellence are obscure, because they are complex, and 
 we are obliged to resort to illustrations. WASHINGTON'S ex- 
 ample is the happiest to show what virtue is ; and to deline- 
 ate his character, we naturally expatiate on the beauty of 
 virtue : much must be felt, and much nnagined. His pre- 
 eminence is not so much to be seen in the display of any one 
 virtue as in the possession of them all, aud in the practice of 
 the most difficult. Hereafter, therefoie, his character must 
 be studied before it will be striking 5 and then it will be ad- 
 mitted as a model a precious one to a free republic ! 
 
 It is no less difficult to speak of his talents. They were 
 adapted to lead, without dazzling mankind 5 and to draw 
 forth and employ the talents of others, without being misled 
 by them. In this he was certainly superior, that he neither 
 mistook nor misapplied his own. His great modesty and 
 reserve would have concealed them, if great occasions had 
 not called them forth ; and 4hen, as he never spoke from the 
 affectation to shine, nor acted from any sinister motives, it is 
 from their effects only that we are to judge of their greatness 
 and extent. 
 
 In public trusts, where men acting conspicuously are 
 cautious, and in those private concerns where few conceal or 
 resist their weaknesses, WASHINGTON was uniformly great, 
 pursuing right conduct from right maxims. His talents wer 
 such as assist sound judgment, and ripen with it. 
 
68 CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 His prudence was consummate, and seemed to take 
 the direction of his powers and passions; for, as a soldier, 
 he was more solicitous to avoid mistakes that would be fatal, 
 than to perform exploits that were brilliant ; and, as a states- 
 man, to adhere to just principles, however did, than to pursue' 
 novelties; and therefore in both characters his qualities were 
 singularly adapted to the interest, and were tried in the 
 greatest perils of the country. His habits of inquiry were 
 so far remarkable, that he was never satisfied with investi- 
 gating, nor desisted from it, so long as he had less than all 
 the light that he could obtain upon a subject; and then he 
 made his decision without bias. 
 
 This command over the partialities that so generally 
 stop men short, or turn them aside in their pursuit of truth, 
 is one of the chief causes of his unvaried course of right 
 conduct in so many difficult scenes, where every human 
 actor must be presumed to err. If he had strong passions, 
 he had learned to subdue them, and to be moderate and mild. 
 If he had weaknesses, he concealed them, which is rare, 
 and excluded them from the government of his temper and 
 conduct, which is still more rare. 
 
 If he loved fame he never made improper compliances 
 for what is called popularity. The fame he enjoyed is of the 
 kind that will last for ever ; yet it was rather the effect, than 
 the motive of his conduct. Some future Plutarch will 
 search for a parallel to his character. Epaminondas is per- 
 haps the brightest name of all antiquity. Our WASHINGTON 
 resembled him in the purity and ardor of his patriotism; 
 and, like him, he first exalted the glory of his country. 
 
 There, it is to be hoped, the parallel ends : for Thebes 
 fell with Epaminondas. But such comparisons cannot be 
 pursued far, without departing from the similitude. For we 
 shall find it as difficult to compare great men as great rivers : 
 some we admire for the length and rapidity of their current, 
 and the grandeur of their cataracts; others for the majestic 
 silence and fullness of their streams: we cannot bring them 
 together to measure the difference of their waters. 
 
 The unambitious life of WASHINGTON, declining fame, 
 yet courted by it, seemed, like the Ohio, to choose its long 
 1 way through solitudes, diffusing fertility ; or like his own 
 Potomac, widening and deepening his channel as he ap- 
 proaches the sea, and displaying most the usefulness and 
 serenity of his greatness toward the end of his course. Such 
 
GRAVE OF JEFFERSON. 69 
 
 a citizen would do honor to any country, and the constant 
 Veneration and affection of his country, will show that it 
 was worthy of such a citizen. Ames. 
 
 The Grave of Jefferson* 
 
 I ASCENDED the winding road which leads from Chat- 
 lottsville to Monticello, up the miniature mountain to the' 
 farm and the grave of Jefferson. On entering the gate 
 which opens into the enclosure, numerous paths diverge 
 in various directions, winding through beautiful groves to 
 the summit of the hill. From the peak or\ which the house 
 stands, a grand and nearly unlimited view opens to the 
 thickly wooded hills and fertile valleys which stretch out on 
 either side. The University with its dome, porticos, and 
 colonnade, looks like a fair city in the plain : Charlottsville 
 seems to be directly beneath. 
 
 No spot can be imagined as combining greater advan- 
 tages of grandeur, healthfulness, and seclusion. The house 
 is noble in its appearance : two large columns support a por- 
 tico, which extends from the wings, and into it the front door 
 opens. The apartments are neatly furnished, and embellish- 
 ed with statues, busts, portraits, and natural curiosities. The 
 grounds and outhouses have been neglected; Mr. Jefferson's at- 
 tention having been absorbed from such personal concerns, by 
 the cares attendant on the superintendence of the University. 
 
 At a short distance behind the mansion, in a quiet, 
 shaded spot, the visitor sees a square enclosure, surrounded 
 by a low, unmortared stone wall, which he enters by a neat 
 wooden gate. This is the family burial ground, containing 
 ten or fifteen graves, none of them marked by epitaphs, and 
 only a few distinguished by any memorial. On one side of 
 this simple cemetery, is the resting place of the patriot and 
 philosopher. When I saw it, the vault had just been arched, 
 and in readiness for the plain stone which was to cover it. 
 
 May it ever continue, like Washington's, without any 
 adventitious attractions or conspicuoushess ; for when we 
 or our posterity need any other memento of our debt of 
 honor to those names, than their simple inscription on paper, 
 gorgeous f tombs would be a mockery to their memories. 
 When gratitude shall cease to concentrate their remembrance 
 in the hearts of our citizens, no cenotaph will inspire the 
 reverence we owe to them. 
 
70 HERCULANEUM. 
 
 The last days of Herculaneum. 
 
 A GREAT city, situated amidst all that nature coulo 
 create of beauty and profusion, or art collect of science ana 
 magnificence, the growth of many ages, the residence of 
 enlightened multitudes, the scene of splendor, and festivity, 
 and happiness, in one moment withered as by a spell, 
 its palaces, its streets, its temples, its gardens, "'glowing 
 with eternal spring," and its inhabitants in the full enjoy- 
 ment of all life's blessings, obliterated from their very place 
 in creation, not by war, or famine, or disease, or any of the 
 natural causes of destruction to which earth had been accus- 
 tomed, but in a single night, as if by magic, d and amid the 
 conflagration, as it were, of nature itself, presented a subject 
 on which the wildest imagination might grow weary, without 
 even equaling the grand and terrible reality. 
 
 The eruption of Vesuvius, by which Herculaneum 
 and Pompeii were overwhelmed, has been chiefly described 
 to us in the letters of Pliny the younger to Tacitus, giving 
 an account of his uncle's fate, and the situation of the writer 
 and his mother. The elder Pliny had just returned from, 
 the bath, and was retired to his study, when a small speck 
 or cloud, which seemed to ascend from Mount Vesuvius, 
 attracted his attention. 
 
 This cloud gradually increased, and at length assumed 
 the shape of a pine tree, the trunk of earth and vapor, and 
 the leaves, "red cinders." Pliny ordered his galley, and, 
 urged by his philosophic spirit, went forward to inspect the 
 phenomenon. In a short time, however, philosophy gave 
 way to humanity, and he zealously and adventurously em- 
 ployed his galley, in saving the inhabitants of the various 
 beautiful villas which studded that enchanting coast. 
 Among others he went to the assistance of his friend 
 Pomponianus, who was then at Strabiae. 
 
 The storm of fire, and the tempest of earth, increased; 
 and the wretched inhabitants were obliged, by the continual 
 rocking of their houses, to rush out into the fields with pil- 
 lows tied down by napkins Upon, their heads, as their sole 
 defense against the shower of stones which fell on them. 
 This, in the course of nature, was in the middle of the day ; 
 but a deeper darkness than that of a winter night had closed 
 
PASSAGE OF THE BLUE RIDGE. 71 
 
 around the ill-fated inmates of Herculaneum. This artificial 
 darkness continued for three days and nights, and when, at 
 length, the sun again appeared over the spot where Hercula- 
 neurn stood, his rays fell upon an ocean of lava ! 
 
 There was neither tree, nor shrub, nor field, nor house, 
 nor living creature; nor Visible remnant of what human 
 hands had reared, there was nothing to be seen but one 
 black extended surface, still streaming with mephitic vapor, 
 and heaved into calcined Waves by the operation of fire, and 
 the undulations of the earthquake! Pliny was found dead 
 Upon the sea-shore, stretched Upon a cloth which had been 
 spread for him, where it was conjectured he had perished 
 early, his corpulent and apoplectic habit rendering him a"n 
 easy prey to the suffocating atmosphere, 
 
 Passage of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers through, 
 the Blue Ridge. 
 
 1. THE passage of the Potoriiac through the Blue Ridge, 
 is perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. 
 You stand on a very high point of land. On your right 
 c'omes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of 
 the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left 
 approaches the Potomac, in qtlest of a passage also. In the 
 moment of their junction they rush together against the 
 mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. 
 
 The first glance of this scene hurries our senses into 
 the opinion, that this earth has been created in time ; that the 
 mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow- 
 afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been 
 dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have form- 
 ed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing 
 to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and 
 have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. 
 The piles of rock on each hand, particularly the Shenan- 
 doah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion 
 from their beds, by the most powerful agents of nature, cor- 
 roberate this impression. 
 
 Buf the distant finishing which nature has given to the' 
 picture, is of a very different character. It is a true con- 
 trast to the foreground. That is as placid and delightful, 
 as this is wild and tremendous. The mountain being cloven 
 asunder, presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small catch 
 
72 EGYPTIAN PYRAMIDS. 
 
 of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain 
 country, inviting you as it were from the riot and tumult 
 roaring round, to pass through the- breach, and participate of 
 the calm below. 
 
 Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that way, 
 too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the Po- 
 tomac above the junction, pass along its side through the 
 base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible precipices 
 hanging in fragments over you. This scene is worth a 
 voyage across the Atlantic ; yet here, as in the neighborhood 6 
 of the Natural Bridge, are people who have passed their lives 
 within half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey 
 these monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, 
 which must have shaken the earth itself to its center. 
 
 Jefferson. 
 
 The Egyptian Pyramids. 
 
 THE pyramids of Egypt are well entitled to a place, 
 among the most interesting curiosities in the world. The 
 principal ones stand opposite Cairo, on the west side of the 
 river Nile. They are built of stones, which overleap each 
 other, and thus form steps from the bottom to the top. The 
 perpendicular height of the largest is about 500 feet, and 
 the area of its basis contains nearly 500,000 square feet, or 
 something more than eleven English acres of ground. 
 Some idea may be formed of the cost and labor in the struc- 
 ture of this pyramid, from the fact that thirty years were 
 spent in building it, and that 100,000 men were constantly 
 employed on the work. 
 
 Such were the famous Egyptian pyramids, which by 
 their figure as w.ell as size have triumphed over the injuries 
 of tiriie and the barbarians. But whatever efforts men make, 
 their own nothingness will always appear. These pyramids 
 were tombs ; and there is still to be seen, in the middle of the 
 largest, an empty sepulcher, cut out of entire stone, about 
 three feet deep and broad, and a little above six feet long. 
 
 Thus, all this bustle, all this expense, and all the labor 
 of so many thousand men, ended in procuring a prince, in 
 this vast and almost boundless pile of buildings, a little 
 vault six feet in length. Besides, the kings who built these 
 pyramids had it not in their power to be buried in them, and 
 
EGYPTIAN PYRAMIDS. 
 
 so did not enjoy the sepulcher they had huilt. The public 
 hatred which they incurred hy reason of their unheard ot 
 cruelties to their subjects, in laying such heavy tasks upon 
 them, occasioned their being interred in some obscure place, 
 to prevent their bodies from being exposed to the fury and 
 vengeance of the populace. 
 
 This last circumstance, of which historians have taken 
 particular notice, teaches us what judgment we ought to pass 
 on these edifices, so much boasted of by the ancients. It is 
 but jfist to remark and esteem the noble genius which the 
 Egyptians had for architecture, a genius that prompted 
 them from the earliest times, and before they could have any 
 models to imitate, to aim in all things at the grand and mag- 
 nificent; and to be intent on real beauties, without deviating 
 in the least from a noble simplicity, in which the highest 
 perfection of the art consists. 
 
 But what idea ought we to form of those princes, who 
 considered as something grand, the raising, hy a multitude of 
 hands arid by the help of money, immense structures, wUh 
 the sole view of rendering their names immortal; and who 
 did not scruple to destroy thousands of their subjects to satis- 
 fy their vain glory ! They differed very much from the Ro- 
 mans, who sought to immortalize themselves by works of a 
 magnificent kind, but at the same time of public utility. 
 
 Pliny gives us, in a few words, a just idea of these py- 
 ramids when he calls them a foolish and useless ostentation 
 of the wealth of Egyptian kings; and adds, that by a just 
 punishment their memory is buried in oblivion historians 
 not agreeing among themselves about the names of those 
 who first raised those vain monuments. In a word, accord- 
 ing to the judicious remark of Diodorus, the industry of the 
 architects of those pyramids is no less valuable and praise-* 
 worthy, than the design of the Egyptian kings contemptible 
 and ridiculous. 
 
 But what we should most admire m these ancient mo- 
 numents, is, the true and standing evidence they give of the 
 skill of the Egyptians in Astronomy ; that is a science which 
 seems incapable of being brought to perfection but by a long 
 series' of years, and a great number of observations. It has 
 been found, that the four sides of the great pyramid named, 
 were turned exactly to the four quarters of the world; and 
 consequently showed the true meridian of that place. 
 
 As so exact a situation was in all probability purposely 
 
74 PUBLIC BUILDINGS AT ROMK. 
 
 pitched upon, by those who piled up this huge mass of stones 
 above three thousand years ago ; it follows, that during so 
 long a space of time there has been no alteration in the hea- 
 vens in that respect, or, which amounts to the same thing, in 
 the poles of the earth or the meridians. 
 
 Of the Forum, and other public Buildings at Rome. 
 
 THE Roman Forum now lay extended before us a scene 
 m the ages of Roman greatness of unparalleled splendor ana 
 magnificence. It was bordered on both sides with temples, 
 and lined with statues. It terminated in triumphal arches ; 
 and was bounded, here by the Palatine hill, with the imperi- 
 al residence glittering on its summit, and there by the Ca- 
 pitol, with its ascending ranges of porticos and of temples. 
 
 Thus it presented one of the richest exhibitions that 
 ^yes could behold, or human ingenuity invent. In the midst 
 of these superb monuments, the memorial of their great- 
 ness, and tl^ trophies of their fathers, the Roman people 
 assembled to exercise tteir sovereign power, and to decide 
 the fates of heroes, of kings, and of nations. 
 
 Nor did the contemplation of such glorious objects fail 
 to produce a corresponding effect. Manlius, as long as he 
 could extend his arm and fix the attention of the people on 
 the Capitol which he had saved, suspended his fatal sentence. 
 Caius Gracchus melted the hearts of his audience, when in 
 the moment of distress he pointed to the Capitol, and asked 
 with all the emphasis of despair, whether he could expect to 
 find an asylum in that sanctuary, whose pavements still 
 streamed with the blood of his brother. 
 
 Scipio Africanus, when accused by an envious faction, 
 and obliged to appear before the people as a criminal, instead 
 of answering the charge, turned to the Capitol, and invited 
 the assembly to accompany him to the temple of Jupiter, 
 and to give thanks to the Gods for the defeat oi' Annibal and 
 the Carthaginians. 
 
 Such, in fact, was the influence of locality, and such the 
 awe, interest, and even emotion, inspired by the surrounding 
 edifices. Hence the frequent references that we find in the 
 Roman historians and orators, of the Capitol, the Forum, the 
 temples of the gods ; and hence those noble addresses to the 
 deities themselvesj as appear in their respective sanctuaries. 
 
 
PUBLIC BUILDINGS AT ROME. 75 
 
 But the glories of the Forum are now fled for ever; its 
 temples are fallen 5 its sanctuaries have crumbled into dust; 
 its colonnades encumber its pavements, now buried under 
 their remains. The walls of the Rostra, stripped of their 
 ornaments, and doomed to eternal silence, a few shattered 
 porticos, and here and there an insulated column, standing 
 in the midst of broken shafts, vast fragments of marble 
 capitals and cornices, heaped together in masses, remind 
 the traveler that the field which he now traverses was once 
 the Roman Forum. 
 
 A little farther on commences a double range of trees 
 that leads along the Via Sacra, by the temples of Antoninus 
 and of Peace, to the arch of Titus. A herdsman, seated on 
 a pedestal while his oxen were drinking at the fountain, and 
 a few passengers, moving at a distance in different directions, 
 were the only living beings that disturbed the silence and 
 solitude which reigned around. 
 
 Thus, the place seemed restored to its original wild- 
 ness described by Virgil, and abandoned once more to the 
 flocks and herds of cattle. So far have the modern Romans 
 forgotten the theater of the glory, and of the imperial power 
 of their ancestors, as to degrade it into a common market 
 for cattle ; and sink its name, illustrated by every page of 
 Roman history, into the contemptible appellation of Campo 
 Vaccino. 
 
 Proceeding along the Via Sacra, and passing under the 
 arch of Titus, on turning a little to the left we beheld tbe 
 amphitheater of Vespasian and Titus, now called the Coli- 
 seum. Never did human art present to the eye a fabric, so 
 well calculated, by its size and form, to surprise and delight. 
 Let the spectator first place himself to the north, and con- 
 template that side which depredation, barbarism, and ages 
 have spared, he will behold with admiration its wonderful 
 extent, well proportioned stones, and flying lines, that retire 
 and vanish without break or interruption. 
 
 Next let him turn to the south, and examine those stu- 
 pendous arches, which, stripped as they are of their external 
 decorations, still astonish us by their solidity and duration. 
 Then let him enter, range through the lofty arcades, and, 
 ascending the vaulted seats, consider the vast mass of ruin 
 that surrounds him insulated walls, immense stones sus- 
 pended in the air, arches covered with weeds and shrubs, 
 
76 PUBLIC BUILDINGS AT ROME. 
 
 vaults opening upon other ruins; in short, above, below, and 
 around, one vast collection of magnificence and devastation, 
 of grandeur and decay. 
 
 The Coliseum, owing to the solidity of its materials, 
 survived the era of barbarism, and was so perfect in the 
 thirteenth century that games were exhibited in it, not for 
 the amusement of the Roman only, but of all the nobility of 
 Italy. The destruction of this wonderful fabric is to be as- 
 cribed to causes more active in general in the erection, than 
 in the demolition of magnificent buildings to Taste and 
 Vanity. 
 
 When Rome began to revive, and architecture arose 
 from its ruins, every rich and powerful citizen wished to have, 
 not a commodious dwelling merely, but a palace. The Coli- 
 seum, was an immense quarry at hand : the common people 
 stole, the grandees obtained permission to carry off, its ma- 
 terials, till the interior was dismantled, and the exterior half 
 stripped of its ornaments. 
 
 " It is difficult to say where this system of depredation, 
 so sacrilegious in the opinion of the antiquary, would have 
 stopped, had not Benedict XIV., a pontif of great judgment, 
 erected a cross in the center of the arena, and declared the 
 place sacred, out of respect to the blood of the many mar- 
 tyrs who were butchered there during the persecutions. 
 This declaration, if issued two or three centuries ago, would 
 have preserved the Coliseum entire ; it can now only pro- 
 tect its remains, and transmit them in their present state to 
 posterity. 
 
 We then ascended the Palatine Mount, after having 
 walked around its base in order to examine its bearings. 
 This hill, the nursery of infant Rome, and finally the resi- 
 dence of imperial grandeur, presents now two solitary villas 
 and a convent, with their deserted gardens and vineyards. 
 
 Its numerous temples, its palaces, its porticos, and its 
 libraries, once the glory of Rome, and the admiration of the 
 universe, are now mere heaps of ruins, so shapeless and 
 scattered, that the antiquary and architect are at a loss to dis- 
 cover their site, their plans and their elevation. Of that wing 
 of the imperial palace which looks to the west, and on the 
 Circus Maximus, some apartments remain vaulted, and of 
 fine proportions, but so deeply buried in ruins as to be now 
 subterranean. 
 
 A hall of immense size was discovered about the be- 
 
DESCRIPTION OF .ETNA. 
 
 ginning ot the last century, concealed under the ruins of its 
 own massive roof. The pillars of Verde antico that support- 
 ed its vaults, the statues that ornamented its niches, and 
 the rich marbles that formed its pavement, were found buried 
 in rubbish, and were immediately carried away by the Far- 
 nes-ian family, the proprietors of the soil, to adorn their pa- 
 laces, and furnish their galleries. 
 
 This hall is now cleared of its encumbrances, and pre- 
 sents to the eye a vast length of naked wall, and an area 
 covered with weeds. As we stood contemplating its extent 
 and proportions, a fox started from an aperture at one end, 
 once a window, and, crossing the open space, scrambled up 
 the ruins at the other, and disappeared in the rubbish. 
 
 This scene of desolation reminded me of Ossian's 
 beautiful description : k< the thistle shook there its lonely 
 head; the moss whistled lo the gale; the fox looked out 
 from the windows ; the rank grass waved around his head," 
 and almost seemed tte accomplishment .of that awful predic- 
 tion " There the wild beasts of the desert shall lodge, and 
 howling monsters shall fill the houses ; the wolves shall 
 howl to one another in their palaces, and dragons in their 
 voluptuous pavilions." Eustace. 
 
 Description of Etna. 
 
 AT day break we set off from Catania, to visit Mount 
 that venerable and respectable father of mountains* 
 His base, and his immense declivities, are covered with a 
 numerous progeny of his own ; for every great eruption pro- 
 duces a new mountain ; and, perhaps by the number of these 
 better than by any oiher method, the number of eruptions, 
 and the age of ./Etna itself might be ascertained. 
 
 The whole mountain is divided into three distinct re- 
 gions, called La Regione Cultra or Piedmontese, the fertile 
 region; La Regione Sylvosa, or Nemorosa, the woody re- 
 gion ; and La Regione Deserta or Scoperta, the barren re- 
 gion. These three are as different, both in climate and pro- 
 ductions, as the three zones of the earth ; and perhaps with 
 equal propriety might have been styled the Torrid, the Tem- 
 perate, and the Frigid Zone. 
 
 The first region surrounds the mountain, and consti- 
 tutes the most fertile country in the world, on all sides of ity 
 
78 DESCRIPTION OF JETNA. 
 
 to the extent of fourteen or fifteen miles, where the woody 
 region begins. It is composed almost entirely of lava, which, 
 after a number of ages, is at last converted into the most 
 fertile of all soils. At Nicolosi, which is twelve miles up 
 the mountain, we found the barometer at 27 1-2: at Cata- 
 nia it stood at 29 1-2. 
 
 After leaving Nicolosi, in an hour and a halPs traveling 
 over barren ashes and lava, we arrived on the confines of the 
 Resione Sylvosa, or temperate zone. As soon as we enter- 
 ed these delightful forests, we seemed to have entered another 
 world. The air. which before was sultry and hot, was now 
 cool and refreshing; and every breeze was loaded with a 
 thousand perfumes the whole ground being covered with 
 the richest aromatic plants. Many parts of this region are 
 surely the most delightful spots upon earth. 
 
 This mountain unites every beauty, and every horror; and 
 the most opposite and dissimilar objects in nature. Here you 
 observe a gulf that formerly threw out terrents of fire, now 
 covered with the most luxuriant vegetation ; and from an 
 object of terror, become one of delight. Here you gather 
 the most delicious fruit, rising from what was but lately a 
 barren rock. Here the ground is covered with flowers ; and 
 we wander over these beauties, and contemplate this wilder- 
 ness of sweets, without considering that under our feet, but 
 a few yards separate us from lakes of liquid fire and brimstone. 
 
 But our astonishment still increases, upon raising our 
 eyes to the higher region of the mountain. There we be- 
 hold in perpetual union, the two elements which are at per- 
 petual war an immense gulf of fire, for ever existing in the 
 midst of snows which it has not power to melt ; and im- 
 mense fields of snow and ice, for ever surrounding this gulf 
 of fire, which they have not power to extinguish. The 
 woody region of ^Etna ascends for about eight or nine miles, 
 and forms a zone or girdle of the brightest green, all around 
 the mountain. 
 
 This night we passed through little more than half of 
 it; arriving some time before sun set at our lodging, which 
 was a large cave, formed by one of the most ancient and 
 venerable lavas. Here we were delighted with the contem- 
 plation of many beautiful objects, the prospect on all sides 
 being immense, and we already seemed to have been lifted 
 from the earth. After a comfortable sleep, and other refresh- 
 ments, at eleven o'clock at night we recommenced our ex- 
 pedition. 
 
 Our guide now began to display his great knowledge of 
 
DESCRIPTION OF .ETNA. 79 
 
 the mountain, and we followed him with implicit confidenct 
 where perhaps human foot had never trod before. Some- 
 times through gloomy forests, which by day were delightful, 
 but now, from the universal darkness, the rustling of the 
 trees, the heavy dull bellowing of the mountain, the vast 
 expanse of ocean stretched at an immense distance below 
 js, inspired a kind of awful horror. 
 
 Sometimes we found ourselves ascending great rocks of 
 lava, where, if our mules should make but a false step, we 
 might be thrown headlong over the precipice. -However, by 
 the assistance of our guide we overcame all these difficulties, 
 and in two hours we had ascended above the region of vegeta- 
 tion, and had left the forests of ^Erna far below, which now ap- 
 peared like a dark and gloomy gulf surrounding the mountain. 
 
 The prospect before us was of a very different nature: 
 we beheld an expanse of snow and ice which alarmed us 
 exceedingly, and almost staggered our resolution. In the 
 centre of this we descried the high summit of the mountain^ 
 rearing its tremendous head, and vomiting out torrents ot 
 smoke. 
 
 The ascent for some time was not steep, and as the 
 surface of the snow sunk a little, we had tolerably good 
 footing ; but as it soon began to grow steeper, we found our 
 labor greatly^ increased: however, we determined to per- 
 severe, calling to mind that the emperor Adrian and the 
 philosopher Plato had undergone the same ; and from a like 
 motive loo to see the rising sun from the top of JEtna. 
 
 We at length arrived tt the summit; but here, de- 
 scription must ever fall short ; for no imagination has dared 
 to form an idea of so glorious, and so magnificent a scene. 
 Neither is there on the surface of this globe, any one point, 
 that unites so many awful and sublime objects: 
 
 The immense elevation from the surface of the earth, 
 drawn as it were to a single point, without any neighboring 
 mountain for the senses and imagination to rest upon, and 
 recover from their astonishment in their way down to the 
 world ; this point, or pinnacle, raised on the brink of a 
 bottomless gulf, as old as the world, often discharging rivers 
 of fire, and throwing out burning rocks, with a noise that 
 shakes the whole island, add to this, the unbounded extent 
 of -the prospect, comprehending the greatest diversity, and 
 the most beautiful scenery in nature, w;th the rising sun 
 advancing in the east, to illuminate the wondrous scene. 
 
 The whole atmosphere by degrees kindled up, and 
 showed, dimly and faintly, the boundless prospect around. 
 
80 DESCRIPTION OF J3TNA. 
 
 Both sea and land looked dark and confused, as if only 
 emerging from their original chaos ; and light and darknesa 
 seemed still undivided, till the morning, by degrees advan- 
 cing, completed the separation. The stars are extinguished, 
 and the shades disappear. The forests, which but now 
 seemed black and bottomless gulfs, from which no ray was 
 reflected to show their form or colors, appear a new creation 
 rising to the sight, and catching life and beauty from every 
 increasing beam. 
 
 The scene still enlarges, and the horizon seems to 
 widen and expand itself on all sides, till the sun, like the 
 great Creator, appears in the east, and with his plastic rays 
 completes the mighty scene. All appears enchantment; 
 and it is with difficulty we can believe we are sjill on earth. 
 The senses, unaccustomed to the sublimity of such a scene, 
 are bewildered and confounded ; and it is not till after some 
 time, that they are capable of separating and judging of the 
 objects that compose it. 
 
 The body of the sun is seen rising from the ocean, im- 
 mense tracts both of sea and land intervening ; the islands of 
 Lipari, Panari, Alicudi, Strombolo, and Volcano, with their 
 smoking summits, appear under your feet: you look down 
 on the whole of Sicily as on a map; and can trace every 
 river through all its windings, from its source to its mouth. 
 
 The view is absolutely boundless on every side; nor 
 is there any one object within the circle of vision to interrupt 
 it; so that the sight is every where lost in the immensity; 
 and I am persuaded it is only frojn the imperfection of our 
 organs, that the coasts of Africa, and even of Greece, are 
 not discovered, as they are certainly above the horizon. 
 The circumference of the visible horizon, on the top of 
 JEtna, cannot be less than two thousand miles. 
 
 But the most beautiful part of the scene is certainly 
 the mountain itself, the island of Sicily, and the numerous 
 islands lying around it. All these, by a kind of magic in 
 vision that I am at a loss to account for, seem as if they 
 were brought close around the skirts of ^Etna the distances 
 appearing reduced to nothing. 
 
 The Regione Deserta, or the frigid zone of ^Etna, is 
 the first object that calls your attention. It is marked out 
 by a circle of snow and ice, which extends on all sides to 
 the distance of about eight miles. In the center of this 
 circle, the great crater of the mountain rears its burning 
 head; and the regions of intense cold and of intense heal 
 seem for ever to be united in the same point. 
 
DESCRIPTION OF ^ETNA. 81 
 
 The Regione Deserta is immediately succeeded by 
 the Sylvosa, or the woody region, which forms a circle of 
 girdle of the most beautiful green, surrounding the mountain 
 on all sides ; and it is certainly one of the most delightful 
 pots on earth. This presents a remarkable contrast with 
 the desert region. It is not smooth and even, like the 
 greatest part of the latter; but it is finely variegated by an 
 infinite number of those beautiful little mountains, that have 
 been formed by the different eruptions of ^Etna. 
 
 All these have now acquired a wonderful degree of 
 fertility, except a very few that are but newly formed, that 
 is, within these five or six hundred years; for it certainly 
 requires some thousands to bring them to their greatest 
 degree of perfection. We looked down into the craters of 
 these, and attempted, but in vain, to number them. 
 
 The circumference of this zone or great circle on 
 ^Etna, is not less than 70 or 80 miles. It is every where 
 succeeded by the vineyards, orchards, and corn fields, that 
 compose the Regione Cultra, or the fertile region. This 
 last zone is much broader than the others, and extends on 
 all sides to the foot of the mountain. Its whole circumfer- 
 ence, according to Recupero, is 183 miles. 
 
 It is likewise covered with a number of little conical 
 and spherical mountains, and exhibits a wonderful variety 
 of forms and colors, and makes a delightful contrast with 
 the other two regions. It is bounded by the sea to the 
 south and south-east, and on all its other sides by the rivers 
 Semetus and Alcantara, which run almost around it. The 
 whole course of these rivers is seen at once, and all their 
 beautiful windings through these fertile valleys looked upon, 
 as the favored possession of Ceres herself. 
 
 Cast your eyes a little farther, and you embrace the 
 whole island, and see all its cities, rivers, and mountains, de- 
 lineated in the great chart of nature, all the adjacent islands, 
 the whole coast of Italy, as far as your eye can reach; for 
 it is no where bounded, but every where lost in space. On 
 the sun's first rising, the shadow of the mountain extends 
 across the whole island, and makes a large track, visible even 
 *n the sea and in the air. By degrees this is shortened, and, 
 in a little time, is confined only to the neighborhood of ^Etna, 
 
 We had now time to examine the fourth region of that 
 wonderful mountain, very different indeed from the others, 
 and productive of very different sensations; but which has 
 undoubtedly given being to all the rest ; I mean the region 
 
 7* 
 
82 WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 of fire, The present crater of this immense volcano, is a 
 circle of about three miles and a half in circumference. It 
 goes shelving down on each side, and forms a regulai 
 hollow like a vast amphitheater. 
 
 From many .places of this space, issue volumes of 
 sulphureous smoke, which, being much heavier than the 
 circumambient 11 air, instead of rising in it, as smoke generally 
 does, immediately on its getting out of the crater it rolls 
 down the side of the mountain like a torrent, till coming to 
 that part of the atmosphere of the same specific gravity with 
 itself, it shoots off, horizontally, and forms a large track in 
 the air, according to the direction of the wind, which, happily 
 for us, carried it exactly to the side opposite to that where 
 we were placed* 
 
 The crater is so hot that it is very dangerous, if not 
 impossible, to go down into it; besides^ the smoke is very 
 incommodious, 13 and in many places the surface is so soft, 
 there have been instances of people sinking into it, and pay- 
 ing for their temerity with their lives. Near the center of 
 the crater, is the great mouth of the volcano that tremen- 
 dous gulf so celebrated in all ages, and looked upon as the 
 terror and scourge both of this and another life. We beheld 
 it with awe and with horror, and were not surprised that it 
 had been considered as the place of eternal punishment. 
 
 When we reflect on the immensity of its depth, the 
 vast cells and caverns whence so many lavas have issued, 
 Ihe force of its internal fire, to raise up those lavas to so vast 
 a height, to support as it were in the air, and even to force 
 them over the very summit of the crater, with all the 
 dreadful accompaniments, the boiling of the matter, the 
 shaking of tho mountain, the explosion of flaming rocks, 
 &c. we must allow that the most enthusiastic imagination 
 in the midst of all its terrors, hardly ever formed an idea of 
 a hell more dreadful. JBrydone. 
 
 The Widow and her Son. 
 
 DURING my residence in the country, I used frequently 
 to attend at the old village church, which stood in a country 
 filled with ancient families, and contained within its cold and 
 
WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations^ 
 Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken 
 panneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, 
 seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. 
 
 A Sunday, too, m the country, is so holy in its repose; 
 such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every 
 restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural 
 religion of the soul gently springing up within us : 
 
 11 Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky ! " 
 
 I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man, but there 
 are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the 
 beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no where 
 else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man 
 on Sunday, than on any other day of the seven. 
 
 But in this church I felt myself continually thrown 
 back upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor 
 worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly 
 to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian) 
 was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight 
 of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something 
 better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride 
 were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble 
 in the extreme^ was scrupulously clean* 
 
 Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her; for 
 she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone 
 on the steps of the altan She seemed to have survived all 
 love, all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her 
 but the hopes of heaven* When I saw her feebly rising, and 
 bending her aged form in prayer, habitually conning her 
 prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would 
 not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by 
 heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor 
 woman arose to Heaven far before the responses of the clerk, 
 the swell of the organ,. or the chanting of the choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches, and tkis 
 was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. 
 It stood on a knoll, around which a stream made a beautiful 
 bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
 meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew 
 trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall 
 Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks 
 and crows generally wheeling about it. 
 
84 WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 I was seated there one still, sunny morning, watching 
 two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen 
 one of the most remote and neglected corners of the church- 
 yard, where, from the numher of nameless graves around, it 
 would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled 
 into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for 
 the only son of a poor widow. 
 
 While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly 
 rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll o f 
 the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were 
 ihe obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to 
 do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other 
 covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton 
 walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
 
 There were no mock mourners in the trappings of 
 affected wo; but there was one real mourner, who feebly 
 tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the 
 deceased the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on 
 the steps of the altar. She was supported by an humble 
 friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the 
 neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of 
 the village were running, hand in hand, now shouting with 
 unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish 
 curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 
 
 As the funeral train approached the grave, the person 
 issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with 
 prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The ser- 
 vice, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had 
 been destitute, and the survivor was pennyless. It was shuf- 
 fled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. 
 The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church 
 door; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and 
 never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touch- 
 ing ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on 
 the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 
 deceased "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
 mother had been assisted to kneel down at. the head of it. 
 Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer; but I 
 could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a con- 
 vulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last 
 relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 
 
 The service being ended, preparations were made to 
 deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir 
 
WIDOW AND HER SON. 85 
 
 which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affec- 
 tion directions given in the cold tones of business the 
 striking of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the grave 
 of those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The 
 bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched 
 revery. She raised her glazed eyes and looked about with 
 a faint wildness. 
 
 As the men approached, with cords to lower the coffin 
 into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony 
 of grief. The poor Woman who attended her, took her by 
 the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to 
 whisper something like consolation ;-^-she could only shake 
 her head, and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking 
 of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some 
 accidental obstruction, there Was a justling of the coffin, all 
 the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm 
 could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly 
 suffering. 
 
 I could see no more; my heart swelled into my 
 throat ; my eyes filled with tears ; I felt as if I were acting 
 a barbarous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this 
 scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part 
 of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral train 
 had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting 
 the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was 
 dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, 
 my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses 
 of the rich! they have friends to soothe, pleasures to 
 beguile, a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What 
 are the sorrows of the young ! their growing minds soon 
 close above the wound, their elastic spirits soon rise be- 
 neath the pressure, their green and ductile affections soon 
 twine around new objects. 
 
 But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward 
 appliances to soothe, the sorrows of the aged, with whom 
 life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no 
 after-growth of joy, the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, 
 destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of 
 her years, these are indeed sorrows which make us feel 
 the impotency of consolation. 
 
 It was some time before I left the church-yard. On 
 my way homeward, I met with the woman who had acted 
 
86 WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 as comforter : she was jusi fecurniug from accompanying 
 the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her 
 some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had 
 witnessed* 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 
 from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest 
 Cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assist- 
 ance of a small garden, had supported themselves, creditably 
 and comfortably, and led a happy, and a blameless life. 
 They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and 
 pride of their age. 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
 scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service 
 of one of the small craft, that plied on a neighboring river. 
 He had not been long in this employ, when he was entrap- 
 ped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His parents 
 received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could 
 learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The 
 father, who was already infirm, grew heartless and melan- 
 choly and sunk into his grave. 
 
 The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness^ 
 could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. 
 Still there was a kind feeling toward her throughout the 
 Village ; and a certain respect as being one of the oldest 
 inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage in which 
 she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to 
 remain in it, where she lived, solitary and almost helpless. 
 The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the 
 scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbors 
 would now and then cultivate for her. 
 
 It was but a few days before the time at which these 
 circumstances were told me^ that she was gathering some 
 Vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door, 
 Which faced the garden, suddenly open. A stranger came 
 out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. 
 He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and 
 ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and 
 hardships. 
 
 He saw her, and hasted toward her, but his steps 
 were faint and faltering; he sunk on his knees before her, 
 and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him 
 with a vacant and wandering eye " Oh my dear, dear mo- 
 ther! don't you know your son! your poor boy George !" 
 It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shat- 
 
WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 ttered by wounds, by sickness, and foreign imprisonment, had 
 At length dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose 
 among the scenes of his childhood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a 
 meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended* 
 still he was alive ! he had come home ! he might yet live 
 to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was 
 exhausted in him ; and if any thing had been wanting to 
 finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage 
 would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the 
 pallet, on which his widowed mother had passed many a 
 sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that George Somers 
 had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort 
 and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was 
 too weak, however, to talk he could only look his thanks* 
 His mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed 
 Unwilling to be helped by any other hand. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down the 
 pride of manhood, that softens the heart, and brings it 
 back to the feelings of infancy* Who that has languished^ 
 even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency, who 
 that has pined on a weary bed, in the neglect and loneliness 
 of a foreign land, but has thought of the mother "that 
 looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow and 
 administered to his helplessness? 
 
 Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a 
 mother to a son, that transcends all the other affections of* 
 the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor 
 daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
 stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to 
 his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his 
 enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his 
 prosperity : and, if adversity overtake him, he will be the 
 dearer to her by misfortune ; and, if disgrace settle upon his 
 name, she will still love and cherish him; and, if all the 
 world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. 
 
 Poor George Somers had known well what it was to 
 be in sickness, and have none to soothe lonely and in pri- 
 son, and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother 
 from his sight : if she moved away, his eye would follow her* 
 She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. 
 Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look 
 anxiously up until he saw her venerable form bending over 
 him ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, 
 and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child : in this way 
 he died. 
 
 . * . 
 
88 THE BLIND PREACHER. 
 
 My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of afflic- 
 tion, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer 
 pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found 
 however on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers 
 had prompted them to do every thing that the case admit- 
 ted ; and as the poor know best how to console each other's 
 sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village church, when, 
 to my surprise, I saw the old woman tottering down the aisle 
 to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She had 
 made an effort to put on something like mourning for her 
 son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle 
 between pious affection and utter poverty: a black riband 
 or so a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such 
 humble attempts to express, by outward signs, that grief 
 which passes show. 
 
 When I looked around upon the storied monuments, 
 the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which 
 grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and 
 then turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and 
 sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers 
 and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that 
 this living monument of real grief was worth them all. 
 
 I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 
 the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted 
 themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 
 lighten her afflictions. It was however but smoothing a few 
 steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, 
 she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I 
 left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, 
 that she had quietly breathed her last, and gone to rejoin 
 those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, 
 and friends are never parted. 
 
 The Blind Preacher. 
 
 IT was one Sunday > as I traveled through the county 
 of Orange, in Virginia, that my eye was caught by a cluster 
 of horses, tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house, in the 
 forest, not far from the road side. Having frequently seen 
 such objects before, in traveling through these states, I had 
 no difficulty in understanding that this was a place ol 
 religious worship. 
 
 Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the 
 
THE BLIND PREACHER. 
 
 duties of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curiosity 
 to hear the preacher of such a wilderness, was not the least 
 of my motives. On entering the house, I was struck with 
 his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare 
 old man, his head, whfch was covered with a white linen 
 cap, his shriveled hands, and his voice, were all shaking 
 under the influence of a palsy ; and a few moments ascer- 
 tained to me that he was perfectly .blind. 
 
 The first emotions which touched my breast, were those 
 of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my 
 feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more 
 worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips 
 of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of the 
 sacrament ; and his subject, of course, was the passion of 
 our Savior. I had heard the subject handled a thousand 
 times: I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I 
 suppose, that in the wild woods of America, I was to meet 
 with a man, whose eloquence would give, to this topic, a new 
 and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. 
 
 As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mys- 
 tic symbols, there was a peculiar a more than human 
 solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run 
 cold, and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture 
 of the sufferings of our Savior, his trial before Pilate, his 
 ascent up Calvary, his crucifixion, and his death. I knew 
 the whole history ; but never, until then, had I heard the 
 circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored ! It was 
 all new; and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in 
 my life. 
 
 His enunciation was so deliberate that his voice trem- 
 bled on every syllable ; and every heart in the assembly 
 trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of 
 description, that the original scene, appeared to be at that 
 moment acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of 
 the Jews the staring, frightful distortions of malice and 
 rage. We saw the buffet: my soul kindled with a flame of 
 indignation ; and my hands^were involuntarily and convul- 
 sively clinched. 
 
 But when he came to touch on the patience, the foi- 
 giving meekness of our Savior; when he drew, to the life, 
 his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven, his voice 
 breathing to God a soft and gentle, prayer of pardon on hia 
 enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
 
90 THE BLIND PREACHER. . 
 
 they do ;" the voice of the preacher which had all along fal- 
 tered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance heing en- 
 tirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his 
 handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressi- 
 ble flood of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The whole 
 house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and 
 shrieks of the congregation. 
 
 It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far 
 as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, 
 but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be 
 very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could 
 not conceive how he would be able to let his audience down 
 from the height to which he had wound them, without im- 
 pairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps 
 shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But no: the 
 descent was as beautiful and sublime, as the elevation had 
 been rapid and enthusiastic. 
 
 The first sentence with which he broke the awful si- 
 lence, was a quotation from Rousseau ; " Socrates died 
 like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!" I despair 
 of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short 
 sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole 
 manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the dis- 
 course. Never before, did I completely understand what 
 Demosthenes meant, by laying such stress on delivery. 
 
 You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the 
 preacher, his blindness constantly recalling to your recol- 
 lection old Homer, Ossian and Milton, and associate with 
 his performance the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses, 
 you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well- 
 accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling 
 melody you are to remember the pitch of passion and en- 
 thusiasm to which the congregation were raised, and then, 
 the few minutes of portentous, death-like silence which 
 reigned throughout the house, to see the preacher, removing 
 his white handkerchief from his aged face, even yet wet from 
 the recent torrent of his tears, and slowly stretching- forth 
 the palsied hand which holds it, Begin the sentence " Soc- 
 rates died like a philosopher" then pausing, raising his 
 other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with 
 warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his sightless balls 
 to Heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous 
 voice" but Jesus Christ like a God !" If he had been 
 indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could 
 scarcely have been more divine. 
 
THE HEAD STONE. 91 
 
 Whatever I had been able to conceive of the sublimity 
 of Massillon, or the force of Bourdaloue, had fallen far short 
 of the power which I felt, from the delivery of this simple 
 sentence. The blood, which just before had rushed in a 
 hurricane upon my .brain, ai;d, in the violence and agony of 
 my feelings, had held my whole system in suspense, now 
 ran back into my heart, with a sensation which I cannot 
 describe a kind of shuddering delicious horror ! The par- 
 oxysm of blended pity and indignation to which I had been 
 transported, subsided into the deepest self-abasement, humil- 
 ity, and adoration. I had just been lacerated and dissolved 
 by sympathy for our Savior, as a fellow creature ; bat now, 
 with fear and trembling, I adored him as "a God !" 
 
 If this description gives you the impression, that this 
 incomparable minister had any thing of shallow, theatrical 
 trick in his manner, it does him great injustice. I have 
 never seen, in any other orator, such an union of simplicity 
 and majesty. He has not a gesture, an attitude, or an ac- 
 cent, to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment 
 which he is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, 
 too solicitous, and, at the same time too dignified, to stoop 
 to artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a 
 man can be, yet it is clear, from the train, the style and 
 substance of his thoughts, that he is not only a very polite 
 scholar but a man of very extensive and profound erudition. 
 
 This man has been before my imagination almost ever 
 since. A thousand times as I rode along, I dropped the 
 reins of my bridle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to 
 imitate his quotation from Rosseau ; a thousand times I 
 abandoned the attempt in despair, and felt persuaded that 
 his peculiar manner and power, arose from an energy of soul 
 which' nature could give, but which no human being could 
 justly copy. 
 
 The Head Stone. 
 
 THE coffin was let down to the bottom of the grave ; the 
 planks were removed from the heaped-up brink ; the first 
 rattling clods had struck their knell ; the quick shoveling 
 was over; and the long, broad, skilfully cut pieces of turf 
 were aptly joined together, and trimly laid by the beating 
 spade ; so that the newest mound in the church-yard, was 
 scarcely distinguishable from those that were grown over 
 
92 THE HEAD STONE. 
 
 by. the undisturbed grass and daises of a luxuriant spring. 
 The burial was soon over; and the party with one consent- 
 ing motion, having uncovered their heads, in decent rever- 
 ence of the place and occasion, were beginning to separate, 
 and about to leave the church-yard. 
 
 Here some acquaintances, from distant parts of the pa- 
 rish, who had not had an opportunity of addressing each other 
 in the house that had belonged to the deceased, nor in the 
 course of the few hundred yards that the little procession had 
 to move over from his bed to his grave, were shaking hands, 
 quietly and cheerfully, and inquiring after the welfare of 
 each other's families. There, a small knot of neighbours 
 were speaking, without exaggeration, of the respectable cha- 
 racter which the deceased had borne, and mentioning to one 
 another, the little incidents of his life, some of them so re- 
 mote as to be known only to the gray-headed persons of the 
 group. 
 
 While a few yards farther removed from the spot, were 
 standing together parties who discussed ordinary concerns, 
 altogether unconnected with the funeral, such as the state of 
 the markets, the promise of the season, or change of tenants ; 
 but still with a sobriety of manner and voice, that was insen- 
 sibly produced by the influence of the simple ceremony now 
 closed, by the quiet graves around, and the shadow of the 
 spire and gray walls of the house of God. 
 
 Two men yet stood together at the head of the grave, 
 with countenances of sincere^ but unimpassioned grief. 
 They were brothers the only sons of him who had been 
 buried. And there was something in. their situation that 
 naturally kept the eyes of many directed upon them, for a 
 long time, and more intently than would have been the case, 
 had there been nothing more observable about them, than the 
 common symptoms of a common sorrow. But these two 
 brothers, who were now standing at the head of their father's 
 grave, had for some years been totally estranged from each 
 other; and the only words that had passed between them, 
 during all that time, had been uttered within a few days 
 past, during the necessary preparations for the old man's 
 funeral. 
 
 No deep and deadly quarrel was between these brothers, 
 and neither of them could distinctly tell the cause of this 
 unnatural estrangement. Perhaps dim jealousies of their 
 father's favor, selfish thoughts that will sometimes force 
 themselves into poor men's hearts, respecting temporal ex-* 
 pectations unaccommodating manners on " both sides 1 
 
THE HEAD STONE. ' 93 
 
 taunting words that mean little when uttered, but which 
 rankle and fester in remembrance imagined opposition of 
 interests, that, duly considered, would have been found one 
 and the same these, and many other causes, slight when 
 single, but strong when rising up together in one baneful 
 band, had gradually, but fatally infected their hearts, till at 
 last, they who in youth had been seldom separate, and truly 
 attached, now met at market, and, miserable to say, at 
 church, with dark and averted laces, like different clansmen 
 during a feud. 
 
 Surely if any thing could have softened their hearts to- 
 wards each other, it must have been to stand silently, side by 
 side, while the earth, stones and clods, were falling down 
 upoa their father's coffin. And doubtless their hearts were 
 so softened. But pride, though it cannot prevent the holy 
 affections of nature from being felt, may prevent them from 
 being shown ; and these two brothers stood there together, de- 
 termined not to let each other know the mutual tenderness 
 that, in spite of them, was gushing up in their hearts, and 
 teaching them the unconfessed folly and wickedness of their 
 causeless quarrel. 
 
 A head-stone had been prepared, and a person came for- 
 ward to plant it. The elder brother directed him how to 
 place it a plain stone, with a sand-glass, skull, and cross- 
 bones, chiseled not rudely, and a few words inscribed. The 
 younger brother regarded the operation with a troubled eye, 
 and said, loudly enough to be heard by the by-standers, 
 "William, this was not kind in you; for you should have 
 told me of this. I loved rny father as well as you could love 
 him. You were the elder, and, it may be, the favorite son; 
 but I had a right in nature to have joined you in ordering 
 this head-stone, had I not?" 
 
 During these words, the stone was sinking into the 
 earth, and many persons who were on their way from the 
 grave returned. For a while the elder brother said nothing, 
 for he had a consciousness in his heart that he ought to have 
 consulted his father's son, in designing this last becoming 
 mark of affection and respect to his memory ; so the stone 
 was planted in silence, and now stood erect, decently and 
 simply, among the other unostentatious memorials of the 
 humble dead. 
 
 The inscription merely gave the name and age of the 
 deceased, and told that the stone had been erected "by hig 
 affectionate sons." The sight of these words seemed to soft- 
 en the displeasure of the angry man, and lie said, somewha 
 
04 THE HEAD STONE. 
 
 more mildly, "Yes, we were his affectionate sons, and since 
 my name is on the stone, 1 am satisfied, brother. We have 
 not drawn together kindly of late years, and perhaps never 
 may ; but I acknowledge and respect your worth ; and here, 
 before our own friends, and before the friends of our father, 
 with my foot above his head, 1 express my willingness to be 
 on better terms with you ; and if we cannot command love 
 in our hearts, let us, at'least, brother, bar out all unkindness." 
 
 The minister, who had attended the funeral, and had 
 something intrusted to him to say publicly before he left the 
 church-yard, now came forward, and asked the elder brother 
 why he spake not regarding this matter. He saw that there 
 was something of a cold, and sullen pride rising up in his 
 heart; for not easily may any man hope to dismiss from the 
 chamber of his heart, even the vilest guest, if once cherished 
 there. With a solemn, and almost severe air, he looked up- 
 on the relenting man, and then, changing his countenance 
 into serenity, said gently, 
 
 " Behold how good a thing it is, 
 Arid how beeotntng wtij 
 Together such ap brethren are. 
 In unity to dwell." 
 
 The time, the place, and this beautiful expression of a 
 natural sentiment, quite overcame a heart, in which many 
 kind, if not warm affections dwelt; and the man thus ap- 
 pealed to, bowed down his head and wept, "Give me your 
 hand, brother ;" 'and it was given, while a murmur of satis- 
 faction arose from all present, and all hearts felt kindlier 
 and more humanely toward each other. 
 
 As the brothers stood, fervently but composedly, srrasp- 
 ing' each other's hand, in the little hollow that lay between 
 the grave of their mother, long since dead, and of their fa- 
 ther, whose shroud was happily not vet still, from the fall 
 of dust to dust, the minister stood beside them with a plea- 
 sant countenance, and said, " I must fulfill the promise I 
 made to your father on his death-bed. I mast read to you a 
 few words which his hand wrote, at an hour when his 
 tongue denied its office. 
 
 " I must not say that you did your duty to your old 
 father; for did he not often beseech you, apart from one 
 another, to be reconciled, for your own sakes as Christians, 
 for his sake, and for the sake of the mother who bare you, 
 and, Stephen, who died that you might be bora? When the 
 palsy struck him for the last time, you were both absent, nor 
 was it your fault that you were not beside the old man when 
 he died. 
 
HOWARD, THE PHILANTHROPIST. V5 
 
 "As long as sense continued with him here, did he 
 think of you two, and of you two alone. Tears were in his 
 eyes, I saw them there, and on his cheek too, when no 
 breath came from his lips. But of this no more. He died 
 with this paper in his hand ; and he made me know that I 
 was to read it to you over his grave. I now obey him. 
 "My sons, if you will let my bones lie quiet in the grave, 
 near the dust of your mother, depart not from my burial, 
 till, in the name of God and Christ, you promise to love 
 one another as you used to do. Dear boys, receive my bless- 
 ing." 
 
 Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that 
 needed not to be hidden ; and when the brothers had releas- 
 ed each other from a long and sobbing embrace, many went 
 up to them, and in a single word or two, expressed their joy 
 at this perfect reconcilement. The brothers themselves 
 walked away from the church-yard, arm in arm, with the 
 minister to the mpnse. 
 
 On the following Sabbath, they were seen sitting with 
 their families in the same pew, and it was observed, that they 
 read together from the same Bible when the minister gave 
 out the text; and that they sung together, taking hold of the 
 same psalm-book. The same psalm was sung, (given out at 
 their own request,) of which one verse had been repeated at 
 their father's grave; a larger sum than usual was on that 
 Sabbath found in the plate for the poor, for love and charity 
 are sisters. And ever after, both during the peace and the 
 troubles of this life, the hearts of the brothers were as one, 
 and in nothing were they divided. Wilson. 
 
 The Sultan and Mr. Howard, the Philanthropist. 
 
 Sultan. ENGLISHMAN, you were invited hither to receive 
 public thanks, for our troops restored to health by your pre- 
 scriptions. Ask a reward adequate to your services. 
 
96 HOWARD, THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 Howard. Sultan, the reward I ask, is, leave to preserve 
 more of your people still. 
 
 Suit. How more ? my subjects are in health ; no contagion 
 visits them. 
 
 How. The prisoner is your subject. There, misery, more 
 contagious than disease, preys on the lives of hundreds: sen- 
 tenced but. to confinement, their doom is death. Immured 
 in damp arid dreary vaults, they daily perish; and who can 
 tell but that, among the many hapless sufferers, there may be 
 hearts bent down with penitence, to heaven and you, for 
 every slight offense : there rr\ay be some, among the 
 wretched multitude, even innocent victims. Let me seek 
 them out; let me save them and you. 
 
 Sid. Amazement! retract your application: curb this 
 weak pity, and accept bur thanks. 
 
 How. Restrain my pity; and what can I receive in re- 
 compense for that soft bond which links me to the wretched ? 
 and, while it sooths their so'rrow, repays me more than all 
 the gifts an empire can bestow ! But, if it be a virtue repug- 
 nant to your plan of government, I apply not in the name 
 of Pity, but of Justice. 
 
 Sul. Justice! 
 
 How. The justice that forbids all, but the worst of crimi- 
 nals, to be denied that wholesome air the very brute creation 
 freely takes. 
 
 Sul. Consider for whom you plead for men (if not base 
 culprits) so misled, so depraved, they are dangerous to our 
 state, and deserve none oi'its blessings. 
 
 How. If not upon the undeserving, if not upon the wretch- 
 ed wanderer from the paths of rectitude. where shall 
 the sun diffuse his light, or the clouds distil their dew? 
 Where shall spring breathe fragrance, or autumn pour its 
 plenty ? 
 
 Sul.- Sir, your sentiments, still more your character, excite 
 my curiosity. They tell me that in our camps you visited 
 each sick man's bed. administered yourself the healing 
 draught, encouraged our savages with the hope of life, or 
 pointed out their better hope in death. The widow speaks 
 your charities, the orphan lisps your bounties, and the rough 
 Indian rnelts in tears to bless you. I wish to ask why you 
 have done all this? what is it that prompts you thus to be- 
 friend the miserable and forlorn ? 
 
 How. It is in vain to explain : the time it would take to 
 rereal to you 
 
 Sul. Satisfy my curiosity in writing then. 
 
CADMUS AND HERCULES. 97 
 
 How. Nay, if you will read, I'll send a book in which is 
 already written why I act thus. 
 
 Sul. What book? what is it called? 
 
 How. " The Christian Doctrine." There you will find all 
 I have done was but my duty. 
 
 Sul. Your words recall reflections that distract me ; nor 
 san I bear the pressure on my mind, without confessing / 
 im a Christian! Mrs. Inchbald. 
 
 Cadmus and Hercules. 
 
 Hercules. Do you pretend to sit as high on Olympus as 
 jfercules? Did you kill the Nemean lion, the Erymanthean 
 t"oar, the Lernean serpent, and Stymphalian birds? Did you 
 destroy tyrants and robbers? You value yourself greatly on 
 subduing one serpent: I did as much as that while I lay in 
 my cradle. 
 
 Cadmus. It is not on account of the serpent that I boast 
 myself a greater benefactor to Greece than you. Actions 
 should be valued by their utility, rather than their splendor. 
 I taught Greece the art of writing, to which laws owe their 
 precision and permanency. You subdued monsters; I civi- 
 lized men. It is from untamed passions, not from wild beasts, 
 that the greatest evils arise to human society. By wisdom, 
 by art, by the united strength of civil community, men have 
 been enabled to subdue the whole race of lions, bears, and 
 serpents; and, what is more, to bind bylaws and wholesome 
 regulations, the ferocious violence and dangerous treachery 
 of the human disposition. Had lions been destroyed only 
 in single combat, men had had but a bad time of it; and 
 what but laws could awe the men who killed the lions ? The 
 genuine glory, the proper distinction of the rational species, 
 arise from the perfection of the mental powers. Courage is 
 apt to be fierce, and strength is often exerted in acts of op- 
 pression; but wisdom is the associate of justice. It assists 
 her to form equal laws, to pursue right measures, to correct 
 power, protect weakness, and to unite individuals in a com- 
 mon interest and general welfare. Heroes may kill tyrants, 
 but it is wisdom and laws that prevent tyranny and oppres- 
 sion. The operations of policy far surpass the labors of Her- 
 cules, preventing many evils which valor and might cannot 
 even redress. You heroes regard nothing but glory ; and 
 
 8 
 
98 CADMUS AND HERCULEF. 
 
 scarcely consider whether the conquests which raise your 
 fame, are really beneficial to your country. Unhappy are 
 the peqple who are governed by valor, not directed by pru- 
 dence, and not mitigated by the gentle arts ! 
 
 Her. I do not expect to find an admirer of my strenuous 
 life, in the man! v/hb taught his countrymen to sit still and 
 read; and to lose the hours qf youth and action in idle spe- 
 culation and the sport of words. 
 
 Cad. An ambition to have a place in the registers of fame, 
 is the Eurystheus which imposes heroic labors on mankind. 
 The muses incite to action, as well as entertain the hours of 
 impose; and I think you should honor them for presenting 
 tp heroes so noble a recreation, as may prevent their taking 
 typ'tht? distaff, when they lay down the club. 
 
 jfer, Wits as well as heroes can take up the distaff. What 
 think you of their thin-spun systems of philosophy, or la- 
 sciy.iovjs poems, or Milesian fables ? Nay, what is still worse, 
 are. there not panegyrics on tyrants, and books that blas- 
 pheme the gods, and perplex the nalural sense of right, and 
 wrpng? I believe if Eurystheus were to. set me to work 
 agfjjn, he would find me a worse task than any he imposed ; 
 he would make me read orer a great library, and I would 
 serve it as I did the Hydra, I would burn as I went on, that 
 ppe chimera might not rise irqm another, to plagne mankind. 
 [ should have valued myself more on clearing the library 
 jljan on cleansing the Augean stables. 
 
 Cad. It is in those libraries only, that the memory of your 
 labor exists. The heroes of Marathon, the patriots of Ther- 
 mopylae, owe their fame to me. All the wise institutions of 
 lawgivers, and all the doctrines of sages, had perished in the 
 ear like a dream related, if letters had not preserved them. 
 Hercules ! it is not for the man who preferred virtue to 
 pleasure, to be an enemy to the muses. tet Sardanapalus, 
 ind the silken sons of luxury, who have wasted life in in- 
 glorious ease, despise the records of action, which bear no 
 honorable testimony to their lives : but true merit, heroic 
 virtue, should respect the sacred source of lasting honor. 
 
 Her. Indeed, if writers employed themselves only in re- 
 cording the acts of great men, much might be said in their 
 favor. But why do they trouble people with their medita- 
 tions? Can it be of any consequence to the world what an 
 idle man has been thinking ? 
 
 Yes it may. The most important and extensive ad- 
 
CADMUS AND HERCULES. 99 
 
 5 ! 
 
 Vantages mankind enjoy, are greatly owing to men who have 
 never quitted their closets. To them mankind are obliged 
 for the facility and security of navigation. The invention of 
 Ihe compass has opened to them new worlds. The know- 
 ledge of the mechanical powers, has enabled them to con- 
 struct such wonderful machines, as perform what the united 
 labor of millions, by the severest drudgery, could not accom- 
 plish. Agriculture, too, the most useful of arts, has received 
 its share of improvement from the same source. Poetry 
 likewise is of excellent use, to enable the memory to retain 
 with more ease, and to imprint with more energy upon the 
 heart, precepts and examples of virtue. From the little root 
 of a few letters, science has spread its branches over all na- 
 ture, and raised its head to the heavens. Some philosophers 
 have entered so far into the counsels of Divine Wisdom, as 
 to explain much of the great operations of nature. The di- 
 mensions and distances of the planets, the causes of their 
 revolutions, the paths of comets, and the ebbing and flowing 
 of tides, are understood and explained. Can any thing raise 
 the glory of the human species more, than to see a little 
 creature, inhabiting a small spot amidst innumerable worlds, 
 taking a survey of the universe, comprehending its arrange- 
 ment, and entering into the schemes of that wonderful con- 
 nexion and correspondence of things so remote, and which 
 it seems a great exertion of Omnipotence to have established 1 
 What a volume of wisdom, what a noble theology do these 
 discoveries open to us ? While some superior geniuses have 
 soared to these sublime subjects, other sagacious and diligent 
 minds have been inquiring into the most minute works of the 
 Infinite Artificer : the same care, the same providence, is ex- 
 erted through the whole ; and we should learn from it, that, 
 to true wisdom, utility and fitness appear perfection, and 
 whatever is beneficial is noble. 
 
 Her. I approve of science as far as it is assistant to action. 
 [ like the improvement of navigation, and the discovery of 
 the greater part of the globe> because it opens a wider field 
 for the master spirits of the world to bustle in. 
 
 Cad. There spoke the soul of Hercules. But if learned 
 men are to be esteemed for the assistance they give to active 
 minds in their schemes, they are not less to be valued for their 
 endeavors to give them a right direction, and moderate their 
 too great ardor. The study of history will teach the legisla- 
 tor by what means states have become powerful ; and in w 
 private citizen, they will inculcate the love of liberty &o4 
 order. The writings of sages point out a private patn tri 
 
100 BACON AND SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 virtue ; and show that the best empire is self-government, 
 and that subduing our passions is the noblest of conquests. 
 
 Her. The true spirit cf heroism acts by a generous impulse, 
 and wants neither the experience of history, nor the doctrines 
 of philosophers to diiect it. But do not arts and sciences 
 render men effeminate, luxurious, and inactive? and can you 
 deny that wit and learning are often made subservient to very 
 bad purposes? 
 
 Cad. I will own that there are some natures so happily 
 formed, they scarcely want die assistance of a master, and 
 the rules of art, to give them force or grace in every thing 
 they do. But these favored geniuses are few. As learning 
 flourishes only where ease, plenty, and mild government sub- 
 sist, in so rich a soil, and under'so soft a climate, the weeds 
 of luxury will spring up among the flowers of art: but the 
 spontaneous weeds would grow more rank, if they were al- 
 lowed the undisturbed possession of the field. Letters keep 
 a frugal, temperate nation from growing ferocious, a rich one 
 from becoming entirely sensual and debauched. Every gift 
 of heaven is sometimes abused ; but good sense and fine ta- 
 lents, by a natural law, gravitate toward virtue. Accidents 
 may drive them out of their proper direction ; but such ac- 
 cidents are an alarming omen, and of dire portent to the 
 times. For if virtue cannot keep to her allegiance those men, 
 who in their hearts confess her divine right, and know the 
 value of her laws, on whose fidelity and obedience can she 
 depend ? May such geniuses never descend to flatter vice, 
 encourage folly, or propagate irreligion; but exert all their 
 powers in the service of virtue, and celebrate the noble choice 
 of those, who like Hercules preferred her to pleasure ! 
 
 Lyttelton. 
 
 Lord Bacon and Shakspeare. 
 
 Shakspeare. Near to Castalia there bubbles a fountain of 
 petrifying water, wherein the Muses are wont to dip what- 
 ever posies have met the approval of Apollo ; so that the 
 slender foliage, which originally sprung forth in the cherish- 
 ing brain of a true poet, becomes hardened in all its leaves, 
 and glitters as if it were carved out of rubies and emeralds. 
 The elements have afterwards no power over it. 
 
BACON AND SHAKESPEARE. 101 
 
 Bacon. Such. y f t. Shakspeare, will be the fortune of your 
 own productions. 
 
 Shak. Ah, my lord! do not encourage me to hope so. I 
 am but a poor unlettered man, who seizes whatever rude con- 
 ceits his own natural vein supplies him with, upon the en- 
 forcement of haste and necessity ; and therefore I fear that 
 such as are of deeper studies than myself, will find many 
 flaws in my handiwork to laugh at, both now and hereafter. 
 
 Bac. He that can make the multitude laugh and weep as 
 you do, need not fear scholars. A head, naturally fertile, is 
 worth many libraries, inasmuch as a tree is more valuable 
 ban a basket of fruit, or a good hawk better than a bag full 
 J)f game, or the little purse, which a fairy gave to Fortunatus, 
 more inexhausible than all the coffers in the treasury. More 
 scholarship rni^ht have sharpened your judgment, but the 
 particulars whereof a character is composed, are better as- 
 sembled by force of imagination than of judgment, which al- 
 though it perceive coherences, cannot summon up materials, 
 nor melt them into a compound, with that felicity which be- 
 longs to imagination alone. , 
 
 Shak. My lord, thus far I know, that the first conception 
 of a character in my mind, is always engendered by chance 
 and accident. We shall suppose, for instance, that I am sit- 
 ting in a tap-room, or standing in a tennis-court. The beha- 
 vior of some one fixes my attention. I note his dress, the 
 sound of his voice, the turn of his countenance, the drinks 
 he calls for, his questions and retorts, the fashion of his per- 
 son, and, in brief, the whole out-goings and in-cornings of the 
 man. These grounds of speculation being cherished and re- 
 volved in my fancy, it becomes straightway possessed with a 
 swarm of conclusions and beliefs concerning the individual. 
 In walking home, I picture out to myself, what would be fit- 
 ting for him to say or do upon any given occasion, and these 
 fantasies being recalled at some after period, when I am wri- 
 ting a play, shape themselves into divers mannikins, who 
 are not long of being nursed into life. Thus comes forth 
 Shallow, and Slender, and Mercutio, and Sir Andrew Ague- 
 cheek. 
 
 Bac. These are characters which may be found alive in 
 the streets. But how frame you such interlocutors as Bru- 
 tus and Coriolanus ? 
 
 Shak. By searching histories, in the first'place, my lord, 
 for the germ. The filling up afterwards comes rather fromj 
 feeling than observation. I turn myself into a Brutus or a 
 
102 BACON AND SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Coriolanus for the time ; and can, at least in fancy, partake 
 sufficiently of the nobleness of their nature, to put proper 1 
 words into their mouths. Observation will not supply the 
 poet with every thing. He must have a stock of exalted sen* 
 timents in his own mind. 
 
 Bac. In truth, Mr. Shakspeare, you have observed the 
 world so well, and so widely,, that I can scarcely believe you 
 ever shut your eyes. I, too, although much engrossed with 
 other studies, am, in part, an observer of mankind. Their 
 dispositions, and the causes of their good or bad fortune, can- 
 not well be overlooked, even by the most devoted questioner 
 of physical nature. But note the difference of habitudes. No 
 sooner have I observed and got hold of particulars, than they 
 are taken up by my judgment to be commented upon, and 
 resolved into general laws. Your imagination keeps them 
 to make pictures of. My judgment, if she find them to be 
 comprehended under something already known by her, lets 
 them drop, and forgets them ; for which reason, a certain 
 book of essays, which I am writing, will be small in bulk, 
 but I trust not light in substance. Thus do men severally 
 follow their inborn dispositions. 
 
 Shak. Every word of your lordship's, will be an adage to 
 after times. For my part, I know my own place, and aspire 
 not after the nbstruser studies, although I can give wisdom 
 a welcome when she comes in my way. But the inborn dis- 
 positions, as your lordship has said, must not be warped from 
 their natural bent, otherwise nothing but sterility will remain 
 behind. A leg cannot be changed into an arm. Among stage- 
 players, our first object is to exercise a new candidate, until 
 we discover where his vein lies. 
 
 Bac. I am told that you do not invent the plots of your 
 own plays, but generally borrow them from some common 
 book of stories, such as Bocaccio's Decameron, or Cynthio's, 
 Novels. That practice must save a great expenditure of' 
 thought and contrivance. 
 
 Sftak. It does, my lord. I lack patience to invent the 
 whole from the foundation. 
 
 'Bac. If I guess aright, there is nothing so hard and trouble- 
 some, as the invention of Coherent incidents; and yet, me- 
 thinks, after it is accomplished, it does not show so high a 
 strain of wit as that which paints separate characters and 
 objects well. Dexterity wbuld achieve the making of a plot 
 . better than genius, which delights not so much in tracing a 
 curious connexion amons^ events, as in adorning a fantasy 
 with bright colors, an,d eking it out with suitable appendage** 
 
BACON AND SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Homer's plot hangs but illy together. It is indeed no better 
 than a string of popular fables and superstitions, caught up 
 from among the Greeks ; and I believe that those who in the 
 time of Pisistratus collected this ptiem, did more than him- 
 self to digest its particulars. His praise must therefore be 
 found in this, that he reconceivcd, amplified) and set forth, 
 \vhat was dimly and poorly conceived by common men. 
 
 S/iak. My knowledge of the tongues is but small; on Which 
 account I have read ancient authors mostly at second hand. 
 I remember, when I first came to London, and began to be a 
 hanger-on at the theaters, a great desire grew in me for more 
 learning than had fallen to my share at Stratford ; but fickle- 
 ness and impatience, and the bewilderment catlsed by new 
 objects, dispersed that wish into empty air. Ah, my lord, you 
 cannot conceive what a strange thing it was for so impress- 
 ible a rustic, to find himself turned loose in the midst offia- 
 uei ! My faculties*wrought to such a degree, that t was in a 
 dream all day long. My bent was not then toward comedy^ 
 fpr most objects seemed noble and of rotten consideration* 
 The music at the theater ravished my young heart} and amidst 
 the goodly company of spectators, I beheld, afar off) beauties 
 who seemed to out-paragon Cleopatra of Egypt Some of 
 these primitive fooleries were afterwards woveii into Romeo 
 and. Juliet. 
 
 JBac. Your Julius Csesar, and your Richard the Third please 
 me better. From my youth upward I have had a brain po* 
 litic and discriminative, and less prone to marveling and 
 dreaming, than to scrutiny. Some part of my juvenile time 
 was spent at the court of France, with our emb^ssadorj Sit 
 Armas Pauletj and, to speak the truth, although I was sur* 
 rounded by many dames of high birth and rare beauty, I Car- 
 ried oftener Machiavelli in my pocket than a book of madri^ 
 gals; and heeded not although these wantons made sport of 
 my grave and scholar-like demeanor. When they would draw 
 me forth to an encounter of their wit, I paid them off with 
 flatteries, till they forgot their aim in thinking of themselves* 
 Michael Angelo said of Painting, that she was jealousj and 
 required the whole man undivided. I was aware how much 
 more truly the same thing might be said of Philosophy, and 
 therefore cared not how much the ruddy complexion of my 
 youth was sullied over the midnight lamp, or my outwari 
 bomeliness sacrificed to rny inward advancement! 
 
104 NATURE OF ELOQUENCE. 
 
 PUBLIC SPEECHES. 
 
 The Nature of Eloquence. 
 
 1. WHEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous 
 occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong pas- 
 sions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, farther than it 
 is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. 
 Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which 
 produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not con- 
 sist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and 
 learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. 
 
 Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, 
 but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in 
 the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense 
 expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it ; 
 they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the 
 outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting 
 forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native 
 force. 
 
 The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments 
 and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, 
 when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their 
 children, and their country, hang on the decision of the 
 hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, 
 and all elaborate oratory, contemptible. Even genius itself 
 then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of higher 
 qualities. 
 
 Then patriotism is eloquent; then self-devotion is elo- 
 quent. The clear conception, out-running the deductions 
 of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless 
 spirit speaking on the tongue, beaming from the ye, inform- 
 ing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right 
 onward to his object, this is eloquence. 
 
 The Perfect, Orator. 
 
 IMAGINE to yourselves a Demosthenes, addressing the 
 most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point where- 
 on the fate of the most illustrious of nations depended. 
 
ELOQUENCE OP SHERIDAN. 105 
 
 How awful such a meeting ! how vast the subject ! By the 
 power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly is 
 los in the dignity of the orator; and the importance of the 
 .subject, for a while, superseded by the admiration of his 
 talents. 
 
 With wbat strength of argument, with what powers of 
 the fancy, with what emotions of the heart, does he assault 
 and subjugate the whole man ; and, at once, captivate his 
 reason, his imagination, and his passions! To effect this, 
 must be the utmost effort of the most improved state of 
 human nature. Not a faculty that he possesses, but is here 
 exerted to its highest pitch. Al' Ais internal powers are at 
 work; all his external, testify their energies. 
 
 Within, the memory, the fancy, the judgment,. the pas- 
 sions, are all busy; without, every muscle, every nerve is 
 exerted ; not a feature, not a limb, but speaks. The organs 
 of the body, attuned to the exertions of the mind, through 
 the kindred organs of the hearers, instantaneously vibrate 
 those energies from soul to soul. Notwithstanding the di- 
 versity of minds in such a multitude, by the lightning of 
 eloquence they are melted into one mass ; the whole assem- 
 bly, actuated in one and the same way, become, as it were, 
 but one man, and have but one voice. The universal cry is 
 Let us march against Philip, let us fight for our liberties 
 let us conquer or die. Sheridan. 
 
 Panegyric on the -eloquence of Mr. Sheridan. 
 
 MR. SHERIDAN has this day surprised the thousands^ 
 who hung with rapture on his accents, by such an array of 
 talents, such an exhibition of capacity, such a display of pow- 
 ers, as are unparalleled in the annals of oratory; a display 
 that reflected the highest honor on himself luster upon let- 
 ters renown upon parliament glory upon the country. 
 
 Of all species of rhetoric, of every kind of eloquence, 
 that has been witnessed or recorded, either in ancient or mo- 
 dern times; whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity 
 of the senate, the solidity of the judgment-seat, and thfe 
 sacred morality of the pulpits have hitherto furnished 
 nothing has equaled what we have this day heard in West- 
 minster hall. 
 
 , No holy seer of religion, no statesman, no orator, n<* 
 8* 
 
106 SPEECH OF MR. PITT. 
 
 man of any literary description whatever, has come up, in 
 the one instance to the pure sentiments of morality, or in 
 the other, to that variety of knowledge, force of imagina- 
 tion, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and elegance 
 of diction, strength and copiousness of style, pathos and 
 sublimity of conception, to which we this day listened with 
 ardor and admiration. From poetry up to eloquence there 
 is not a species of composition, of which a complete and per- 
 fect specimen might not, from that single speech, he culled 
 and collected. Burke. 
 
 Extract from Mr. Pitt* 8 Speech in the, British Parlia 
 ment, Jan. 20, 1775. 
 
 WHEN your lordships look at the papers transmitted to 
 us from America^ when you consider their decency, firm- 
 ness and wisdom, you cannot but respect their cause, and 
 wish to make it your own. For myself, 1 must declare and 
 avow, that in all my reading and observation, (and it has 
 been my favorite study : 1 have read Thucydides, and have 
 studied and admired the master-spirits of the world.) I say 
 I must declare, that for solidity of reasoning, force of saga- 
 city, and wisdom of conclusion, under such a complication of 
 difficult circumstances, no nation nor body of men, can 
 stand in preference to the General Congress at Philadelphia.- 
 
 I trust it is obvious to your lordships, that all attempts 
 to impose servitude upon such men, to establish despotism 
 over such a mighty continental nation, must be vain, must 
 be fatal. We shall be forced, ultimately, to retract ; let us 
 retract while we can, and not when we must. I say we must 
 necessarily undo these violent and oppressive acts. They 
 MUST be repealed. You WILL repeal them. I pledge myself 
 for it, that you will in the end repeal them. I stake my re-, 
 putation on it: I will consent to be taken for an idiot, if 
 they are not finally repealed. 
 
 Avoid, then, this humiliating, disgraceful necessity. 
 With a dignity becoming your exalted situation, make the 
 first advances to concord, to peace and happiness : for it is 
 your true dignity to act with prudence and justice. That you 
 should first concede, is obvious from sound and rational 
 policy. Concession comes with a better grace, and more salu- 
 
SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY. 107 
 
 tary effects, from superior power; it reconciles superiority 
 of power with the feelings of men ; and establishes solid 
 confidence on the foundation of affection and gratitude. 
 
 Every motive, therefore, of justice and of policy, of 
 dignity an'd of prudence, urges you to allay the ferment in 
 America, by a removal of your troops from Boston, by a, 
 repeal of your acts of Parliament, and by demonstration of 
 amicable dispositions towards your colonies. On the one 
 hand, every danger and every hazard impend, to deter yotl 
 from perseverance in your present ruinous measures. 
 Foreign war hanging over your heads by a slight and brittle' , 
 :hread; France and Spain watching your conduct, and wait- 
 ng for the maturity of your errors, with a vigilant eye td 
 America and the temper of your colonies, mdre than to their" 
 jwn concerns, be they what they may. 
 
 To conclude, rny lords, if the ministers thiis persevere 
 n misadvising and misleading the King, I will not say, that 
 ihey can alienate the affections of his subjects from his 
 crown ; but I will affirm, that they will make the crown nbt 
 tvorth his wearing: I will not say that the King is betrayed j 
 but I will pronounce, that the kingdom is undone. 
 
 Extract of a Speech of Patrick Henry, before a Ctinvefc 
 tion of Delegates for the several counties and corpora^ 
 tions of Virginia, in March, 1775. 
 
 MR. HENRY rdse with a majesty unusual td him in an 
 exordium, and with all that self-possession by which he was 
 so invariably distinguished. "No man," he said, " thought 
 more highly than he did, of the patriotism, as well as abilities} 
 of the very worthy gentlemen who had just addressed the 
 house. But different men often saw the same subject in dif- 
 ferent lights; and, therefore, he hoped it would not be thought 
 disrespectful to those gentlemen, if, entertaining as he did. 
 opinions of a character ve.ry opposite to theirs, he should 
 speak forth his sentiments freely, and without reserve"; 
 
 This was no time for ceremony. The question beforfe 
 the house was one of awful moment to this country. For his 
 own part, he considered it as nothing less than a quegtidh of 
 freedom or slavery. And in proportion to the magnitude of 
 the subject, ought to be the freedom of the debate. It wa"s only 
 in this way that they could hope to arrive at truth, and fulfil 
 the great responsibility which they held to Gda and their 
 
108 SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY. 
 
 country. Should he keep back his opinions at such a time, 
 through fear of giving offense, he should consider himself as 
 guilty of treason toward his country, and of an act of disloy- 
 alty toward the Majesty of Heaven, which he revered above 
 all earthly kings. 
 
 "Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the 
 illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a 
 painful truth, arid listen to the song of that syren, till she 
 transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, en- 
 gaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Were we 
 disposed to be of the number of those, who having eyes, see 
 not, and having ears, hear not the things which so nearly 
 concern their temporal salvation ? For his part, whatever an- 
 guish of spirit it might cost, he was willing to know the 
 whole truth; to know the worst; and to provide for it. 
 
 " He had but one lamp by which his feet were guided j 
 and that was, the lamp of experience. He knew of no way 
 of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the 
 past, he wished to know Avhat there had been in the conduct 
 of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those 
 hopes,with which gentlemen had been pleased to solace them- 
 selves and the house? Is it that insidious smile with which 
 our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, sir; it 
 will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be 
 betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious re- 
 ception of our petition comports with those warlike prepa- 
 rations, which cover our waters and darken our land. 
 
 "Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and 
 reconciliation ? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be 
 reconciled, that force must be called into win back our love? 
 Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implement;? 
 of war and subjugation, the last argument to which kings 
 resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, 
 if its purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can gentle- 
 men assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great 
 Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for 
 all this accumulation of navies and armies? 
 
 "No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us: they 
 can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and 
 rivet upon us those chains, which the British ministry have 
 been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them ? 
 Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for 
 the last ten years. Have we any thing new to offer upon the 
 subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every 
 
SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY. 109 
 
 light of which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall 
 we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms 
 shall we find, which have not been already exhausted? 
 
 " Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. 
 We have done every tiling that could be done, to avert the 
 storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we 
 have remonstrated ; we have supplicated; we have prostra- 
 ted ourselves before the throne, and have implored its inter- 
 position, to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and 
 parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remon- 
 strances have produced additional violence and insult; our 
 supplications have been disregarded; and we have been 
 spurne'd with contempt, from the foot of the throne. 
 
 "In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond 
 hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any 
 room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to pre- 
 serve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have 
 been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon 
 the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, 
 and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon, un- 
 till the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we 
 must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight!! An appeal to 
 arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us! 
 
 " They tell us, sir, that we are weak unable to cope with 
 so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? 
 Will it be next week, or the next year? Will it be when we 
 ire totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be sta- 
 '.ioned in every house?. Shall we gather strength by irreso- 
 lution and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual 
 resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the 
 delusive phantom of hope until our enemies shall have bound 
 us, hand and foot ? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a pro- 
 per use of those means Avhich the God of nature has placed 
 in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy 
 cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we pos- 
 sess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send 
 against us. 
 
 " Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There 
 is a just God, who presides over the destinies of nations, and 
 who' will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The bat- 
 tle, sir, is not to the strong alone ; it is to the vigilant, the ac- 
 tive, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were 
 base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the 
 contest. There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery ! 
 
110 WEBSTER'S SPEECH ON 
 
 Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard on the 
 plains of Boston ! The war is inevitable and let it come !! 
 I repeat it, sir, let it come ! ! ! 
 
 "It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen 
 may cry peace peace, but there is no peace. The war is 
 actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the north, 
 will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our 
 brethren are already in the field ! Why stand we here idle? 
 What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Id 
 life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price 
 of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know 
 not what course others may take ; but as for me," cried he,- 
 with both his arms extended aloft, his brows knit, every fea- 
 ture marked with the resolute purpose of his soul, and his 
 voice swelled to its loudest note of exclamation, "give me 
 liberty, or give me death !" 
 
 He took his seat. No murmur of applause was heard; 
 The effect was too deep. After the trance of a moment, se- 
 veral members started from their seats. The err, " to arms." 
 seemed to quiver on every lip, and gleam from every eye! 
 Richard H. Lee arose and supported Mr. Henry, with his usual 
 spirit and elegance. But his melody was lost amidst the agi- 
 tation of that ocean, which the master spirit of the storm hail 
 lifted up on high. That supernatural voice still sounded in 
 their ears, and shivered along their arteries. They heard, in 
 every pause, the cry of liberty or death. They became impa 
 tient of speech their souls were on fire for action. Wirt. 
 
 Extract of a Discourse in Commemoration of the Lives 
 and Services of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, 
 delivered in Boston, 3d August, 1826. 
 
 IN July, 1776, our controversy with Great Britain had 
 passed the stage of argument. An appeal had been made to 
 force, and opposing armies were in the field. Congress then 
 Was to decide, whether the tie, which had so long bound u$ 
 to the parent state, was to be severed at once, and severed 
 forever. All the colonies had signified their resolution td 
 abide by this decision, and the people looked for it with the 
 most intense anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, 
 never were men called to a more important political delibe- 
 ration. If we contemplate it from the point where they then' 
 
ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 111 
 
 stood, no question could be more full of interest; if we look 
 at it now, and judge of its importance by its effects, it ap- 
 pears in still greater magnitude. 
 
 Let us, men, bring before us the assembly, which was 
 about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. 
 Let us open their doors, and look in upon their deliberations. 
 Let us survey the anxious and care-worn countenances, let 
 us hear the nrm-toned voice of this band of patriots. HAN- 
 COCK presides over the solemn sitting ; and one of those not 
 yet prepared to pronounce for absolute independence, is on 
 the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissenting from the 
 declaration. 
 
 "Let us pause ! l^his step, once taken, cannot be re- 
 tracted. This resolution, once passed, will cut off all hope 
 of reconciliation. If success attend the arms of England^ 
 we shall then be no longer colonies, with charters, and with 
 privileges; these will be all forfeited by this act; and we 
 shall be in the condition of other conquered people at the 
 mercy of the conquerors. 
 
 " For ourselves, we may be ready to run the hazard j 
 biit are we ready to carry the country to that length? Is 
 success so probable as to justify it ? Where is the military, 
 where the naval power, by which we are to resist the whole 
 strength of the arm of England ? for she will exert that 
 strength to the utmost. Can we rely on the constancy and 
 perseverance of the people? or will they not act, as the peo- 
 ple of other countries have acted, and, wearied with a long 
 war, submit, in the end, to a worse oppression? 
 
 "While we stand on our old ground, and insist on re- 
 dress of grievances, we know we are right, and are not an- 
 swerable for consequences. Nothing, then, can be imputable 
 to us. But, if we now change our object, carry our preten- 
 sions farther, and set up for absolute independence, we shall 
 lose the sympathy of mankind. We shall no longer be de- 
 fending what we possess, but struggling for something which 
 we never did possess, and which we have solemnly and uni- 
 formly disclaimed all intention of pursuing, from the very, 
 outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus our old ground, of 
 resistance only to arbitrary acts of oppression, the nations' 
 will believe the whole to have been mere pretense, and they 
 will look on us not as injured, but as ambitious subjects. 
 
 " I shudder before this responsibility. It will be on us^ 
 if, relinquishiBg the ground we have stood on so long, and 
 
112 WEBSTEIl'S SPEECH ON 
 
 stood on so safely, we now proclaim independence, and carry 
 on the war for that object, while these cities burn, these 
 pleasant fields whiten and bleach with thebonesof their own- 
 ers, and these streams run blood. It will be upon us, it will 
 be upon us, if, failing to maintain this unseasonable and ill- 
 judgud declaration, a sterner despotism, maintained by mili- 
 tary power, shall be established over our posterity, when we 
 ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a harassed, a misled 
 people, shall have expiated our rashness, and atoned for ouf 
 presumption on the scaffold." 
 
 It was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these^ 
 " It is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at in- 
 dependence. But there's a Divinity Avhich shapes our ends. 
 The injustice of England has driven us to arms ; and, blind- 
 ed to her interest, for our good she has obstinately persisted, 
 till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to 
 reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer 
 the declaration? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a 
 reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety 
 to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life, and 
 his own honor? 
 
 "Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair; is not he, our 
 venerable colleague near you; are you not both already the 
 proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of 
 vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what 
 are you, what can you be, while the power of England re- 
 mains, but outlaws ? If we postpone independence, do we 
 mean to carry on, or to give up the war? Do we mean to 
 submit to the measures of parliament, Boston port-bill and 
 all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves 
 shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights 
 trodden down in the dust ? 
 
 "I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall 
 submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation 
 ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our 
 sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to in- 
 cur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of 
 the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, 
 with our fortunes, and our lives? 
 
 "I know there is not a man here, who would not ra 
 ther see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an 
 earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith 
 fall to the ground. For myself, having twelve months ago,, 
 in this place, moved you, that George Washington be appoin . 
 
ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 113 
 
 ed commander of the forces, raised, or to be raised, for de- 
 fense of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cun- 
 ning, and my tongue cleave 'to the roof of my mouth, if I 
 hesitate or waver in the support I give him. 
 
 " The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. 
 And, if the war must go on, why put off longer the declara- 
 tion of independence? That measure will strengthen us. It 
 will give us character ahroad. The nations will then treat 
 with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge our- 
 selves subjects, in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I main- 
 tain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us 
 on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing 
 her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us 
 has been a course of injustice and oppression. 
 
 u Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that 
 course of things which now predestinates our independence, 
 than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious 
 subjects. The former she would regard as the result of for- 
 tune ; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. 
 Why then, sir, do we not, as soon as possible, change this 
 from a civil to a national war? And, since we must fight it 
 through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the 
 Denefits of victory, if we gain the victory ? 
 
 "If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall 
 not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will cre- 
 ate navies. The people, if we are true to them, will carry 
 us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this strug- 
 gle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I 
 know the people of these colonies; and I know that resist- 
 ance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, 
 and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has ex- 
 pressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. 
 
 " Sir, the declaration will inspire the people with in- 
 creased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for re- 
 storation of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered 
 immunities held under a British king, set before them the 
 glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe 
 into them anew the breath of life. Read this declaration at 
 the head of the army ; every sword will be drawn from its 
 scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it or to 
 perish on the bed of honor. 
 
 " Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it, 
 and the love of religious liberty will cling around it, resolved 
 to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; 
 proclaim it there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar 
 
114 PHILLIPS' SPEECH. 
 
 of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their bro* 
 thers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker-Hill, and in 
 the streets of Lexington and Concord,-^and the very walls 
 will cry out in its support. , 
 
 "Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs; but I 
 see clearly through this day's business. Yoti and I, indeed; 
 may rue it. We may not live to the time, when this declara* 
 tion shall be made good. We may die; diGj colonists ; die; 
 slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the scaffold. 
 Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country 
 shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be 
 ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour 
 may. 
 
 "But, whatever may be our fate, be assured that this 
 declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost 
 blood; but it will stand, and.it will richly compensate for 
 both. Through the thick gloom O f the present, I see the 
 brightness of the future as the stin in heaven. W T e shall make 
 this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves 
 our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanks-^ 
 giving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On 
 its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tearsj 
 hot of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but 
 of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God I be~ 
 lieve the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure; 
 and my whole heart is in it. All that I have in this life, I 
 am now ready here to stake upon it ; sink or swim, survive 
 or perish, I am for the declaration !" D. Webster. 
 
 Extract of a Speech of Counsellor PHILLIPS, at a public 
 dinner in Ireland, on his health being given, together 
 with that of a Mr. Payne, a young American, in 1817. 
 
 THE mention of America, sir, has never failed to fill me 
 With the most lively emotions. In my earliest infancy, that 
 tender season when impressions at onre the most permaneni 
 and the most powerful, are likely to be excited, the story of 
 her then recent struggle raised a throb in every heart that 
 loved liberty, and wrung a reluctant tribute even from dis- 
 fcomfited oppression. 
 
 I saw her spurning alike the luxuries that would ener- 
 vate, and the legions that would intimidate ; dashing from 
 her lips the poisoned cup of European servitude ; and through 
 all the vicissitudes of her protracted conflict, displaying d 
 
SHERIDAN AGAINST HASTINGS. 115 
 
 magnanimity that defied misfortune, and a moderation that 
 gave new grace to victory. It was the first vision of my child- 
 hood ; it will descend with me to the grave. But if, as a man, 
 L venerate the mention of America, what must be my feelings 
 toward her as an Irishman ! Never, O ! never, while memory 
 remains, can Ireland forget the home of her emigrant, and 
 the asylum of her exile. 
 
 No matter whether their sorrows sprung from the errors 
 of enthusiasm, or the realities of suffering; from fancy or 
 infliction : that must be reserved for the scrutiny of those, 
 whom the lapse of time shall acquit of partiality. It is for 
 the men of other ages to investigate and record it 5 but, surely, 
 it is for the men of every age to hail the hospitality that re- 
 ceived the shelterless, and love the feeling that befriended 
 the unfortunate. 
 
 Search creation round and where can you find a eoun- 1 
 try that presents so sublime a view, so interesting in antici- 
 pation? What noble institutions! What a comprehensive 
 policy ! What a wise equalization of every political advart- 
 tage ! The oppressed of ail countriesj the martyr of every 
 creed, the innocent victim of despotic arrogance, of stipes 
 stitious frenzy, may there find refuge ; his industry encou- 
 raged, his piety respected, his ambition animated ; with no 
 restraint but those laws which are the same to all, and no 
 distinction but that which his merit may originate. 
 
 Who can deny, that the existence of such a country pre- 
 sents a subject for human congratulation ! W^ho can deny, 
 that its gigantic advancement offers a field for the most ra- 
 tional conjecture ! At the end of the very next century, if she 
 proceeds as she seems to promise, what a wondrous spectacle! 
 may she not exhibit ! Who shall say for what purpose a my- 
 sterious Providence may not have designed her ? Who shall 
 say, that, when in its follies or its crimes the old world may, 
 have interred all the pride of its power, and all the pomp of 
 its civilization, human nature may not find its destined reno^ 
 Vation in the new. 
 
 Mr. Sheridan's invective against Mr. Hastings* 
 
 HAD a stranger at this time gone into the province o/ 
 pude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Su- 
 tah Dowla, th*t man, who with a savage heart had still grea"i 
 
116 SHERIDAN AGAINST HASTINGS. 
 
 lines of character, and who, with all his ferocity in war, had 
 still, with a cultivating hand, preserved to his country the 
 riches which it derived from benignant skies and a prolific 
 soil, if this stranger, ignorant of all that had happened in 
 the short interval, and observing the wide and general devas- 
 tation, and all the horrors of the scene of plains unclothed 
 and brown of vegetables burnt up and extinguished of 
 villages depopulated and in ruin of temples unroofed and 
 perishing of reservoirs broken down and dry, he would 
 naturally inquire what war has thus laid waste the fertile 
 /ields of this once beautiful and opulent country what civil 
 dissensions have happened, thus to tear asunder and separate 
 the happy societies that once possessed those villages what 
 disputed succession what religious rage has with unholy 
 violence demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent, 
 but unobtruding piety in the exercise of its duties? 
 
 What merciless enemy has thus spread the horrors of 
 fire and sword what severe visitation of Providence has dried 
 up the fountain, and taken from the face of the earth every 
 vestige of verdure ? Or rather, what monsters have stalked 
 over the country, tainting and poisoning, with pestiferous 
 breath, what the voracious appetite could not devour? 
 
 To such questions what must be the answer? No wars 
 have ravished these lands and depopulated these villages no 
 civil discords have been felt no disputed succession no re- 
 ligious rage no merciless enemy no affliction of Provi- 
 dence, which, while it scourged for the moment, cut off the 
 sources of resuscitation no voracious and poisoning mon- 
 sters no, all this has been accomplished by the friendship^ 
 generosity, and kindness, of the English nation. 
 
 They have embraced us with their protecting arms, and 
 lo! these are the fruits of their alliance* What, then, shall 
 we be told that under such circumstances the exasperated 
 feelings of a whole people, thus goaded and spurred on to 
 clamor and resistance, were excited by the poor and feeble 
 influence of the Begums 1 
 
 When we hear the description of the paroxysm, fever, 
 and delirium, into which despair had thrown the natives, 
 when on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for death, 
 they tore more widely open the lips of their gaping wounds, 
 to accelerate their dissolution ; and while their blood was 
 issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to heaven, breathing 
 th^jr last and fervent prayer that the dry earth might not be 
 suffered to drink their blood, but that it might rise up to the 
 
BURKE'S DESCRIPTION OF JUNIUS. 117 
 
 throne of God, and rouse the eternal Providence to avenge 
 the wrongs of their country, will it be said that this was 
 brought about by the incantations of these Begums in their 
 secluded Zenana? or that they could inspire this enthusiasm 
 and this despair into the breasts of a people who felt no grie- 
 vance, and had suffered no torture? What motive, then, could 
 have such influence in their bosom? 
 
 What motive ! T hat which nature, the common parent, 
 plants in the bosom of man, and which, though it may be less 
 active m the Indian than in the Englishman, is still conge- 
 nial with, and makes part of his being that feeling which 
 tells him that man was never made to be the property of man ; 
 but that when through pride and insolence of power one hu- 
 man creature dares to tyrannize over another, it is a power 
 usurped, and resistance is a duty that feeling which tells 
 him that all power is delegated for the good, not for the in- 
 jury of the people, and that when it is converted from the 
 original purpose the compact is broken, and the right is to 
 be resumed that principal which tells him that resistance 
 to power usurped is not merely a duty which he owes to him- 
 self and to his neighbor, but a duty which he owes to his 
 God, in asserting and maintaining the rank which he gave 
 him in the creation! to that common God, who, where he 
 gives the form of man, whatever may be the complexion, 
 gives also the feelings and the rights of man that principle, 
 which neither the rudeness of ignorance can stifle, nor the 
 enervation of refinement extinguish! that principal which 
 makes it base for a man to suffer when he ought to act, and 
 which, tending to preserve to the species the original desig- 
 nations of Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of 
 man, and vindicates the independent qualities of his race. 
 
 Mr. Burke 1 s description of Junius. 
 
 WHERE, then, sir, shall we look for the origin of this 
 relaxation of the laws, and of all government ? How comes 
 this Junius to have broken through the cobwebs of the law, 
 and to range uncontrolled, unpunished through the land? 
 The myrmidons of the court have long been, and are still 
 pursuing him in vain. They will not spend their time upon 
 me, or you, or you : no ; they disdain such vermin when the 
 
118 BURKE'S^COMPLAINT TO FOX. 
 
 mighty boar of the forest, that has broken through all their 
 toils is before them. 
 
 But, what will all their efforts avail? No sooner has 
 he wounded one, than he lays down another dead at his feet. 
 For my part, when I saw his attack upon the king, I own, 
 my blood ran cold. I thought he had ventured too far, and 
 that there was an end 06 his triumphs; not that he had not 
 Asserted many truths. Yes, sir, there are in that composi- 
 tion many bold truths by which a wise prince might profit 
 It was the rancor and venom with which I was struck. ID 
 these respects the Nor'Ii Briton is as much inferior to him, 
 as in strength, wit, and judgment. 
 
 But while I expected from this daring flight his final ruin 
 and fall, behold him rising still higher, and coming down 
 souse upon both houses of parliament. Yes, he did make 
 you bis quarry, and you still bleed from the wounds of his 
 talors. You crouched, and still crouch beneath his rage. 
 Nor nas he dreaded the terror of your brow, sir ; he has at- 
 tacked even you, he has, and I believe you have no reason 
 to triumph in the encounter. 
 
 In short, after carrying away our royal eagle in his 
 pounces, and dashing him against a rock, he has laid you 
 prostrate. Kings, Lords, and Commons, are but the sport of 
 his fury. Were he a member of this house, what might not 
 be expected from his knowledge, his firmness, and integrity ! 
 He would be easily known by his contempt of all danger, by 
 his penetration, by his vigor. Nothing would escape his 
 vigilance and activity ; bad ministers could conceal nothing 
 from his sagacity ; nor could promises or threats induce him 
 to conceal any thing from ne public. 
 
 Mr. Burktfs compliment to Mr. Fox in support of his India 
 Bill. 
 
 1. AND now, having done my duty to the bill, let me say a 
 word to the author. I should leave him to his own noble sen- 
 timents, if the unworthy and illiberal language with which 
 he had been treated, beyond all example of parliamentary 
 liberty, did not make a few words necessary, not so much in 
 justice to him, as to my own feelings : I must say then, that 
 it will be a distinction honorable to the age, that the rescue of 
 the greatest number of the human race that ever were so 
 grievously oppressed, from the greatest tyranny that was 
 ever exercised ha?, fallen to the lot of abilities and disposi- 
 
CURRAN'S SPEECH. 119 
 
 lions equal to the task} that it has fallen to one who has the 
 enlargement to comprehend, the spirit to undertake, and the 
 eloquence, to support, so great a measure of hazardous bene- 
 volence. 
 
 His spirit is not owing to his ignorance of the state of 
 men and things. He well knows what snares are spread 
 abouf his path, from personal animosity, from court intrigues, 
 and possibly from popular delusion. But he has put to ha- 
 zard his ease,, his security, his interest, his power, even hia 
 darling popularity, for the be.nefit of a people whom he has 
 never seen. 
 
 This is the rpad that all heroes have trod before him. 
 He is traducecj and abused 'for his supposed motives. He 
 will remember that obloquy is a necessary ingredient in the 
 composition of all true glory ; he will remember, that it was 
 not only in the Roman customs, but it is in the nature and 
 constitution of things, that calumny and abuse are essential 
 parts of triumph, These thoughts will support a mind which 
 only exists fpr honor, under the burden of temporary re- 
 proach. 
 
 He is doing, indeed, a great good ; such as rarely falls 
 *o the lot, and almost as rarely coincides with the desires, of 
 any man. J^et him use his time. Let him give the who[e 
 length of the reins to his benevolence. He is now on a great 
 eminence, where the eyes of mankind are turned to him. He 
 may live long, he may do much. But here is the summit. 
 He never can exceed what he does this day. 
 
 He has faults; but they are faults that though they 
 may m a small degree tarnish the luster, and sometimes im- 
 pede the march of his abilities have nothing in them to 
 extinguish the fire of great virtues. In those faults, there is 
 no mixture of deceit, of hypocrisy, of pride, of ferocity, of 
 complexional despotism, or want of feeling for the distresses 
 of mankind, 
 
 Extract from Mr. Currants Speech, at the Court ofKir.g's 
 Bench, in Ireland, in defence of Mr. Jtowan, charged 
 with having published a Seditious Libel. 
 
 GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY When I consider the period 
 at .which this prosecution is brought forward, when 1 be- 
 hold the extraordinary safeguard of armed soldiers resoited 
 
120 CURRAN'S SPEECH 
 
 to, no doubt tor the preservation of peace and order, when 
 I catch, as I cannot but do, the throb of public anxiety, which 
 beats from one end to the other of this hall, when I retiect 
 on what may be the fate of a man of the most beloved per- 
 sonal character, of one of the most respected families of our 
 country, himself the only individual of that family I may 
 almost say of that country who can look to that possible 
 fate with unconcern, it is in the honest simplicity of my 
 heart I speak, when I say, that I never rose in a court of jus- 
 lice with so much embarrassment as upon this occasion. 
 
 If, gentlemen, I could entertain a hope of finding refuge 
 for the disconcertion of my mind, in the perfect composure 
 of yours, if I could suppose that those awful vicissitudes of 
 human events, which have been stated or alluded to, could 
 leave your judgments undisturbed, and your hearts at ease, 
 I know I should form a most erroneous opinion of your 
 character. 
 
 But I entertain no such chimerical hopes ; I form no 
 such unworthy opinions ; I expect not that your hearts can 
 be more at ease than my own ; I have no right to expect it ; 
 but I have a right to call upon you, in the name of your 
 country, in the name of the living GOD, of whose eternal jus 
 tice you are now administering that portion which dwells 
 with us on this side of the grave, to discharge your breasts 
 is far as you are able of every bias of prejudice or passion ; 
 /hat, if my client be guilty of the offence charged upon him, 
 you may give tranquillity to the public by a firm verdict of 
 conviction; or if he be innocent, by as firm a verdict of ac- 
 quittal ; and that you will do this in defiance of the paltry 
 artifices and senseless clamors that have been resorted to, in 
 order to bring him to his trial with anticipated conviction. 
 
 Gentlemen, the representation of your people is the 
 vital principal of their political existence ; without it they 
 are dead, or they live only to servitude ; without it there are 
 two estates acting upon and against the third, instead of act- 
 ing in co-operation with it ; without it, if the people be op- 
 pressed by their judges, where is the tribunal to which their 
 judges can be amenable ? Without it, if they be trampled 
 upon, and plundered by a minister, where is the tribunal to 
 which the offender shall be amenable? Without it. where is 
 the ear to hear, or the heart to feel, or the hand to redress 
 heir sufferings ? 
 
 Shall they be found, let me ask you, in the accursed 
 band of imps and minions that bask in their disgrace, and 
 
IN DEFENCE OF ROWAN. 121 
 
 
 
 fatten upon their spoils, and flourish upon their ruin ? But 
 let me not put this to you as a merely speculative question. 
 It is a plain question of fact: rely upon it, physical man is 
 every where the same; it is only the various operation of 
 moral causes, that gives variety to the social or individual 
 character and condition. How otherwise happens it, that 
 modern slavery looks quietly at the despot, on the very spot 
 \vhere Leonidas expired? The answer is, Sparta has not 
 changed her climate, but she has lost that government which 
 her liberty could not survive. 
 
 I call you, therefore, to the plain question of fact. This 
 paper recommends a reform in parliament ; I put that ques- 
 tion to your consciences ; do you think it needs that reform? 
 I put it boldly and fairly to you, do you think the people of 
 Ireland are represented as they ought to be ? Do you hesi- 
 tate for an answer ? If you do. let me remind you, that untill 
 the last year three millions of your countrymen have, by the 
 express letter of the law, been excluded from the reality of 
 actual, and even from the phantom of virtual representation. 
 Shall we then be told that this is only the affirmation of a 
 wicked and seditious incendiary ? 
 
 If you do not feel the mockery of such a charge, look at 
 your country ; in what state do you find it ? Is it in a state 
 of tranquillity and general satisfaction? These are traces 
 by which good is ever to be distinguished from bad govern- 
 ment. Without any very minute inquiry or speculative re- 
 finement, do you feel, that veneration for the law, a pious 
 and humble attachment to the constitution, form the political 
 morality of your people? Do you find that comfort and 
 competency among your people, which are always to be 
 found where a government is mild and moderate; where 
 taxes are imposed by a body, who have an interest in treating 
 the poorer orders with compassion, and preventing the weight 
 of taxation from pressing sore upon them. 
 
 Gentlemen, I mean not to impeach the state of your 
 representation; I am not saying that it is defective, or that 
 it ought to be altered or amended ; nor is this a place for me 
 to say, whether I think that three millions of the inhabitants 
 of a country, whose whole number is but four, ought to be 
 admitted to any efficient situation in the state. 
 
 It may be said, and truly, that these are not question? 
 for either of us directly to decide ; but you cannot refuse then 
 some passing consideration, at least, when you remember 
 
122 CUKRAN'S SPEECH 
 
 that on this subject the real question for your decision is, 
 whether the allegation of a defect in your constitution is so 
 utterly unfounded and fake, that you can ascribe it only to 
 the malice and perverseness of a wicked mind, arid not to 
 the innocent mistake of an ordinary understanding: whether 
 it rriay not be mistake ; whether it. can be only sedition. 
 
 And here, gentlemen, i own I cannot but regret, that 
 one of our countrymen should be criminally pursued for as- 
 serting to the necessity of a reform, at the very moment when 
 that necessity seems admitted by the parliament itself ; that 
 Jhis unhappy reform shall at the same moment be a subject 
 of legislative discussion, arid criminal prosecution. Far am 
 1 from imputing any sinister design to the virtue or wisdom 
 pf our government, but who can avoid feeling the deplorable 
 impression that must be made ou the nublic mind, when 
 jhe demand for that reform is answered by a criminal 
 information ? 
 
 I am the more forcibly impressed by this considera- 
 tion, when I reflect that when this information \vas first put 
 upon the tile, the subject was transiently mentioned in the 
 |Jouse of Commons. Some circumstances retarded the 
 progress of the inquiry there, and the progress of the infor- 
 jnation was equally retarded here. TJie first day of this 
 session, you all know that subject was again brought forward 
 in f.|ie House of Commons ; and, as if they had slept ^ogether, 
 this prosecution was also revived in vhe Couit of King's 
 Bench;- and that before a jury la,ken from a panel partly 
 composed of those very members of parliament, who, in the 
 House of Commons must debate upon this subject as a 
 measure of public advantage, which they are here called 
 Upon to consider as a public crime. 
 
 This paper, gentlemen, insists upon the necessity of 
 emancipating the Catholics of Ireland, and that is charged 
 as a part of the libel. If they had kept this prosecution im- 
 pending for another year, how much would remain for*a jury 
 to decide upon, I should be at a loss to discover. It seems 
 as if the progress of public reformation was eating away the 
 ground of the prosecution. Since the commencement o'f the 
 prosecution, this part of the libel has unluckily received the 
 sanction of tbe legislature. In that interval, our Catholic 
 brethren have obtained that admission, which it seems it 
 was a libel to propose : in what way to account for this, I 
 am really at a loss. 
 
 Have any alarms been occasioned by the emancipation 
 
IN DEFENCE OF IIOWAN. 123 
 
 of our Catholic brethren ? Has the bigoted malignity of any 
 individuals been crushed ? Or, has the ,stability of the 
 government, or has that of the country been awakened ? Or, 
 is one million of subjects stronger than three millions? Do 
 you think the benefit they received should be poisoned by 
 the stings of vengeance? If you think so, you must say to 
 them, "you have demanded your emancipation, and you 
 have got it ; but we abhor your persons, we are outraged at 
 your success, arid we will stigmatize, by a criminal prose- 
 cution, the relief which you have obtained from the voice of 
 your country." 
 
 I ask you, gentlemen, do you think, as honest men, 
 anxious for the public tranquillity, conscious that there are 
 wounds not yet completely cicatrized, that you ought to 
 speak this language at this time, to men who are too much 
 disposed to think that in this very emancipation they have 
 been saved from their own parliament, by the humanity of 
 their Sovereign ? Or, do you wish to prepare them for the 
 revocation of these improvident concessions? 
 
 Do you think it wise or humane, at this moment, to 
 insult them by sticking up in a pillory the man who dared 
 to stand forth their advocate ? I put it to your oaths, do 
 you think that a blessing of that kind, that a victory obtained 
 by justice over bigotry and oppression, should have a stigma 
 cast upon At by an ignominious sentence upon men bold 
 and honest enough to propose that measure, to propose the 
 redeeming of religion from the abuses of the church the 
 reclaiming of three millions of men from bondage, and giving 
 liberty to all who had a right to demand it giving, I say, in 
 the so much censured words of this paper, "UNIVERSAL 
 EMANCIPATION !" 
 
 No matter in what language his doom may have been 
 pronounced; no matter what complexion incompatible with, 
 freedom, an Indian or an African sun may have burnt upon 
 him; no matter in what disastrous battle his liberty may 
 have been cloven down ; no matter with what solemnities 
 he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery ; the 
 first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar 
 and the god sink together in the dust ; his soul walks abroad 
 in her own majesty ; his body swells beyond the measure of 
 his chains that burst from around him, and he stands re- 
 deemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible 
 Genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. 
 
124 CURRAN'S SPEECH 
 
 I cannot avoid adverting to a circumstance that distin- 
 guishes the case of Mr. Rowan, from that of Mr. Muir. The 
 severer law of Scotland, it seems and happy for them that 
 it should enables them to remove from their sight the vic- 
 tim of their infatuation. The more merciful spirit of our 
 law deprives you of that consolation ; his sufferings must 
 remain forever before our eyes, a continual call upon your 
 shame and your remorse. 
 
 But those sufferings will do more ; they will not rest 
 satisfied with your unavailing contrition, they will challenge 
 the great and paramount inquest of society ; the man will 
 be weighed against the charge, the witness, and the sen- 
 tence ; and impartial justice will demand, why has an Irish 
 jury done this deed? The moment he ceases to be regarded 
 as a criminal, he becomes of necessity an accuser ; and let 
 me ask you, what can your most zealous defenders be pre- 
 pared to answer to such a charge ? 
 
 When your sentence shall have sent him forth to that 
 stage which guilt alone can render infamous; let me tell 
 you, he will not be like a little statue upon a mighty pedes- 
 tal, diminishing by elevation ; but he will stand a striking 
 and imposing object upon a monument, which, if it do not 
 and it cannot record the atrocity of his crime, must record 
 the atrocity of his conviction. Upon this subject, therefore, 
 credit me when I say, that I am still more anxioas for you, 
 than I can possibly be for him. 
 
 I cannot but feel the peculiarity of your situation. 
 Not the jury of his own choice, which the law of England 
 allows, but which ours refuses ; collected in that box by a 
 person, certainly no friend to Mr. Rowan, certainly not very 
 deeply interested in giving him a very impartial jury. Feel- 
 ing this, as I am persuaded you do, y6u cannot be surprised 
 however you may be distressed at the mournful pre- 
 sage, with which an anxious public is led to fear the worst 
 from your possible determination. 
 
 But I will not, for the justice and honor of our com- 
 mon country, suffer my mind to be borne away by such me- 
 lancholy anticipation. I will not relinquish the confidence 
 that this day will be the period of his sufferings; and, how- 
 ever mercilessly he has been hitherto pursued, that your 
 verdict will send him home to the arms of his family, and 
 the wishes of his country. But if which heaven forbid it 
 hath still been unfortunately determined, that because he has 
 not bent to power and authority because he would not bow 
 
WIRT'S EULOGY. 125 
 
 down before the golden calf and worship it he is to be 
 bound and cast into the furnace ; I do trust in God that there 
 is a redeeming spirit in the constitution, which will be seen 
 to walk with the sufferer through the flames, and to preserve 
 Uim unhurt by the conflagration. 
 
 Extract from Mr. Wirfs Eulogy on Thomas Jefferson and 
 John Adams, both of whom died upon the same day, July 
 4th, 1828,Jifly years from the adoption of the Declara- 
 tion of Independence : pronounced at Washington, Oct. 
 Wth, 182G. 
 
 THE scenes which have been lately passing in our 
 country, and of which this meeting is a continuance, are full 
 of moral instruction. They hold up to the world a lesson ol 
 wisdom by which all may profit, if Heaven shall grant them 
 the discretion to turn it to its use. The spectacle, in all its 
 parts, has indeed been most solemn and impressive; and 
 though the first impulse be now past, the time has not yet 
 come, and never will come, when we can contemplate it 
 without renewed emotion. 
 
 In the structure of their characters; in the course of 
 their action; in the striking coincidences which marked 
 their high career; in the lives and in the deaths of the illus- 
 trious men, whose virtues and services we have met to com- 
 memorate and in that voice of admiration and gratitude 
 which has since burst, with one accord, from the twelve 
 millions of freemen who people these United States ;^there 
 is amoral sublimity which overwhelms the mind, and hushes 
 all its powers into silent amazement ! 
 
 The European, who should have heard the sound 
 without pprehending the cause, would be apt to inquire, 
 "What is the meaning of all this'? what had these men 
 done to elicit this unanimous and splendid acclamation ? 
 Why has the whole American nation risen up, as one man, 
 to do them honor, and offer to them this enthusiastic homage 
 of the heart? 
 
 Were they mighty warriors, and was the peal that we 
 have heard the shout of victory ? Were they great com- 
 manders, returning from their distant conquests, surrounded 
 with the spoils of war, and was this the sound of their trium- 
 phal procession ? Were they covered with martial glory in 
 kny form, and was this " the noisy wave of the multitudes, 
 
126 WIRT'S EULOGY ON 
 
 rolling back at their approach ?" INoihing of all this : No j 
 they were peaceful and aged patriots, who, having served 
 their country together through their long and useful lives, had 
 now sunk together to the tomb. 
 
 They had not fought battles; but they had formed and 
 moved the great machinery, of which battles were only a 
 small, and comparatively trivial consequence. They had not 
 commanded armies; hut they had commanded the master 
 springs of the nation, on which all its great political, as well 
 as military movements depended. By the wisdom and 
 2nergy of their counsels, and by the potent mastery of their 
 spirits, they had contributed pre-eminently to produce a 
 mighty Revolution, which has changed the aspect of the 
 world. 
 
 A Revolution which, in one half of that world has 
 already restored man to his " lon^-lost liberty," and govern- 
 ment to its only legitimate object, the happiness of the 
 People ; and on the other hemisphere has thrown a light so 
 strong, that even the darkness of despotism is beginning to 
 recede. Compared with the solid glory of an achievement 
 like this, what are battles, and what the pomp of war, but 
 the poor and fleeting pageants of a theater? What were 
 the selfish and petty strides of Alexander, to conquer a little 
 section of the savage world, compared with this generous, 
 this magnificent advance toward the emancipation of the 
 entire world! 
 
 And this, be it remembered, has been the fruit of intel- 
 lectual exertion : the triumph of mind ! What a proud tes- 
 timony does it bear to the character of our nation, that they 
 are able to make a proper estimate of services like these ! 
 That while in other countries, the senseless mob fall down 
 in stupid admiration before the bloody wheels of the con- 
 queror, even of the conqueror by accident, in this, our 
 People rise with one accord, to pay their homage to intellect 
 and virtue! 
 
 What a cheering pledge does it give of the stability of 
 our institutions, that, while abroad the yet benighted multi- 
 tude are prostrating themselves before the idols which their 
 own hands have fashioned into Kings, here, in this land of 
 the free, our people are every where starting up with one 
 impulse, to follow, with their acclamations, the ascending 
 spirits of the great Fathers of the Republic ! 
 
 This is a spectacle of which we may be permitted to be 
 proud. It honors our country no less than the ill astrioua 
 
JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 127 
 
 tiead. Arid could those great patriots speak to us from the 
 tomb, they would tell us, that they have more pleasure in 
 the testimony which these honors hear to the character of 
 their country, than in that which they bear to their indi- 
 vidual services. 
 
 They now see as they were seen while in the body, 
 and know the nature of the feeling from which these honors 
 flow. It is love for love. It is the gratitude of an enlightened 
 nation to the noblest order of benefactors. It is the only 
 glory worth the aspiration of a generous spirit. Who would 
 not prefer thi^living tomb in the hearts of his countrymen, 
 to the proudest mausoleum that the genius of sculpture could 
 erect! 
 
 Man has been said to be the creatiire of accidental posi- 
 tion. The cast of his character has been thought to dependj 
 materially, on the age, the country, and tile circumstances in 
 which he has lived. To a considerable extent, the remark is 
 no doubt true. Cromwell, had he been born iri a republic, 
 might have been "guiltless of his country^s blood ;" arid, 
 but for those civil commotions which had wrought his great 
 mind into tempest, even Milton might have rested "mute 
 and inglorious." 
 
 The occasion is doubtless necessary to develop the 
 talent, whatsoever it may be; but the talent must exist, in 
 embryo at least, or no occasion can quicken it into life. And 
 it must exist, too, under the check of strong virtues; of the 
 same occasion that quickens it into life, will be extremely apt 
 to urge it on to crime. The hero who finished his career at 
 St. Helena, extraordinary as he was, is a far more common 
 character in the history of the world, than he who sleeps in 
 our neighborhood, embalmed in his country's tears; or than 
 those whom we have now met to mourn and to honor. 
 
 Jefferson and Adams were great men by nature. Not 
 great and eccentric minds " shot madly from their spheres'* 
 to affright the world, and scatter pestilence in their course; 
 but minds, whose strong and steady light, restrained within 
 their proper orbits by the happy poise of their characters, 
 came to cheer and gladden a world that had been buried for 
 ages in political night. They were heaven-called avengers 
 oif degraded man. They came to lift him to the station for 
 which God had formed him, and put to flight those idiot sU- 
 pers-titions with which tyrants had contrived to enthrajl hie 
 reason artd his liberty. 
 
128 WEBSTER'S ADDRESS AT 
 
 Aud that being who had sent them upon this mission, 
 had fitted them pre-eminently for his glorious work. He 
 rilled their hearts with a love of country, which burned 
 strong within them, even in death.. He gave them a power 
 of understanding which no sophistry could baffle, no art 
 elude; and a moral heroism which no dangers could appall. 
 Careless of themselves, reckless of all personal consequen- 
 ces, trampling under foot that petty ambition of office and 
 nonor, which constitutes the master-passion of little minds, 
 they bent all their mighty powers to the task for which they 
 nad been delegated the freedom of their beloved country, 
 and the restoration of fallen man. 
 
 They felt that they were Apostles of human liberty; 
 and well did they fulfil their high commissions They rest- 
 ed not until they had accomplished their work at home, 
 and given such an impulse to the great ocean of mind, that 
 they saw the waves rolling on the farthest shore before they 
 were called to their reward: and then left the world, hand in 
 aand, exulting, as they rose, in the success of their labors. 
 
 Extract from an Address at the laying of the Corner 
 Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, MLh June, 1825. 
 
 THE great event in the history of the continent which 
 we are now met here to commemorate, that prodigy of 
 modern times, at once the wonder and blessingof the world, 
 's the American revolution. In a day of extraordinary pros- 
 perity and happiness! of high national honor, distinction, and 
 power, we are brought together in this place, by our love of 
 country, by our admiration of exalted character, by our gra- 
 titude for signal services and patriotic devotion. 
 
 And while we are enjoying all the blessings of our con- 
 dition, and looking abroad on the brightened prospects of the 
 world, we hold still among us some of those who were active 
 agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are now here, from 
 every quarter of New England, to visit, once more, and under 
 circumstances so affecting, I had almost said so over- 
 whelming, this renowned theater of their courage and pa 
 triotisra. 
 
 Venerable men ! you have come down to us from a for 
 
 iner generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out 
 
 o^ lives, that you might behold this joyous day.*' You are 
 
 now nere where you stood fifty years ago this very hour, 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 129 
 
 with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, 
 in the strife for your country. Behold, how altered ! The 
 same heavens are indeed over your heads; the same ocean 
 rolls at your feet; but all else how changed! 
 
 You hear now no roar of hostile cannon. you see no 
 mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning 
 Charlestown. The ground strowed with the dead and the 
 dying; the impetuous charge; the steady and successful re- 
 pulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning of 
 all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms 
 freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror 
 there may be in war and death ; all these you have witnessed, 
 but you witness them no more. 
 
 All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its 
 towers and roofs which you then saw filled with wives, and 
 children, and countrymen, in distress and terror, and looking 
 with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have 
 presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy popu- 
 lation, come out to welcome and greet you with a universal 
 jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position ap- 
 propriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming 
 fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoyance to 
 you, but your country's own means of distinction and de- 
 fense. 
 
 All is peace ; and God has granted you this sight of 
 your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave for 
 ever. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the re- 
 ward of your patriotic toils ; and he has allowed us, your 
 sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and, in the name of 
 the present generation, in the name of your country, in the 
 name of liberty, to thank you. 
 
 But the scene amidst which we stand, does not permit 
 us to confine our thoughts or our sympathies to those fearless 
 spirits who hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated 
 spot. We have the happiness to rejoice here in the presence 
 of a most worthy representation of the survivors of the 
 whole revolutionary army. 
 
 Veterans! You are the remnant of many a well-fought 
 field. You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton 
 and Monmouth, from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and 
 Saratoga. VETERANS OF HALF A CENTURY! when in your 
 youthful days you put every thing at hazard in' your coun- 
 try's cause, good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth 
 is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour 
 
 9* 
 
 " 
 
130 SPEECH OF TITUS QUINCTIUS 
 
 like this! At a period to which you could not reasonably 
 have expected to arrive ; at a moment of national prosperity, 
 such as you could never have foreseen ; you are now met 
 here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive 
 the overflowings of a universal gratitude. 
 
 But your agitated countenances, and your heaving 
 breasts inform me, that even this is not an unmixed joy. I 
 perceive that a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon 
 you. The images of the dead, as well as the persons of the 
 living, throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms 
 you, and I turn from it. May the father of all mercies bless 
 them, and smile upon your declining years. 
 
 And when you shall here have exchanged your em- 
 braces ; when you shall once more have pressed the hands 
 which have been so often extended to give succor in adver- 
 sity, or grasped in the exultation of victory; then look abroad 
 into this lovely land, which your young valour defended, and 
 mark the happiness with which it is filled ; yea, look abroad 
 into the whole earth, and see what a name you have contri- 
 buted to give to your country, and what a praise you have 
 added to freedom; and then rejoice in the sympathy and 
 gratitude, which beam upon your last days from the im- 
 proved condition of mankind. 
 
 Speech of Titus Quincilus to the Romans. 
 
 THOUGH I am not conscious, O Romans, of any crime by 
 me committed, it is yet with the utmost shame and confusion 
 that I appear in your assembly. You have seen it posterity 
 will know it! in the fourth consulship of Titus Quinctius 
 the ^Equi and Volsi (scarce a match for the Hernici alone) 
 came in arms to the very gates of Rome, and went away 
 unchastised ! 
 
 The course of our manners, indeed, and the state of oui 
 affairs have long been such, that I had no reason to presage 
 much good ; but, could I have imagined that so great an ig- 
 nominy would have befallen me this year, I would, by banish 
 ment or death, (if all other means had failed,) have avoided 
 the station I am now in. What ! might Rome then have been 
 f aken. if these men who were at our gates had not wanted 
 courage for the attempt? Rome taken whilst I was consul ! 
 Of honors I had sufficient of life enough more than enough 
 I should have died in my third consulate. 
 
TO THE ROMANS. 131 
 
 But who are they that our dastardly enemies thus de- 
 spise? the consuls, or you, Romans? If we are in fault, 
 depose us, or punish us yet more severely. If you are to 
 blame may neither Gods nor men punish your faults! only 
 may you repent! No, Romans, the confidence of your ene- 
 mies is not owing to their courage, or to their belief of your 
 cowardice : they have been too often vanquished not to know 
 both themselves and you. 
 
 Discord, discord is the ruin of this city ! The eternal 
 disputes between the senate and the people, are the sole cause 
 of our misfortunes. While we set no bounds to our dominion, 
 nor you to your liberty ; while You impatiently endure Pa* 
 trician magistrates, and we Plebeian ; our enemies take heart, 
 grow elated and presumptuous. In the name of the immor- 
 tal gods, what is it, Romans, you would have? You desired 
 Tribunes; for the sake of peace, we granted them. You 
 were eager to have Decemvirs ; we consented to their cre- 
 ation. You grew weary of these decemvirs j we obliged 
 them to abdicate. 
 
 Your hatred pursued them when reduced to private men \ 
 and we suffered you to put to death, or banish, Patricians ot 
 the first rank in the republic. You insisted upon the restora- 
 tion of the Tnbuneship ; we yielded ; we quietly saw Con- 
 suls of your own faction elected. You have the protection of 
 your tribunes, and the privilege of appeal; the Patricians 
 are subjected to the decrees of the Commons. Under pre- 
 tense of equal and impartial laws, you have invaded our 
 rights; and we have suffered it. and we still suffer it. When 
 shall we see an end of discord ? When shall we hate one in- 
 terest, and one common country ? Victorious and triumphant, 
 you show less temper than we under defeat. When you are 
 to contend with us, yon can seize the Aventine hill you can 
 possess yourselves of the Mons Sacer. 
 
 The enemy is at our gates, the /Esquiline is near being 
 taken, and nobody stirs to hinder it! But against us you are 1 
 valiant; against us you can arm with diligence. Come on, 
 then, besiege the senate-house, make a camp of the forum, fill 
 the jails with our chief nobles, and when you have achievefl 
 these glorious exploits, then, at last, sally out at the ^Esqui- 
 line gate with the same fierce spirits against the enemy. 
 
 Does your resolution fail you for this? Go, then, and 
 behold from our walls your lands ravaged, your houses plun- 
 
132 JUDGE STORY'S 
 
 tiered and in flames, the whole country laid waste with fire 
 and sword. Have you any thing here to repair these damages? 
 Will the tribunes make up your losses to you ? They will 
 give you words as many as you please; bring impeachments 
 in abundance against the prime men of the state: heap laws 
 upon laws ; assemblies you shall have without end ; but will 
 any of you return the richer from those assemblies? 
 
 Extinguish, O Romans ! these fatal divisions ; generously 
 break this cursed enchantment, which keeps you buried in a 
 scandalous inaction. Open your eyes, and consider the ma- 
 nagement of those ambitious men, who, to make themselves 
 powerful in their party, study nothing but how they may 
 foment divisions in the commonwealth. If you can but 
 summon up your former courage, if you will now march 
 out of Rome with your consuls, there is no punishment you 
 can inflict which 1 will not submit to, if I do not in a few 
 days drive those pillagers out of our territory. This terror 
 of war, with which you seem so grievously struck, shall 
 quickly be removed from Rome to Uieir own cities. 
 
 Extract from. TV 'Ige Story'' s Centennial Address, delivered 
 at Salem, Mass., Sept. 18, 1828. 
 
 WHEN we reflect on what has been, and is now, is it pos- 
 sible not to feel a profound sense of the responsibleness of 
 this Republic to all future nges? What vast motives press 
 upon us for lofty efforts. What brilliant prospects invite our 
 enthusiasm. What solemn warnings at once demand our 
 vigilance, and moderate our confidence. 
 
 The old world has already revealed to us in its unsealed 
 books, the beginning and end of all its own marvelous strug- 
 gles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece, "the land 
 of scholars and the nurse of arms," where sister republics in 
 fair processions chanted the praises of liberty and the gods; 
 where and what is she? For two thousand years the op- 
 pressor has bound her to the earth. Her arts are no more. 
 The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a 
 ruthless soldiery ; the fragments of her columns arid her pa- 
 laces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruin. 
 
 She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons 
 were united at Thermopylae and Marathon; and the tide of 
 her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was con- 
 quered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own 
 
CENTENNIAL ADDRESS. 133 
 
 people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruc- 
 tion. It was already done by her own corruption, banish- 
 ments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose 
 eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun, where, and what 
 is she? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her 
 desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of 
 religion, and calm as in the composure of death. 
 
 The malaria has but traveled in the paths worn by her 
 destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over 
 the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals, 
 before Caesar had crossed the Rubicon; and Brutus did not 
 restore her health by the deep probings of the senate cham- 
 ber. The Goths and Vandals and Huns the swarms of the 
 north completed only what was already begun at home. 
 Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and 
 sold ; but the people offered the tribute money. 
 
 And where are the republics of modern times, which 
 clustered around immortal Italy? Venice and Genoa exist 
 but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave 
 arid peaceful Swiss, in their native fastnesses; but the gua- 
 ranty of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their 
 strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the 
 valleys are not easily retained. 
 
 When the invader comes, he moves like an avalanche, 
 carrying destruction in his path. The peasantry sink before 
 him. The country is too poor for plunder, and too rough for 
 valuable conquest. Nature presents her eternal barriers on 
 every side, to check the wantonness of ambition; and Swit- 
 zerland remains with her simple institutions, a military road 
 to fairer climates, scarcely worth a permanent possession, 
 and protected by the jealousy of her neighbors. 
 
 We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last 
 experiment of self-government by the people. We have be- 
 gun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. 
 We are in the vigour of youth. Our growth has never been 
 checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions 
 have never been enfeebled, by the vices or luxuries of the old 
 world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning; 
 simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government 
 and self-respect. 
 
 The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. 
 Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees 
 of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many pro- 
 ducts, and many means of independence. The government 
 
134 STORY'S ADDRESS. 
 
 is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge 
 reaches, or may reach every home. What fairer prospect of 
 success could be presented? What means more adequate to 
 accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary, 
 than for the people to preserve what they themselves have 
 created ? 
 
 Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. 
 It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breeze* 
 of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood ot 
 Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France, and the 
 low lands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy ot 
 Germany and the North, and, moving onward to the South, 
 has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. 
 
 Can it he that America, under such circumstances, can 
 betray herself ? that she is to be added to the catalogue ot 
 Republics, the inscription of whose ruin is, " they were, but 
 they are not." Forbid it, my countrymen; forbid it, Heaven. 
 
 I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ances- 
 tors, by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by 
 all you are, and all you hope to be, resist every project of 
 disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, 
 resist every attempt to fetter your consciencies, or smother 
 your public schools, or extinguish your system of public in- 
 struction. 
 
 I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in 
 woman, the love of your offspring, teach them, as they 
 climb your knees, or lean on your bosom, the blessing of 
 liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptismal 
 vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget of to 
 forsake her. 
 
 I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons 
 you are whose inheritance you possess. Life can never 
 be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppres- 
 sion. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defense 
 of the liberties of your country. 
 
 I call upon you, old men, for vour counsels, and your 
 prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs 
 go down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection that 
 you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the 
 west upon a nation of slaves. 
 
 No I read in the destiny of my country, far better 
 hopes, far brighter visions. We who are now assembled 
 here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. 
 The time for our departure is at hand, to make way for our 
 
THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER. 135 
 
 children upon the theater of life. May God speed them and 
 theirs. May he who at the distance of another century shall 
 stand here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, 
 happy, and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as 
 we do> May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth, as Well as 
 of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his country ; 
 
 " Zealous, yet modest ; Innocent, though free ; 
 Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
 Inflexible in faith 5 invincible in arms." 
 
 On the Formation of Character, and the attainment oj 
 knowledge : Addressed to the American Youth. 
 
 A GOOD name is in all cases the fruit of personal exer- 
 tion. It is not inherited from parents ; it is not created by ex- 
 ternal advantages ; it is no necessary appendage of birth, or 
 wealth, or talents, or station ; but the result of one's own en- 
 deavors,-*-the fruit and reward of good principles, manifest 
 in a course of virtuous and honorable action. This is the 
 more important to be remarked, because it shows that the 
 attainment of a good name, whatever be your external cir- 
 cumstances, is entirely within your power, 
 
 No youn man, however humble his birth, or obscure 
 his condition, is excluded from the invaluable boon. He has 
 only to fix his eyes upon the prize, and press toward it in a 
 course of virtuous and useful conduct, and it is his. And it 
 is interesting to notice how many of our worthiest and best 
 citizens, have risen to honor and usefulness by their own per- 
 severing exertions. They are to be found in great numbers, 
 in each of the learned professions, and in every department 
 of business ; and they stand forth, bright and animating ex- 
 amples of what can be accomplished by resolution and effort. 
 
 Indeed, in the formation of character, personal exertion 
 is the first, the second, and the third virtue. Nothing great 
 or excellent can be acquired without it. A good name will 
 not come without being sought. All the virtues of which it 
 is composed, are the result of untiring application and indus- 
 try. Nothing can be more fatal to the attainment of a good 
 character, than a treacherous confidence in external advanta- 
 ges. These, if not seconded by your own endeavors, will 
 " drop you mid-way, or perhaps you will not have started, 
 when the diligent traveler will have won the race." 
 
 Thousands of young men have been ruined by relying 
 
THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER 
 
 for a good name on their honorable parentage, pr inherited 
 wealth, or the patronage of friends. Flattered by these dis- 
 tinctions, they have felt as if they might live without plan 
 and without effort, merely for their own gratification and 
 indulgence. No mistake is more fatal. It always issues in 
 producing an inefficient and useless character. 
 
 On this account, it is, that character and wealth rarely 
 continue in the same family, more than two or three gene- 
 rations. The younger branches, placing a deceptive confi- 
 dence in an hereditary character, neglect the means of forming 
 one of their own, and often exist in society only a reproach 
 to the worthy ancestry, whose name they bear. 
 
 In the formation of a good character, it is of great im- 
 portance that the early part of life be improved and guarded, 
 with the utmost diligence and carefulness. The most critical 
 period of life is that which elapses from fourteen to twenty- 
 one years of age. More is done during this period, to mould 
 and settle the character of the future man, than in all the 
 other years of life. 
 
 If a young man passes this season with pure morals 
 and a fair reputation, a good name is almost sure to crown 
 his maturer years, and descend with him to the close of his 
 days. On the other hand, if a young man in this spring sea- 
 son of life neglects his mind and heart; if he indulges him- 
 self in vicious courses, and forms habits of inefficiency and 
 slothfulness, he experiences a loss which no effort can re- 
 trieve, and brings a stain upon his character which no tears 
 can wash away. 
 
 Life will inevitably take much of its shape and coloring, 
 from the plastic powers that are now operating. Every 
 thing, almost, depends upon giving a proper direction to this 
 outset of life. The course now taken is usually decisive. 
 The principles now adopted, and the habits now formed, 
 whether good or bad, become a kind of second nature, fixed 
 and permanent. 
 
 Youthful thoughtlessness, I know, is wont to regard the 
 indiscretions and vicious indulgencies of this period, as of 
 very little importance. But they have great influence in 
 forming your future character, and deciding the estimation in 
 which you are to be held in the community. They are the 
 germs of bad- habits ; and bad habits confirmed, are ruin to 
 the character and the scul. The errors and vices of a young 
 man, even when they do not ripen into habit, impress a blot 
 on the name which is rarely effaced. They are remembered 
 
AND ATTAINMENT OF KNOWLEDGE. 137 
 
 in subsequent life; the public eye is often turning back to 
 them ; the stigma is seen ; it cleaves fast to the character, 
 and its unhappy effects are felt till the end of his days. 
 
 " A fair reputation, it should be remembered, is a plant, 
 delicate in its nature, and by no means rapid in its growth. 
 It will not shoot up in a night, like the gourd that shaded 
 the prophet's head ; but like that same gourd, it may perish 
 in a night." A character which it has cost many years to esta- 
 blish, is often destroyed in a single hour, or even minute. 
 Guard then, with peculiar vigilance, this forming, fixing sea- 
 son of your existence; and let the precious days and hours 
 that are' now passing by you, be diligently occupied in acqui- 
 ring those habits of intelligence, of virtue and enterprise, 
 which are so essential to the honor and success of future life. 
 
 To the formation of a good character it is of the high- 
 est importance that you have a commanding object in view, 
 and that your aim in life be elevated. To this cause, perhaps, 
 more than to any.other, is to be ascribed the great difference 
 which appears in the characters of men. Some start in life 
 with an object in view, and are determined to attain it ; while 
 others live without plan, and reach not for the prize set be- 
 fore them. The energies of the one are called into vigorous 
 action, and they rise to eminence, while the others are left 
 to slumber in ignoble ease, and sink into obscurity. 
 
 It is an old proverb, that he who aims at the sun, to be 
 sure will not reach it, but his arrow will fly higher than if he 
 aimed at an object on a level with himself. Just so in the for- 
 mation of character. Set your standard high ; and, though 
 you may not reach it, you can hardly fail to rise higher than 
 if you aimed at some inferior excellence. Youngmenare not, 
 in general, conscious of what they are capable of doing. 
 They do not task their faculties, nor improve their powers, 
 nor attempt, as they ought, to rise to superior excellence. 
 They have no high, commanding object at which to aim; 
 but often seem to be passing away life, without object and 
 without aim. 
 
 The consequence is, their efforts are few and feeble ; 
 they are not waked up to any thing great or distinguished; 
 and therefore fail to acquire a character of decided worth. 
 But, my friends, you may be whatever you resolve to be. 
 Resolution is omnipotent. Determine that you will be some- 
 thing in the world, and you shall be something. Aim at ex- 
 cellence, and excellence will be attained. This is the great 
 secret of effort and eminence. 
 
138 THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER. 
 
 The circumstances in which you are placed as the mem- 
 bers of a free and intelligent community, also demand of you 
 a careful improvement of the means of knowledge you enjoy. 
 You live in an age of great mental excitement. The public 
 rnind is awake, and society in general is fast rising on the 
 scale of improvement. At the same time, the means of 
 knowledge are most abundant. They exist every where 
 and in the richest variety. 
 
 Nor were stronger inducements ever held out to en- 
 gage all classes of people in the diligent use of these means. 
 Useful talents of every kind are in great demand. The field 
 of enterprise is widening arid spreading around you. The 
 road to wealth, to honor, to usefulness, and happiness, is open 
 to all, and all who will may enter upon it, with the almost 
 certain prospect of success. In this free community there 
 are no privileged orders. Every man finds his level. If he 
 has talents he will be known and estimated, and rise in the 
 respect and confidence of society. 
 
 Added to this, every man is here a freeman. He has a 
 voice, in the election of rulers, in making and executing the 
 laws, and may be called to fill important places of honor and 
 trust, in the community of which he is a member. What then. 
 is the duty of persons in these circumstances? Are they not 
 called to cultivate their minds, to improve their talents, and 
 acquire the knowledge which is necessary to enable them to 
 act, with honor and usefulness, that part assigned them on 
 the stage of life? 
 
 Can any expect to maintain a respectable standing in 
 society, if, while others are rising around them, they neglect 
 the means to rise with them? If any please thus to neglect 
 fieir opportunities for acquiring knowledge, they can have 
 their choice; but let them at the same time make up their 
 minds to exist as mere cyphers in society; to be hewers of 
 wood and drawers of water; to float down as leaves upon 
 the bosom of the stream, unknown, unregarded, soon to be 
 forgotten as if they had never been. 
 
 A diligent use of the means of knowledge, accords well 
 with yeur nature as rational and immortal beings. God has 
 given you minds which are capable of indefinite improve- 
 ment; he has placed you in circumstances peculiarly favor- 
 able for making such improvement ; and to inspire you with 
 diligence in mounting up the shining course before you, he 
 points you to the prospect of an endless existence beyond the 
 grave ; and assures you that the glories, and the woes of it, 
 depend on the character you form at this period of your life. 
 
IRVING'S VOYAGE. 139 
 
 Here is an argument of infinite weight for the cultiva- 
 tion of your intellectual and moral powers. If you who pos- 
 sess these powers were destined, after spending a few days 
 on earth, to fall into non-existence ; if there, were nothing in 
 you which death cannot destroy, nor the grave cover, there 
 would indeed be but little inducement to cultivate your minds. 
 " For who would take pains to trim a taper which shines but 
 for a moment, and can never be lighted again ?" 
 
 But if you have minds which are capable of endless 
 progression in knowledge, of endless approximation to the 
 supreme intelligence ; if in the midst of unremitting success, 
 objects of new interest will be forever opening before you; 
 O what prospects are presented to your view ! What strong 
 inducements to cultivate your mind and heart, and to enter 
 upon that course of improvement here, which is to run on 
 brightening in glory and in bliss, ages without end. Hawes. 
 
 PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 
 
 Tlie incidents of a Voyage across the Atlantic. 
 
 To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he 
 has to make is an excellent preparative. From the moment 
 you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until 
 you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into 
 the bustle and novelties of another world. 
 
 I have said that at sea all is vacancy. I should correct 
 the expression. To one given up to day-dreammar, and I'ond 
 of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
 for meditation; but then they are the wonders of the deep, 
 and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from 
 worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, 
 or climb to the main-top on a calm day, and muse for hours 
 together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; or to. gaze 
 upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the hori- 
 zon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a 
 creation of my own, or to watch the gentle Undulating billows 
 rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy 
 shores. 
 
 There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 
 and awe, with which I looked down from my giddy height 
 
140 IRVING'S VOYAGE 
 
 on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols, 
 shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship, the 
 grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface, 
 or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre through the 
 Glue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I 
 had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the 
 finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of shapeless 
 monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth; 
 and those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen 
 and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
 ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
 interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the 
 great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of hu- 
 man invention, that has thus triumphed overwind and wave ; 
 has brought the ends of the earth in communion; has esta- 
 blished an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile 
 regions of the north, all the luxuries of the south ; diffused 
 the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life ; 
 and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the 
 human race, between which nature seems to have thrown an 
 insurmountable barrier ! 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 
 a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony 
 of the surrounding expanse, attracts attention. It proved tc 
 be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wreck- 
 ed ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which 
 some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to 
 prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no 
 trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. 
 The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months: 
 clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea- 
 weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? 
 Their struggle has long been over; they have gone down 
 amidst the roar of the tempest ; their bones lie whitening in 
 the caverns of the deep. Silenceoblivion, like the waves, 
 has closed over them, and no one 'can tell the story of their 
 end. 
 
 What sighs have been wafted after that ship! what 
 prayers offered up at the deserted fire-side of home ! How 
 often has the mistress, the wife, and the mother, poured over 
 the daily news to catch some casual intelligence of this 
 rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into 
 
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 141 
 
 anxiety anxiety into dread and dread into despair! Alas, 
 not one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All 
 that shall ever be known is, that she sailed from her port, 
 " and was never heard of more." 
 
 The sight of the wreck, as usual, gave rise to many 
 dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the 
 evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, 
 began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of 
 one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon 
 the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull 
 light of a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom more 
 ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I 
 was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. 
 
 " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship 
 across the banks of Newfoundland, one of the heavy fogs 
 that prevail in those parts, rendered it impossible for me to 
 see far a-head, even in the day time ; but at night the weather 
 was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at 
 twice the length of our ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, 
 and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing-smacks, 
 which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The 
 wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and* we were going a 
 great rate through the water. 
 
 " Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail a-head !' 
 but it was scarcely uttered till we were upon her. She was 
 a small schooner at anchor, with her broadside toward us. 
 The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. 
 We struck her just a-mid-ships. The force, the size, and 
 the weight of our vessel, bore her down below the waves ; we 
 passed over her, and were hurried on our course. 
 
 " As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I 
 had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches, rushing 
 from her cabin: they had just started from their beds to be 
 swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning 
 cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our 
 ears, swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget 
 that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship 
 about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly 
 as we could judge, to the place where the smack was an- 
 chored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense 
 fog. We fired several guns, and listened if we might hear 
 the halloo of any survivors ; but all was silent we never 
 heard nor saw any thing of them more !" 
 
 It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
 " land !" was given from the mast-head. I question whether 
 
142 IRVING'S VOYAGE. ^ 
 
 Columbus, when he discovered the new world, felt a more 
 delicious throng of sensations, than rush into an American's 
 bosom when he first conies in sight of Europe. There is a 
 volume of associations in the very name. It is the land of 
 promise, teeming with every thing of which his childhood 
 has heard, or on which his studious ears have pondered. 
 
 From that time, until the period of arrival, it was all 
 feverish excitement. The ships of war that prowled like 
 guardian giants ronnd the coast; the headlands ot Ireland, 
 stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, tow- 
 ering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. 
 As we sailed up the Mersey,! reconnoitered the shores with 
 a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, 
 with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the 
 mouldering ruins of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper 
 spire of a village church, rising from the brow of a neighbor- 
 ing hill all were characteristic of England. 
 
 The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship 
 was enabled to come at once at the pier. It was thronged 
 with people ; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants 
 of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to 
 whom the ship belonged. I knew him by his calculating 
 brow, and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pock- 
 ets; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, 
 a small space having been accorded to him by the crowd, in 
 deference to his temporary importance. There were repeat- 
 ed cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore 
 and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. 
 
 But I particularly noted one young woman of humble 
 dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward 
 from among the crowd : her eye hurried over the ship as it 
 neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. 
 She seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard a faint 
 voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor, who had 
 been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of 
 every one on board. When the weather was fine, his mess- 
 mates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade; 
 but of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to 
 his hammoc, and only breathed a wish that he might see 
 his wife before he died. 
 
 He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, 
 and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a counte- 
 nance so wasted, so pale, and so ghastly, that it is no wonder 
 even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the 
 
THUNDER STORM. 143 
 
 sound of his voice her eye darted on his features, it read at 
 once a whole volume of sorrow j she clasped her hands, 
 uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent 
 agony. 
 
 All now was hurry and hustle the meeting of ac- 
 quaintances the greetings of friends the consultation of 
 rnen of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no 
 friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the 
 land of my forefathers but felt that I was a stranger in the 
 (iincj. IT. Irving. 
 
 of q, Thunder Stnrm on tht Highlands of the 
 Hudson. 
 
 IT was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, that we 
 floated gently with the tide, between those stern mountains, 
 the highlands of the Hudson. There was that perfect quiet 
 which prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat; 
 the turning of a plank, or the accidental falling of an oar on 
 deck, was echoed from the mountain side, and reverberated 
 along the shores ; a,nd if by chance the captain gave a shout 
 of command, there were ajry tongues that mocked it from 
 every cliff. 
 
 I gazed about me in mute delight and wonder, at these 
 scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left the Dunderberg 
 reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over 
 forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right strut- 
 ted forth the bold promontory of Antony's Nose, with a 
 solitary eagle wheeling about it ; while beyond, mountain 
 succeeded to mountain, until they seemed to lock their arms 
 together, and confine this mighty river in their embraces. 
 There was a feeling of quiet luxury in gazing at the broad, 
 green bosoms, here and there scooped out among the preci- 
 pices ; or at woodlands hiiih in air, nodding over the edge of 
 some beetling bluff, and their foliage all transparent in the 
 yellow sunshine. 
 
 In the midst of my admiration, I remarked a pile of 
 bright snowy clouds peering above the western heights. It 
 was succeeded by another, and another, each seemingly 
 pushing onward its predecessor, and towering, with dazzling 
 brilliancy, in the deep blue atmosphere: and now, muttering 
 peals of thunder were faintly heard, rolling behind the 
 
144 VIRTUOUS SENSIBILITY. 
 
 mountains. The river, hitherto still and glassy, reflecting 
 pictures of the sky and land, now showed a dark ripple at a 
 distance, as the breeze came creeping up it. The fish hawks 
 wheeled and screamed, and sought their nests on the high 
 dry trees; the crows flew clamorously to the crevioes of the 
 rocks, and all nature seemed conscious of the approaching 
 thundergust. 
 
 The clouds now rolled in v.olumes over the mountain 
 tops ; their summit still bright and snowy, but the lower parts 
 of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter down in 
 broad and scattered drops ; the wind freshened, and curled 
 up the waves; at length it seemed as if the bellying clouds 
 were torn open by the mountain lops, and complete torrents 
 of rain came rattling down. The lightning leaped from cloud 
 to cloud, and streamed quivering against the rocks, splitting 
 and rending the stoutest forest trees. The thunder burst in 
 tremendous explosions ; the peals were echoed from moun- 
 tain to mountain ; they crashed upon Dunderberg, and rolled 
 up the long defile of the highlands, each headland making a 
 new echo, until old Bull Hill seemed to bellow back the 
 storm. 
 
 For a time the scudding rack and mist, and the sheeted 
 rain, almost hid the landscape from the sight. There was a 
 fearful gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streams 
 of lightning which glittered among the rain drops. Never 
 had I beheld such an absolute warring of the elements ; it 
 seemed as if the storm was tearing and rending its way 
 through this mountain defile, and had brought all the artillery 
 of heaven into action. Irving. 
 
 The happy effects of a virtuous sensibility. 
 
 THE exercise of a virtuous sensibility, powerfully in- 
 fluences the proper discharge of all the relative and social 
 duties of life. Without some discharge of those duties, there 
 could be no comfort nor security in human society. Men 
 would become hordes of savages perpetually harassing one 
 another. In one way or other, therefore, the great duties of 
 social life must be performed. There must be among man- 
 kind some reciprocal co-operation and aid. In this all 
 consent. But let us observe, that these duties may be per- 
 formed from different principles, and in different ways. 
 
 Sometimes they are performed merely from decency 
 
VIRTUOUS SENSIBILITY. 145 
 
 and regard to character; sometimes from fear, and even 
 from selfishness, which obliges men to show kindness, in 
 order that they may receive returns of it. In such cases, 
 the exterior of fair behavior may be preserved. But all will 
 admit, that when from constraint only, the offices of seeming 
 kindness are performed, little dependence can be placed on 
 them, and little value allowed to them. 
 
 By others, these offices are discharged solely from a 
 principal of duty. They are men of cold affections, and 
 perhaps of an interested character. But overawed by a 
 sense of religion, and convinced that they are bound to be 
 beneficent, they fulfill the course of relative duties with regu- 
 lar tenor. Such men act from conscience and principle. So 
 far they do well and are worthy of praise. They assist 
 their friends; they give to the poor ; they do justice to all. 
 
 But what a different complexion is given to the same- 
 actions, how much higher flavor do they acquire, when 
 they flow from the sensibility of a feeling heart? If one be 
 not moved by affection, even supposing him influenced by 
 principle, he will go no farther than strict principle appears 
 to require. He will advance slowly and reluctantly. As it 
 is justice, not generosity, Avhich impels him, he will often 
 feel as a task what he is required by conscience to perform,, 
 Whereas, to him who is prompted by virtuous sensibility, 
 every office of beneficence and humanity is a pleasure, 
 
 He gives, assists, and relieves, not merely because he is 
 bound to do so, but because it would be painful for him to 
 refrain. Hence the smallest benefit he confers rises in Us 
 value on acount of its carrying the affection of the giver 
 impressed upon the gift. It speaks his heart, and the disco- 
 very of the heart is very frequently of greater consequence 
 than all that liberality can bestow. 
 
 How often will the affectionate smile of approbation 
 gladden the humble, an,d raise the dejected ! How often will 
 the look of tender sympathy, or the tear that involuntarily 
 falls, impart consolation to the unhappy ! By means of this 
 correspondence of hearts, all the great duties which we owe 
 to one another are both performed to more advantage, and 
 endeared in the performance. 
 
 From true sensibility flow a thousand good offices, ap- 
 parently small in themselves, but of high importance to the 
 felicity of others ; offices which altogether escape the ob- 
 servation of the cold and unfeeling, who by the hardness of 
 their manner render themselves unamiable, even when they 
 
 10 
 
146 IMPORTANCE OF ORDER. 
 
 mean to do good. How happy then would it be for man- 
 kind, if this affectionate disposition prevailed more generally 
 in the world !> How much would the sum of pubJic virtue 
 and public felicity be increased, if men were always inclined 
 to rejpice with those that rejoice, and to weep with those 
 that weep. Blair. 
 
 The importance of order in the management of business. 
 
 WHATEVER may be your business or occupation in 
 life, let the administration of it proceed with method and 
 economy. From time to time examine, your situation ; and 
 proportion your expense to your growing, or diminishing 
 revenue. Provide what is necessary before you indulge in 
 what is superfluous. Study to do justice to all with whom 
 you deal, before you 'affect the praise of liberality. In ^ 
 word, fix such a plan of living as you find that your circum- 
 stances will fairly admit, and adhere tqjt invariably, against 
 every temptation to improper excess. 
 
 No admonition respecting morals is more necessary than 
 this, to the age in \vhich we live an age manifestly distin- 
 guished hy a propensity to thoughtless profusion ; wherein 
 all the different ranks of men are observed to press with for- 
 ward vanity on tho.se who are above them; to vie with their 
 superiors in every mode of luxury and ostentation; and to 
 see* no farther argument for justifying extravagance, than 
 tne fashion of the times and the supposed necessity of living 
 like others around them. 
 
 -This turn of mind begets contempt for sober and orderly 
 plans of life. It overthrows all regard to domestic concerns 
 and duties. It pushes men on to hazardous and visionary 
 schemes of gain, and unfortunately unites the two extremes 
 of grasping with rapaciousness and of squandering with 
 profusion. In the midst of such disorder no prosperity can, 
 be of long continuance. While confusion grows upon men's 
 affairs, and prodigality at the same time wastes their sub- 
 stance, poverty makes its advances like an armed man. 
 
 They tremble at the view of the approaching evil, but 
 have lost the force of mind to make provision against it. 
 Accustomed to move in a round of society and pleasures 
 disproportioned to their condition, they are unable to break 
 fhrough the enchantments of habit ; and, with their eyes 
 
FUNERAL OF MARIA. 147 
 
 open sink into the gulf which is before them. Poverty'en- 
 forces dependence; and dependence increases corruption. 
 Necessity first betrays them into mean compliances; next 
 impels them to open crime ; and, beginning with ostentation 
 and extravagance, they end in infamy and guilt. 
 
 Such are the consequences of neglecting order in our 
 worldly circumstances. Such is the circle in which the pro- 
 fuse and the dissolute daily run. To what cause so much as 
 to the want of order, can we attribute those scenes of distress 
 which so frequently excite our pity families that once were 
 flourishing reduced to ruin, and the melancholy widow and 
 neglected orphan thrown forth friendless upon the world? 
 What cause has been more fruitful in engendering those 
 Atrocious crimes which fill society with disquiet and terror, 
 in training the gamester to fraud, the robber to violence, and 
 even the assassin to blood ? 
 
 Be assured, then, that order, frugality, and economy are 
 the necessary supports of every personal and private virtue. 
 How humble soever these qualities may appear to some, they 
 are nevertheless the basis on which liberty, independence, 
 and true honor must rise. He who has the steadiness to .ar- 
 range his affairs with method and regularity, and to conduct 
 his train of life agreeably to his circumstances, can be master 
 of himself in every situation into which he may be thrown. 
 
 He is under no necessity to flatter or to lie, to stoop to 
 what is mean, or to commit what is criminal. But he who 
 wants that firmness of mind which the observance of order 
 requires, is held in Bondage to the world ; he can neither act 
 his part with courage as a man. nor with fidelity as a Chris- 
 pan. From the moment you have allowed yourselves to pass 
 the line ef economy, and live beyond your fortune, you have 
 entered on the path of danger. Precipices surround you on 
 all sides. Every step which you take may lead to mischiefs 
 fhat as yet lie hidden, and to crimes that will end in ever- 
 Jasting perdition. Blair. 
 
 The Funeral of Maria. 
 
 MARIA was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her 
 form, and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent, 
 equally indulgent and attentive, had done the fullest justice. 
 To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every 
 endeavor had been used, and had been attended with that 
 
148 FUNERAL OP MARIA. 
 
 success which parental efforts commonly meet with, when 
 not prevented by mistaken fondness or untimely vanity. 
 
 Few young ladies have attracted more admiration ; none 
 ever felt it less : with all the charms of beauty, and the polish 
 of education, the plainest were not less affected, nor the most 
 ignorant less assuming. She died when every tongue was 
 eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was ripening to re- 
 ward them. 
 
 It is by such private and domestic distresses, that the 
 softer emotions of the heart are more strongly excited. The 
 fall of more important personages is commonly distant from 
 our observation; but even where it happens under our im- 
 mediate notice, there is a mixture of other feelings, by which 
 our compassion is weakened. 
 
 The eminently great, or extensively useful, leave behind 
 them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed expecta- 
 tions, by which the distress is complicated beyond the sim- 
 plicity of piety. But the death of one, who like Maria was to 
 shed the influence of her virtues over the age of a father, and 
 the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a little view of fa- 
 mily affliction, which every eye can perceive, and every heart 
 can feel. 
 
 On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze 
 as upon those gallery pictures, which strike us with wonder 
 and admiration: domestic calamity is like the miniature oi 
 a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret 
 looks and solitary enjoyment. 
 
 The last time I saw Maria, was in the midst of a crowd- 
 ed assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed 
 all eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the native 
 dignity of her mien ; yet, so tempered was that superiority 
 which they conferred with gentleness and modesty, that not 
 a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, or 
 the envy of homeliness. From that scene the transition was 
 so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the sod, 
 that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my senses, 
 I beheld the objects around me as the painting of a dream, 
 and thought of Maria as still living. 
 
 I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The 
 figure of her father bending over 'he grave of his darling 
 child ; the silent, suffering composure, in which his counte- 
 nance, was fixed ; the tears of his attendants, whose grief was 
 light and capable of tears ; these gave me back the truth, and 
 reminded me that I should see her no more. There was a 
 
FUNERAL OF MARIA. 249 
 
 flow of sorrow, with which I suffered myself to be borne 
 along with a melancholy kind of indulgence ; but when her 
 father drojmed the cord with which he had helped to lay 
 his Maria in^e earth, its sound on the coffin chilled my 
 heart, and holror for a moment took place of pity ! 
 
 It was but for a moment. He looked eagerly into the 
 grave ; made one involuntary motion to stop the assistants, 
 who were throwing the earth into it; then, suddenly recol- 
 lecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his eyes 
 to heaven, and then, first, I saw a few tears drop from them. 
 I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of faith, and 
 piety, and resignation. I went away sorrowful, but my sor- 
 row was neither ungentle nor unmanly ; I cast on this world 
 a glance rather of pity than of enmity; and on the next, a 
 look of humbleness and hope ! 
 
 Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the effect of 
 scenes like that I have described, on minds neither frigid nor 
 unthinking: for, of feelings like these, the gloom of the as- 
 cetic is as little susceptible as the levity of the giddy. There 
 needs -a certain pliancy of mind which society alone can 
 give, though its vices often destroy it, to render us capable 
 of that gentle melancholy, which makes sorrow pleasant, 
 and affliction useful. 
 
 It is not from a melancholy of this sort, that men are 
 prompted from the cold, unfruitful virtues of monkish solitude. 
 These are often the effects, rather of passion secluded than 
 repressed, rather of temptation avoided than overcome. The 
 crucifix and the rosary, the death's head and the bones, if 
 custom has not made them indifferent, will rather chill desire 
 than excite virtue ; but, amidst the warmth of social affection, 
 and of social sympathy, the heart will feel the weakness, and 
 enjoy the duties of humanity. 
 
 Perhaps it will be said, that such situations and such 
 reflections as the foregoing, will only affect minds already too 
 tender, and be disregarded by those who need the lessons they 
 impart. But this, I apprehend, is to allow too much to the 
 force of habit, and the resistance of prejudice. 
 
 I will not pretend to assert, that rooted principles and 
 long-established conduct are suddenly to be changed by the 
 effects of situation, or the eloquence of sentiment; but, if it 
 be granted that such change ever took place, who shall deter- 
 mine by what imperceptible motive or accidental impression, 
 it was first begun? And, even if the influence of such a call 
 to thought can only smother in its birth, one allurement to 
 
150 VISION OF MIRZA. 
 
 evil, or confirm one wavering purpose to virtue, I shall not 
 have unjustly commended that occasional indulgence of pen- 
 siveness and sorrow, which will thus be renderjk not only 
 one of the refinements, but one of the improvenjg^s of life. 
 
 cenzie. 
 
 dere&r 
 :ruen& 
 
 Mdcke 
 
 Tlit Vision ofMirza. 
 
 ON the fifth day of the moon, which according to the 
 custom of my forefathers I always kept holy, after having 
 washed myself, and offered up rny morning devotions, I as- 
 cended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of 
 the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing my- 
 self on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound con- 
 templation on the vanity of human life ; and, passing from 
 one thought to another, "Surely," said I, "man is but a sha- 
 dow, and life a dream." 
 
 While I was thus musing, I cast my eyes toward the 
 summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I disco- 
 vered one, in the habit of a shepherd;, with a musical instru- 
 ment in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his 
 lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceed- 
 ingly sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were 
 inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from any 
 thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those hea- 
 venly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men 
 upon their first arrival in paradise,, to wear out the impres- 
 sions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures 
 of that happy place. 
 
 My heart melted away in secret raptiires. I had been 
 often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a Genius, 
 and that several had been entertained with music who had 
 passed by it, but never heard *hat the musician had before 
 made himself visable. When he Sad raised my thoughts, by 
 those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasure 
 of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonish- 
 ed, he beckon d to me, and, by the waving of his hand di- 
 rected me to approach the place where he sat. 
 
 I drew near, with that reverence which is due 6 a su- 
 perior nature ; and, as my heart was entirely subdued by the 
 captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and 
 wept. The Geniu smiled upon me with a look of compa* 
 sion and affability, that familiarized him to my imagination^ 
 
VISION OF MIRZA. 151 
 
 and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with 
 which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, 
 and, taking me by the hand, " Mirza," said lie, " I have heard 
 thee in thy soliloquies : follow me." 
 
 He led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and 
 placing me on the top of it, ''Cast thy eyes eastward," said 
 he, "and tell me what thou seest." "1 see," said I, "a huge 
 valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it." 
 u The valley that thou seest," said he, " is the valley of mise- 
 ry ; and the tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great 
 tide of eternity." " What is the reason," said I, " that the 
 tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses 
 itself in a thick mist at the other?" 
 
 "What thou seest," said he, " is that portion of eterni- 
 ty which is called time, measured out hy the sun, and reach- 
 ing iVorri the beginning of the wbrld to its consummation. 
 Examine, now," said he, " this sea, that is thus bounded with 
 darkne.ss at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in 
 it." "t see a bridge," said I, "standing in the midst of the 
 tide." "The bridge thou seest," said he, "is human life: 
 consider it attentively." Upon a more leisurely survey of it, 
 i found that it consisted of three-score and -ten entire arches, 
 with several broken arches, which, added to those that were 
 entire, made up the number of about a hundred. 
 
 As I was counting the arches the Genius told me that 
 this bridge consisted, at first, of a thousand arches; but that 
 a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the 
 ruinous condition I now beheld it. " But tell me farther," 
 said he, "what thou discoverest on it:" "I see multitudes 
 of people passing over it," said I, " and a black cloud hang- 
 ing on each end of it." 
 
 As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the pas- 
 sengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that 
 flowed underneath it; and, upon farther examination, per- 
 ceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed 
 in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but 
 they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disap- 
 peared. These hidden pit-falls Were set very thick at the 
 entrance of the bridge, so that the throngs of people no sooner 
 broke through the cloud, than mahy of them fell into them. 
 They grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied and 
 lay closer together toward the end of the arches that were 
 entire. 
 
 There were indeed some persons but their number was 
 Very small that continued a kind of hobbling march on thfc 
 
152 VISION OF MIRZA. 
 
 broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite 
 tired and spent with so long a walk. I passed some time in 
 the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great 
 variety of objects which it presented. 
 
 My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see se- 
 veral dropping unexpectedly, in the midst of mirth and jolli- 
 ty, and catching by every thing that stood by them to save 
 themselves. Some were looking up toward the heavens in 
 a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a speculation, 
 stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in 
 the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes and danced 
 before them j but often, when they thought themselves with- 
 in the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sunk. 
 
 In this confusion of objects, I observed some with ci- 
 meters in their hands, and others with lances, who ran to 
 and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap- 
 doors, which did not seem to lie in their way, and which 
 they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon 
 them. 
 
 The Genius, seeing me indulge myself in this melan- 
 choly prospect, told me i had dwelt long enough upon it. 
 " Take thine eyes oil' the bridge," said he, "and tell me if 
 thou yet seest any thing thou dost not comprehend." Upon 
 looking up, "What mean," said I, "those great flights of 
 birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and set- 
 tling upon it from time to time! I see vultures, harpies, ra- 
 vens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures, 
 several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon 
 the middle arches." 
 
 " These," said the Genius, " are Envy, Avarice, Super- 
 stition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that 
 infest human life." I here fetched a deep sigh. " Alas !" 
 said I, " man was made in vain ! how is he given away to 
 misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in 
 death!" The Genius being moved with compassion toward 
 me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. u Look no 
 more," said he, "on man, in the first stage of his existence, 
 in his setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on that thick 
 mist, into which the tide bears the several' generations of 
 mortals that fall into it." 
 
 I directed my sight as I was ordered, and whether or 
 no the good Genius strengthened it with any supernatural 
 force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick 
 for the eye to penetrate I saw the valley opening at the far- 
 ther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, tha^ 
 
VISION OF MIRZA. 153 
 
 had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, 
 and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested 
 on one half it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; 
 but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with in- 
 numerable islands that were covered with fruits and flowers, 
 and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran 
 among them. 
 
 I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with 
 garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying 
 down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers ; 
 and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling 
 waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness 
 grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I 
 wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to 
 those happy seats; but the Genius told me there was no 
 passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw 
 opening every moment. upon the bridge. 
 
 "T-he islands," said he, "that lie so fresh and green 
 before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean ap- 
 pears spotted, as far as thou canst see, are more in number 
 than the sands on the sea shore. There are myriads of isl- 
 ands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching far- 
 ther than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend 
 itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, 
 according to the degrees and kinds of virtue in which they 
 excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which 
 abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable 
 to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled m 
 them. Every island is a paradise, accommodated to its re- 
 spective inhabitants. 
 
 " Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending 
 for ? Does life appear miserable, that gives the opportuni- 
 ties of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that 
 will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man 
 was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for 
 him." I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on those happy 
 islands. At length, said I, " Show me now, I beseech thee. 
 the secrets that lie under those dark clouds that cover the 
 >cean on the other side of the rock of adamant." 
 
 The Genius making me no answer, I turned about to 
 address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had 
 left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had been 
 so long contemplating; but, instead of the rolling tide, the 
 arched bridge, and the happy islands I saw nothing but the 
 
 10* 
 
154 ETERNITY OF GOD. 
 
 Jong, hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep and camels 
 grazing upon the sides of it. Addison. 
 
 The Eternity of God. 
 
 IF all who live and breathe around us are the creatures 
 of yesterday, and destined to see destruction to-morrow; if 
 the same condition is our own, and the same sentence is writ- 
 ten against us ; if the solid forms of inanimate nature and 
 laborious art, are fading and falling; if we look in vain for 
 durability to the very roots of the mountains, where shall we 
 turn, and on what can we rely ? Can no support be offered ; 
 can no source of confidence be named? Oh yes! there is 
 one Being to whom we can look, with a perfect conviction 
 of finding that security, which nothing about us can give, 
 and which nothing about us can take away. 
 
 To this Being we can lift up our souls, and on him we 
 may rest them, exclaiming in the language of the monarch 
 of Israel, ' ; Before the mountains were brought forth, or even 
 thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from ever- 
 lasting to everlasting thou art God." " Of old hast thou laid 
 the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work 
 of thy hands. They shall perish, but thou shalt endure ; yea^ 
 all of them shall wax, old like a garment, as a vesture shall 
 thou change them, and they shall be changed ; but thou art 
 the same, and thy years shall have no end." 
 
 The eternity of God is a subject of contemplation, which. 
 at the same time that it overwhelms us with astonishment 
 and awe, affords us an irhmoveable ground of confidence in 
 the midst of a changing world. All things which surround 
 us, all these dying, mouldering inhabitants of time, must' 
 have had a Creator, for the plain reason that they could not 
 have created themselves. And their Creator must have 
 existed from all eternity, for the plain reason that the first 
 cause must necessarily be uncaused. 
 
 As we cannot suppose a beginning without a cause of 
 existence, that which is the cause of all existence must be 
 ; self-existent, and could have had no beginning. And, as it 
 had no beginning, so also, as it is beyond the reach of all in- 
 fluence and control, as it is independent and almighty, it will 
 have no end. Here then is a support which will never fail; 
 <here is a foundation which can never be moved the ever- 
 lasting Creator of countless worlds, " the high and lofty One 
 that inhabits eternity." 
 
THE SE4. 155 
 
 What a. sublime conception! He inhabits eternity, oc- 
 cujnes this inconceivable ^ uration, pervades and fills through- 
 out this boundless dwelling. Ages on ages, before even the 
 dust of which we are formed was create-d, he had existed in 
 infinite majesty ; and ages on ages will roll away, after we 
 have returned to the dust whence we were taken, and still he 
 will exist in infinite majesty, living in tlie eternity of his own 
 nature, reigning in the plenitude of liis own omnipotence, 
 for .ever sending forth the word which, for iris, supports, and 
 governs all things, commanding new, created lights to shine 
 on new created worlds, and raising up new created genera- 
 tions to inhabit them. 
 
 The contemplation of this glorious attribute of God, is 
 fitted to excite in our minds the most animating and consol- 
 ing reflections. Standing as we are amid t^ie ruins of time, 
 arid the wrecks of mortality, where everything about us is 
 created and dependent, proceeding from nothing, and hasten- 
 ing to destruction, we rejoice thai, something is presented to 
 our, view whicli has stood from everlasting^ and will remain 
 forever. 
 
 When we have looked on the pleasures of life, and 
 they have vanished away ; when we have looked on the 
 works of nature, and perceived that they were changing; 
 on the monuments of art, and seen that they would not 
 stand; on our frjends, and they have fled while we were ga- 
 idn.g ; on ourselves, and felt that we were as fleeting as they ; 
 when we have looked on every object to which we could 
 turn our anxious eyes, and they have all told us that they 
 could give us no hope nor support, because they were so 
 feeble themselves; we can look to the throne of God: 
 change and decay have never reached that ; the revolution 
 of ages has never moved it; the waves of an eternity have 
 V>een rushing past it, but it has remained unshaken; the 
 waves of another eternity are rushing toward it, but it is 
 fixed, and never can be disturbed. Greenwood. 
 
 The Sea and its Inhabitants. 
 
 THE sea carries indubitable evidences of a most wise 
 and gracious ordination. How grand, surprisingly grand 
 and majestic, are the \yorks as well as the attributes, of an 
 omnipotent Being ! What are the canals in all the coun- 
 
156 THE SEA AND 
 
 tries of the earth compared with this reservatory ! What 
 are all the superb edifices, erected by royal magnificence, 
 compared with yonder concave of the skies ! And what are 
 the most pompous illuminations of theaters and triumphant 
 cities, compared with the resplendent source of day ! 
 
 Let us examine a single drop of water the very least 
 quantity the eye can discover. In this almost imperceptible 
 speck, a famous philosopher computes no less than thirteen 
 thousand globules. Amazing to conceive! Impossible to 
 explicate ! If. then, in so small a speck abundantly more 
 than ten thousand globules exist, what myriads of myriads 
 must float in the unmeasured extent of the ocean ! 
 
 Let the ablest arithmetician try to comprehend in his 
 mind, not the internal constitution, but only the number of 
 these fluid particles. As well may he grasp the winds in his 
 fist, or mete out the universe with his span, as execute the 
 task. Great then, inconceivably great, is that adored and 
 glorious Sovereign, who sitteth upon this flood as upon a 
 throne; nay, who holds it, diffused as it is from pole to pole, 
 in the hollow of his hand, and before whom, in all its prodi- 
 gious dimensions, it is but as the drop of a bucket. 
 
 Nor are the regions of the ocean without their proper 
 and peculiar inhabitants, who are clothed and accoutered in 
 exact conformity to the clime not in swelling wool, or 
 buoyant feathers ; not in a flowing robe, or a well trimmed 
 suit hut with as much compactness, and with as little super- 
 fluity as possible. They are clad, or rather sheathed with 
 scales, which adhere closely to their bodies, and are always 
 laid in a kind of natural oil than which apparel, nothing 
 can be more light, and at the same time nothing more solid. 
 
 It hinders the fluid from penetrating their flesh ; it pre- 
 vents the cold from coagulating their blood ; and enables 
 them to make their way through the waters with the utmost 
 facility. They have each an air bladder, a curious instru- 
 ment, by which they increase or diminish their specific gra- 
 vity ; sink like lead, or float like a cork ; rise to what height, 
 or descend to what depth they please. 
 
 It is impossible to enter on the musterroll of those scaly 
 herds, and that minuter fry, which graze the sea weed, or 
 stray through the coral groves. They are innumerable as 
 the sands which lie under them; countless as the waves 
 which cover them. Here are uncouth animals of monstrous 
 shapes, and amazing qualities. Some that have been disco- 
 
ITS INHABITANTS. 157 
 
 vered by the inquisitive eye of man, and many more that 
 remain among the secrets of the hoary deep. 
 
 Here are shoals and shoals of various characters, and of 
 the most diversified sizes, from the cumbrous whale whose 
 flouncing tempests the ocean, to the evanescent anchovy, 
 whose substance dissolves in the smallest fricassee. Some, 
 lodged in their pearly shells, and fattening on their rocky- 
 beds, seem attentive to no higher employ than that of imbi- 
 bing moist nutriment. These, but a small remove from 
 vegetable life, are almost rooted on the rock on which they 
 lie reposed ; while others, active as the winged creation, and 
 swift as an arrow from the Indian bow, shoot along the 
 yielding flood, and range at large the spacious regions of the 
 deep. 
 
 In this region is the tortoise, who never moves but un- 
 der her own penthouse -the lobster, which, whether he 
 sleeps or wakes, is still in a state of defense, and clad in joint- 
 ed armour the oyster, a sort of living jelly, ingarrisoned in 
 a bulwark of native stone, with many other kinds of sea 
 reptiles, or, as the Psalmist speaks " Things creeping innu- 
 merable." How surprising are the varieties of their figure, 
 and charming the splendor of their colors. 
 
 Unsearchable is the wisdom, and endless the contrivance, 
 of the all-creating God ! Some are rugged in their form, and 
 little better than hideous ia their aspect ; their shells seem to 
 be the rude production of a disorderly jumble, rather than the 
 regular effects of skill and design ; yet we shall find even in 
 these seeming irregularities, the nicest dispositions. Their 
 abodes, uncouth as they may appear, are adapted to the 
 genius of their respective tenants, and exactly suited to their 
 particular exigences. Neither the Ionic delicacy, nor the 
 Corinthian richness, nor any other order of architecture, 
 would have served their purpose half so well as their coarse 
 and homely fabric. 
 
 Some, on the other hand, are extremely neat. Their 
 structure is all symmetry and elegance. No enamel in the 
 world is comparable to their polish. There is not a room of 
 state in all the palaces of Europe, so brilliantly adorned, as 
 the dining-room nd bed-ehamber of the little fish that dwells 
 in the mother of pearl. Such a lovely mixture of red, and 
 blue, and green, so delightfully staining the most clear and 
 glittering ground, is nowhere else to be seen. The royal 
 power may covet it, and human art may mimic it ; but 
 
158 DESCRIPTION OF 
 
 neither the one nor the other, nor both united, will ever be 
 able to equal it. 
 
 But what we admire more than all their streaks, their 
 spots, and their embroidery, is the extraordinary provision 
 made for their safety. Nothing is more relishing and palata- 
 ble than their flesh. Nothing more heavy and sluggish than 
 their motions. As they have no speed to escape, neither^ 
 have they any dexterity to elude the foe. Were they naked 
 or unguarded, they must be an easy prey to every freebooter 
 that roams the ocean. 
 
 To prevent this fatal consequence, what is only cloth- 
 ing to other animals, is to them a clothing, a house, and a, 
 castle. They have a fortification that grows with thejr 
 growth, and is part of themselves. By this means they live 
 secure amidst millions and millions of ravenous jaws ; by 
 this means they are impraked as it were in their own shell j 
 and, screened from every other assault, are reserved for trie 
 use and pleasure of mankind. 
 
 How admirable is the ordination of that great Being 
 who thus causeth all to minister together for good, and who 
 while he protects the most defenceless, provides for the plea- 
 sures of the most distinguished of his creatures. " Thy 
 tender mercies are over all thy works, O Lord ! and thou 
 neglectest nought thou hast made." Enficld. 
 
 Description of Jerusalem and the surrounding country, 
 
 ALTHOUGH the size of Jerusalem was not extensive, it^ 
 very situation, on the brink of rugged hills, encircled by 
 (Jeep and wild valleys, bounded by eminences whose sides 
 were covered with groves and gardens, added to its numerous 
 powers and temples, must have given it a singular and gloomy 
 magnificence, scarcely possessed by any other city in the 
 world. 
 
 The most yjleasing feature in the scenery around the, 
 city is the valley of Jehoshaphat. Passing out of the gate 
 of St. Stephen, you descend the hill to the torrent of Kedron^ 
 a bridge leads over its dry and deep bed : it must have been, 
 a very narrow, though, in winter a rapid stream. On the 
 left is a grotto, handsomely fitted up, and called the tomb 
 of the Virgin Mary, though it is well known she neither 
 died nor was buried near Jerusalem. 
 
 A few steps beyond the Kedron you come to the garden 
 
JERUSALEM4&C. 159 
 
 of Gethsemane, of all gardens the most interesting and hal 
 lowed; but how neglected and decayed ! It is surrounded by 
 a kind of low hedge ; but the soil is bare ; no verdure grows 
 on it, save six fine venerable olive-trees, which have stood 
 here for many centuries. This spot is at the foot of Olivet, 
 and is beautifully situated; you look up and down the ro- 
 mantic valley; close behind rises the mountain; before you 
 are the walls of the devoted city. 
 
 While lingering here, at evening, and solitary, for it is 
 not often a footstep passes by, that^night of sorrow and dis- 
 may rushes on the imagination, when the Redeemer was 
 betrayed and forsaken by all, even by the loved disciple. 
 Hence the path winds up the Mount of Olives: it is a beau- 
 tiful hill : the words of the Psalmist, " the mountains around 
 Jerusalem," must not be literally applied, as none are within 
 view save those of Arabia. It is verdant, and covered in 
 some parts with olive-trees. 
 
 From the summit you enjoy an admirable view of the 
 city: it is beneath and very near: and looks, with its valleys 
 around it, exactly like a panorama. Its noble temple of 
 Omar, and large area planted witb palms ; its narrow streets, 
 ruined palaces and towers, are all laid out before you. On 
 the summit are the remains of a church, built by the Em- 
 press Helena; and in a small edifice containing one large, 
 and lofty apartment, is shown the print of the last footstep of 
 t/hrist when he took his leave of earth. 
 
 The fathers should have placed it nearer to Bethany, 
 in order to accord with the account given us in Scripture; 
 but it answers the purpose of drawing crowds of pilgrims to 
 the spot. Descending Olivet to the narrow valley of Jeho- 
 shaphat, you soon come to the pillar of Absalom : it has a 
 very antique appearance, and is a pleasing object in the val- 
 ley : it is of a yellow stone, adorned with half columns, form- 
 ed into three stages, and terminates in a cupola. 
 
 The tomb of Zecharias, adjoining, is square, with four 
 or five pillars, and is cut out of the rock. Near these is a 
 sort of grotto, hewn out of an elevated part of the rock, 
 with four pillars in front, which is said to have been the apos- 
 tles' prison at the time they were .confined by the rulers. 
 The small and wretched village o,f Siloa is built on the rug- 
 ged sides of the hill above ; and just here the valleys of 
 Hinnom and Jehoshaphat meet, at the south-east corner of 
 Mount Zion: they are both sprinkled with olive-trees. 
 
 Over the ravine of Hinrioni, and directly opposite the 
 
ItiO DESCRIPTION OF 
 
 city, is the mount of Judgment, or of evil counsel ; because 
 there they say the rulers took counsel against Christ, and 
 the palace of Caiaphas stood. It is a broad and barren hill, 
 without any of the picturesque beauty of Olivet, though 
 loftier. On its side is pointed out the Aceldama, or field 
 where Judas hung himself : a small and rude edifice stands 
 on it, and it is used as a burying-place. 
 
 But the most interesting portion of this hill, is where 1 
 its rocks descend precipitously into the valley of Hinnom. 
 and are mingled with many a straggling olive-tree. All 
 these rocks are hewn into sepiilchers of various forms and 
 sizes : no doubt they were the tombs of the ancient Jews, 
 and are in general cut with considerable care and skilL 
 They are often the resting-place of the benighted passenger. 
 Some of them open into inner apartments, and are provided 
 with small windows, or apertures, cut in the rock. 
 
 In these there is none of the darkness or sadness of* 
 the tomb; but in many, so elevated and picturesque is the 
 situation, a traveler may pass hours, with a book in his hand, 
 while valley and hill are beneath and around him. Before 
 the door of one lanje sepulcher stood a tree on the brink of f 
 the rock ; the sun was going down on Olivet on the right, 
 and the resting-place of the dead commanded a sweeter 
 scene, than any of the abodes of the" living. 
 
 Many of the tombs have flights of steps leading up to 
 them : it was in one of these that a celebrated traveler would 
 fix the site of the holy sepulcher: it is certainly more pictu- 
 resque, but why more just is hard to conceive; since the 
 words of Scripture do not fix the identity of the sacred tomb 
 to any particular spot, and tradition, on so memorable an 
 occasion could hardly err. The fathers declare, it long since 
 became absolutely necessary to cover the native rock with 
 marble, in order to prevent the pilgrims from destroying it^ 
 in their zeal to carry off pieces to their homes; and on this 
 point their relation may, one would suppose, be believed. 
 
 The valley of Hinnom now turns to the west of the 
 city, and extends rather beyond the north wall: here the 
 plain of Jeremiah commences, and is the best wooded tract 
 in the whole neighborhood. In this direction, but farther 
 on, the historian of the siege speaks "of a tower, that af- 
 forded a prospect of Arabia at sun-rising, and of the utmost 
 limits of the Hebrew possessions at the sea westward." The 
 former is still enjoyed from the city; but the latter could 
 only be had at a much greater distance north, where there is 
 no hill in front. 
 
JERUSALEM, &c. 161 
 
 About half a mile from the wp\\ are the tombs of the 
 kings. In the midst of a hollow, rocky and adorned with a 
 few trees, is the entrance : you then find a large apartment, 
 above fifty feet long, at the side of which a low door leads 
 into a series of small chambers, in the walls of which are se- 
 veral deep recesses, hewn out of the rock, of the size of the 
 human body. There are six or seven of these low and dark 
 apartments, one or two of which are adorned with vine- 
 leaves and clusters of grapes. 
 
 Many parts of the stone coffins, beautifully ornamented 
 in the Saracenic manner, are strewed on the floor: it would 
 seem that some hand of ravage had broken them to pieces, 
 with the view of finding something valuable within. The se- 
 pulchers of the judges, so called, are situated in a wild spot, 
 about two miles from the city. They bear much resemblance 
 to those of the kings, but are not so handsome or spacious. 
 
 Returning to the foot of the Mount of Olives, you pro- 
 ceed up the vale of Jehoshaphat on a line with the plain: it 
 widens as you advance, and is more thickly sprinkled with 
 olives. When arrived at the hill in which it terminates, the 
 appearance of the city and its environs is rich and magni- 
 ficent; and you cannot help thinking that were an English 
 party suddenly transported here, they would not believe it 
 was the sad and dreary Jerusalem they were gazing on. 
 
 This is the finest point to view it from : for its nume- 1 
 rous minarets and superb mosque, are seen to great advan-> 
 tage over the trees of the plain and valley, and the foreground 
 is verdant and cultivated. One or two houses of the Turks 
 stood in this spot, and we had trespassed on the rude garden 
 of one of them, where the shade of a spreading tree invited 
 us to linger over the prospect. 
 
 The climate of the city and country is in general very 
 healthy. The elevated position of the former, and the nume- 1 
 rous hills which cover the greater part of Palestine, must con- 
 duce greatly to the purity of the air. One seldom sees a coun^ 
 try overrun with hills in the manner this is: in general they 
 are not in ranges, but more or less isolated, and of a pic'.u- 
 resque form. Few of them approach to the character of 
 mountains, save Carmel, the Quarantina, the shores of the 
 lakes, and those which bound the valley of tho Jordan. 
 
 To account for the existence of so largie a population 
 in the promised lands, the numerous hills must have been en- 
 tirely cultivated : at present, their appearance on the sides 
 and summits, is for the most part bare and rocky. In old 
 
162 DESCRIPTION OF 
 
 time, thy/ were probably formed into terraces, as is now 
 seen on the few cultivated ones, where the vine, olive, and 
 fig-tree flourish. 
 
 High up the rocky side of a hill, on the left of the wil- 
 derness, and amidst a profusion of trees, is the cave or grotto 
 of St. John. A fountain gushes out close by. When we talk 
 of wildernesses, mountains, and plains, in Palestine, it is to 
 be understood, that they seldom answer to the size of the same 
 objects in more extensive countries ; that they sometimes pre- 
 sent but a beautiful miniature of them. It certainly deserved 
 the term, given by the Psalmist to the city, of being a " com- 
 pact" country. 
 
 From the east end of this wilderness, you enter the fa- 
 mous valley of Elah,Xvhere Goliah was slain by the cham- 
 pion of Israel. It is a pretty and interesting spot : the bot- 
 tom covered with olive-trees. Its present appearance answers 
 exactly to the description given in Scripture; the two hills, 
 on which the armies stood entirely confining it on the right 
 and left. 
 
 The valley is not above half a mile broad. Tradition 
 was not required to identify this spot; nature has stamped it 
 with everlasting features of truth. The brook still flows 
 through it in a winding course, from which David look the 
 smooth stones; the hills are not precipitous, but slope gra- 
 dually down ; and the vale is varied with banks and undula- 
 tions, and not a single habitation is visible in it. 
 
 At the south-east of Zioh, in the vale of Jehoshaphat,' 
 they say the gardens of Solomon stood, and also on the sides 
 of the hill adjoining that of Olivet. It was not a bad, though 
 rather a confined site for them. The valley here is covered 
 with a rich verdure, divided by hedges into a number of small 
 gardens. A mean-looking village stands on the rocky side of 
 the hill above. Not a single palm-tree is to be seen in the 
 whole territory around, where once every eminence was co- 
 vered with them. 
 
 The roads leading to the city are bad, except to the 
 north, being the route to Damascus ; but the supplies of wood, 
 and other articles for building the temple, must have come 
 by another way than the near and direct one from Jaffa, 
 which is impassable for burthens of a large size, from the 
 defiles and rocks amidst which it is carried ; the circuitous 
 routes by land from Tyre or Acre were probably used. 
 
 The Turk, who is chief of the guard that keeps watch 
 at the entrance of the sacred church, waited oil us two of 
 
JERUSALEM, &c. 168 
 
 three times; he is a very fine and dignified looking man, and 
 ensured us entrance at all hours, which permission we 
 availed ourselves of to pass another night amidst its hallow- 
 ed scenes, with interest and pleasure but little diminished. 
 
 We chose a delightful morning for a walk to Bethany. 
 The path leads up the side of Olivet, by the very way which 
 our Savior is said to have descended, in his last entry into 
 Jerusalem. At a short distance are the ruins of the village of 
 Bethphage ; and half a mile farther is feethany. The dis- 
 tance is about two miles from the city. The village is beau- 
 tifully situated; and the ruins of the house of Lazarus are 
 still shown, and do credit to the srood father's taste. 
 
 The condition of the Jews in Palestine is more inse- 
 cure, and exposed to insult and exaction, than in Egypt and 
 in Syria, from the frequent lawless, and oppressive conduct 
 of the governors and chiefs. These distant pachalics are less 
 under the control of the Porte ; and in Egypt the subjects 
 of Mahmoud enjoy a more equitable and quiet government, 
 than in any other part of the empire. There is little national 
 feeling or enthusiasm among them; though there are some 
 exceptions, where these exist in an intense degree. In the 
 city they appear fearful and humbled; for the contempt iri 
 which they are held by the Turks is excessive, and they 
 often go poorly clad to avoid exciting suspicion. 
 
 Yet it is an interesting sight to meet with a Jew, wan- 
 dering with his staff in his. hand, and a venerable beard 
 sweeping his bosom, in the rich and silent plain of Jericho, 
 on the sides of his native mountains, or on the banks of the 
 ancient river Kishon, where the arm of the mighty was 
 withered in the battle of the Lord. Did a spark of the love! 
 of his country warm his heart, his feeling must be exquisite: 
 Out his spirit is suited to his condition. 
 
 Letters from th^ East. 
 
164 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 America to Great Britain. 
 
 ALL hail ! thou noble land, 
 
 . Our fathers' native soil ! 
 stretch thy mighty hand, 
 
 Gigantic grown by toil, 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ; 
 For thou, with magic might, 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The genius of our clime, 
 
 From his pine-embattled steep, 
 Shall hail the great sublime ; 
 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
 
 Then let the world combine 
 
 O'er the main our naval line, 
 
 Like the milky-way, shall shine 
 Bright in fame ! 
 
 Though ages long have pass'd 
 
 Since our fathers left their home, 
 Their pilot in the blast, 
 
 O'er untravell'd seas to roam, 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 
 That blood of honest fame, 
 
 Which no tyranny can tamo 
 By its chains 1 
 
 While the language of the free and bold 
 
 Which the bard of Avon sung, 
 In which our MILTON told 
 
 How the vault of heaven rung, 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ? 
 
 While this, with reverence meet, 
 
 Ten thousand echoes greet, 
 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Round our coast ; 
 
 While the manners, while the artb, 
 
 That mould a nation : s soul, 
 Still cling around our hearts, 
 
 Between let ocean roll, 
 
THE BUCKET. 165 
 
 Our joint communion breaking with the sun ; 
 Yet, still, from either beach, 
 The voice of blood shall reach, 
 More audible than speech, 
 "We are one !" 
 
 The Bucket 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood ! 
 
 When fond recollection presents them to view ; 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, 
 
 And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, 
 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 
 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket, 
 The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. 
 
 The moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure, 
 
 For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
 I found it the source of an' exquisite pleasure, 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, 
 
 How quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell, 
 Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 
 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ; 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
 
 Though fill'd with the nectar that JUPITER sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
 
 A tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket winch han;s in. Ms well- 
 
LOVE. 
 
 Love. 
 
 WHEN the tree- of love is budding first, 
 
 Ere yet its leaves are green, 
 pre yet, by shower and sunbeam nurst 
 
 Its infantile life has been ; 
 The wild bee's slightest touch might wring 
 
 The buds from off the tree, 
 As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing 
 
 Breaks the bubbles on the sea. 
 
 But when its open leaves have found 
 
 A home in the free air, 
 Pluck them and there remains a wound 
 
 That ever rankles there. 
 The blight of hope and happiness 
 
 Is felt when fond ones part, 
 And the bitter tear that follows is 
 
 The life-blood of the heart. 
 
 When the flame of love is kindled first, 
 
 'Tis the fire-fly's light at even, 
 'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst; 
 
 In the blue of the suinmer heaven. 
 A breath can bid it burn no more, 
 
 Or if, at times, its beams 
 Come on the memory, they pass o'er, 
 
 Like shadows in ou,r dreams. 
 
 But when that flame hag blazed intp 
 
 A being and a power, 
 And smiled in scorn uppn the de\y 
 
 That fell in its first warrn. hour, 
 'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, 
 
 Whose task is tp destroy ; 
 'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead, 
 
 Whose light but darkens joy ! 
 
 Then crush even in the hour of birth, 
 
 The infant buds of Love, 
 And tread his glowing fire to earth, 
 
 Ere 'tis dark in clouds above 
 Cherish no more a cypress tree 
 
 To shade thy future years, 
 Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be 
 
 Quench' d only with thy tears. 
 
PSALM OF LIFE. 167 
 
 The Fall of Niagara. 
 
 THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, 
 
 While I look upward to thee. It would seem 
 
 As if God pour'd thee from his "hollow hand," 
 
 And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; 
 
 And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him. 
 
 Who dwelt in Patmos for his Savior's sake, 
 
 u The sound of many waters ;" and had bade 
 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
 
 And notch His centuries in the eternal rock. 
 
 Deep cal)eth unto deep. And what are we, 
 That hear the question of that voice sublime ? 
 ! what are all the notes that ever rung 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ! 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
 In his short life to thine unceasing roar! 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him 
 Who drown'd a world and heaped the waters, far 
 Above its loftiest mountains 1 a light wave, 
 That breaks and whispers pf its Maker's might. 
 
 A Psalm of Life. 
 
 TELL me not in mournful numbers, 
 
 Life is but an empty dream ! 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way } 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long and time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 Still, like mufled drums, are beating 
 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
168 ITALY. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act act in the living present ! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And. departing leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and ship wreck' d brother, 
 Seeing, shalltake heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 Italy. 
 
 A CALM and lovely paradise 
 
 Is Italy, for minds at ease. 
 The sadness of its sunny skies 
 
 Weighs not upon the lives of these. 
 The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, 
 
 The broken column, vast and prone 
 It may be joy, it may be pain, 
 
 Amid such wrecks to walk alone j 
 The saddest men will sadder be, 
 
 The gentlest lover gentler there, 
 As if, what'er the spirit's key, 
 
 It strengthen'd in that solemn air. 
 
 The heart soon grows to mournful things 
 
 And Italy has not a breeze 
 But comes on melancholy wings. 
 
 And even in her majestic trees 
 Stand ghost-like in the Caesars' home, 
 
 As if their conscious roots were set 
 
THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 169 
 
 In the graves of gianf'Rome. 
 
 And drn\v their snp. all kingly yet 
 And every stone your foot beneath 
 
 *o . .w. .. .,>,_ ..., ti ,, lii.gtiu' thought, 
 And sculptures in the duft still breathe 
 
 The fire with which their lines were wrought, 
 And sunder' d arch and plunder'd tomb 
 
 Still thunder back the echo, u Rome !" 
 
 Yet gaily o'er Egeria's fount 
 
 The ivy flings its emerald veil, 
 And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, 
 
 And light-sprung arches s^pan the dale, 
 And soft, from Caracalla's Baths, 
 
 The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, 
 While climb his goats the giddy paths ' 
 
 To grass-grown architrave and frieze J 
 And gracefully Albano's hill 
 
 Curves ir;to the horizon's line, 
 And sweetly sings that classic rill, 
 
 And fairly stands that nnmelees shrine j 
 And here, 0, many a sultry noon 
 And starry eve, that happy June, 
 
 Came ANGELO and MELANE, 
 And earth for us was all in tune 
 For w' :I r ~<-- talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart 
 with me ! 
 
 Charity. 
 
 SOFT peace she brings wherever she arrives, 
 She builds our quiet as she forms our lives; 
 Lays the rough path of pevish nature even, 
 And opens in each breast a little heaven. 
 
 The Hare and many Friends. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP in truth is but a name, 
 Unless to few we stint the flame. 
 The child, whom many fathers share, 
 Hath seldom known a father's care. 
 11 
 
170 THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 
 
 J Tis thus in friendship; who depend 
 On many, rarely- find a friend. 
 , A hare, who in a civil way, 
 Complied with every thing like Gay, 
 Was known by all the bestial train, 
 Who haunt the woods, or graze the plain. 
 Her care was never to offend ; 
 And ev'ry creature was her friend. 
 
 As forth she went at early dawn, ' 
 To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
 Behind she hears the hunter's cries, 
 And from deep-mouthed thunder flies. 
 She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
 She hears the near advance of death; 
 She doubles to mislead the hound, 
 And measures back her mazy round, 
 Till, fainting in the public way, 
 Half-dead with fear she gasping lay. 
 
 What transport in her bosom grew, 
 When first the horse appear'd in view ! 
 "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, 
 And owe my safety to a friend. 
 You know my feet betray my flight ; 
 To friendship ev'ry burthen's light." 
 
 The horse replied, "Poor honest puss T 
 It grieves my heart to see thee thus : 
 Be comforted, relief is near ; 
 For all your friends are in the rear." 
 
 She next the stately bull implor'dj 
 And thus replied the mighty lord ; 
 ' Since ev'ry beast alive can tell 
 That I sincerely wish you well, 
 I may, without offense, pretend 
 To take the freedom of a friend. 
 To }eave you thus might seem unkind ; 
 But see, the goat is just behind." 
 
 The goat remark'd her pulse was high 
 Her languid head, her heavy eye, 
 " My back," says he, " may do you harm ; 
 The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 
 The sheep was feeble, and complain'd 
 His sides a load of wool sustain'd ; 
 Said he was slow, confess'd his fears ; 
 For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. 
 
 She now the trotting calf address'd, 
 Tw sa> ~ i'i-om a* eu a ;rienu distress a. 
 
THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 171 
 
 " Shall I," says he, "of tender age, 
 In this important care engage ? 
 Older and abler pass'd you by : 
 How strong are those ! how weak am I ! 
 Should I presume to bear you hence, 
 Those friends of mine might take offense. 
 Excuse me then : you know my heart, 
 But dearest friends, alas ! must part. 
 How shall we ail lament! Adieu! 
 For, see, the hounds are just in view." 
 
 The African Chief. 
 
 CHAINED in the market place he stood, 
 
 A man of giant frame, 
 Amid the gathering multitude 
 
 That shrunk to hear his name. 
 All stern of look and strong of limb, 
 
 His dark eye on the ground ; 
 And silently they gazed on him 
 
 As on a lion bound. 
 
 Vainly, but well, that chief had fought 
 
 He was a captive now : 
 Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 
 
 Was written on his brow, 
 The scars his dark broad bosom worr 
 
 Showed warrior true and brave : 
 A prince among his tribe before, 
 
 He could not be a slave. 
 
 Then to his conqueror he spake 
 
 "My brother is a king; 
 Undo this necklace from my neck, - 
 
 And take this bracelet ring ; 
 And send me where my brother reigna 
 
 And I will fill thy hands 
 With store of ivory from the plains, 
 
 And guld dust from the sands." 
 Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 
 
 Will I unbind thy chains; 
 That bloody hand shall never hold 
 
 The battle spear again. 
 A price thy nation never gave, 
 
 Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
 For tDou snalt be the Christian's slave, 
 
 In lands beyond the sea." 
 
172 SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 
 
 Then spoke the warrior chief, and Dade 
 
 To shred his locks away ; 
 And, one by one, each heavy braid 
 
 Before the victor lay. 
 Thick were the plaited locks and long, 
 
 And deftly hidden there, 
 Shone many a wedge of gold among 
 
 The dark and crisped hair. 
 
 " Look ! feast thy greedy eyes with gold, 
 
 Long kept for sorest need : 
 Take it, thou askest sums untold, 
 
 And say that I am freed. 
 Take it my wife, the long, long day, 
 
 Weeps by the cocoa-tree : 
 And my young children leave their play, 
 
 And ask in vain for me." 
 
 " I take thy gold ; but I have made 
 
 Thy fetters fast and strong ; 
 And ween that by the cocoa shade 
 
 Thy wife shall wait thee long." 
 Strong was the agony that shook 
 
 The captive's frame to hear ; 
 And the proud meaning of his look 
 
 Was changed to mortal fear. 
 
 His heart was broken crazed his brain ; 
 
 At once his eye grew wild : 
 He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
 
 Whispered, and wept, and smiled ! 
 Yet wore not long those fatal b&nds j 
 
 And once at shut of day, 
 They drew him forth upon the sand, 
 
 The foul hyena's prey. Bryant. 
 
 The Sacrifice of Abraham. 
 
 MORN breaketh in the east. The purple clouds 
 Are putting on their gold and violet, 
 To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. 
 Sleep is upon the waters and the wind; 
 And nature from the wary forest-leaf 
 To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet 
 There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, 
 And the clear dew is, on the blushing blossoms 
 ^ crimson roses in a holy rest. 
 
SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 173 
 
 How hallowed is the hour of morning ! meet, 
 Aye beautifully meet for the pure prayer. 
 The patriarch standeth at his tented door, 
 With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont 
 To gaze upon the gorgeous orient; 
 And at that hour the awful majesty 
 Of man who talketh often with his God, 
 Is wont to come again and clothe his brow, 
 As at his fourscore strength. 
 
 But now, he seemeth 
 To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, 
 And boweth to his staff as at the hour 
 CM noontide sultriness. And that bright sun 
 He looketh at his pcncil'd messengers, 
 Coming in golden raiment, as if all 
 Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. 
 Ah, he is waiting till it herald in 
 The hour to sacrifica his much lov'd son ! 
 
 Light poureth on the world. And Sarah standsj 
 Watching the steps of Abraham and her child, 
 Along the dewy sides of the far hills, 
 And praying that her sunny boy faint not 
 Wduld she have watched their paths so silently, 
 If she had known that he was going up, 
 Ev'n in his fair hair'd beauty, to be slain, 
 As a white lamb for sacrifice ? 
 
 They trod 
 
 Together on ward, patriarch and child 
 The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade 
 In straight and fair proportion, as of one 
 Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up, 
 Even in his vigorous strength, and like a tree 
 Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not j 
 His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind, 
 And left his brow uncover'd- ; and his .face, 
 Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief, 
 Nerved to a solem duty,vnow stood forth 
 Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. 
 
 But the young boy he of the laughing eye 
 And ruby lip, the pride of life was on him. 
 He seemed to drink the morning. The sun and dew, 
 And the aroma of the spicy trees, 
 And all that giveth the delicious east 
 Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light 
 Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts 
 With love and beauty. Every thing he met, 
 
174 SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 
 
 Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing 
 Of bird or insect, or the palest dye 
 Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path, 
 And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, 
 As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung 
 Away to some green spot, or clustering vine, 
 To pluck his infant trophies. 
 
 Every tree 
 
 And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place j 
 And he would crouch till the old man came by, 
 Then bound before him with his childish laugh, 
 Stealing a look behind him playfully, 
 To see if he had made his father smile. 
 
 The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up 
 From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat 
 Came like asleep upon the delicate leaves, 
 And bent them with blossoms to their dreams. 
 Still trod the patriarch on with that same step, 
 Firm and unfaltering, turning not aside 
 To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips 
 In the sweet waters at the Syrian wells, 
 Whose gush hath so much music. 
 
 Weariness 
 
 Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot 
 To toss the sunny hair from off his brow, 
 And spring for the fresh flowers on light wing 
 As in the early morning ; but he kept 
 Close by his father's side, and bent his head 
 Upon hn bosom like a drooping bud, 
 Lifting it not, save now and then to steal 
 A look UD to that face, whose sternness awed 
 His childishness to silence. 
 
 It was noon 
 
 And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, 
 And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. 
 , He could not look upon his son and pray ; 
 But with his hand upon the clustering curls 
 Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God 
 Would nerve him for that hour. Oh man was made 
 For the stern conflict. In a mother's love 
 There is more tenderness ; the thousand cords 
 Woven with every fiber of her heart, 
 Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; 
 But love in man is one deep principle, 
 
EARLY RISING. 175 
 
 Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, 
 Abides the tempest. 
 
 He rose up and laid 
 
 The wood upon the altar. All was done, ithe 
 He stood a moment and a deep, quick flush 
 'Pass'd o'er his countenance ; and then he nerv'd 
 His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke 
 "Isaac my only son*' The boy look'd up, 
 And Abraham turned his face away, and wept. 
 
 "Where is the lamh, my father?" oh the tones, 
 The sweet, the thrilling music of a child ! 
 How it doth agonize at such an hour ! 
 It was the last, deep struggle Abraham held 
 His lov'd, his beautiful, his only son, 
 And lifted up his arm, and Call'd on God- 
 And lo! God's Angel staid him and he fell 
 Upon his face and wepu Willis. 
 
 PIECES. 
 
 On Early Rising. 
 
 . THE breath of night's destructive to the hue 
 Of every flower that blows. Go to the field, 
 And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps, 
 Soon as. the sun departs: Why close the eyes 
 Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon 
 Her oriental veil puts off? Think why> 
 Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed 
 That nature boasts, to nights unkindly damp: 
 Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose, 
 Compelled to taste the rank and poisonous steam 
 Of midnight theater, and morning ball. 
 
 Give to repose the solemn hour she claims} 
 And, from the forehead of the morning, steal 
 The sweet occasion. 0! there is a charm 
 That morning has, that gives the brow of age 
 A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth 
 Breath perfumes exquisite. Expect it not, 
 Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie, 
 Indulging feverish sleep, or wakeful dream 
 Of happiness no mortal heart has feltj 
 But in the regions of romance.. 
 
176 NATURE AND POETRY 
 
 Ye fair, 
 
 Like you it must be wooed, or never won : 
 And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask 
 For milk of roses and Olympian dew. 
 Cosmetick art no tincture can afford, 
 The faded features to restore: no cbain 
 Be it of gold, and strong as adamant, 
 Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will. Hurdis. 
 
 Nature and Poetry favorable to virtue. Humility recom- 
 mended in judging of Ike ways of Providence. 
 
 - O NATURE, how in every charm supreme! 
 Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new 
 O for the voice and fire of seraphim, 
 ,To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 
 Blest -be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, 
 From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' -sty ; 
 
 And held high converse with the godlike few, 
 Who, to th' enraptured heart, and ear, and eye, 
 Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. 
 
 Then hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, 
 
 Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth! 
 Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay, 
 
 Amused my childhood, and informed my youth. 
 
 O let your spirit still my bosom soothe, 
 Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide: 
 
 Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, 
 For well I know wherever ye reside, 
 There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide. 
 
 Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain, 
 
 As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore; 
 Save when, a'gainst the winter's drenching rain, 
 
 And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. 
 
 Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, 
 Her legend when the beldam 'gan impart, 
 
 Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, 
 Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart : 
 Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art. 
 
 Various and strange was the long-winded tale; 
 And hails, and knights and feats of arms displayed 
 Or merry swains who quaff the nut-brown ale, 
 And sing, enamored of the nut-brown maid, 
 
FAVORABLE TO VIRTUE. 177 
 
 The moonlight revel of the fairy glade, 
 Or hags that suckle an infernal brood, 
 
 And ply in caves th' unutterable trade/* 
 'Midst riends and specters, quench the moon in blood, 
 Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood. 
 
 But when to horror his amazement rose, 
 
 A gentler strain the beldam would rehearse, 
 A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, 
 
 The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.t 
 
 O cruel ! will no pang of pity pierce 
 That heart, by lust of lucre seared to stone ? 
 
 For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, 
 To latest times shall tender souls bemoan 
 V *vse hopeless orphan-babes, by thy fell arts undone. 
 
 Behold, with berries smeared, with brambles torn, 
 
 The babes now famished, lay them down to die : 
 Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, 
 
 Folded in one another's arms they lie ; 
 
 Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry : 
 " For from the town the man returns no more." 
 
 But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, 
 This deed, with fruitless tears, shall soon deplore, 
 \V v -sn Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy 
 store. 
 
 A stifled smile of stern, vindictive joy. 
 Brightened one moment Edwin's starting tear: 
 
 "But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy y 
 And innocence thus die by doom severe? 7 ' 
 O Edwin ! while thy heart is yet sincere, 
 
 Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel: 
 
 Dark, even at noontide, is our mortal sphere y 
 
 JBut, let us hope ; to doubt is to rebel ; 
 Let *s exolt in hope, that all shall yet be welL 
 
 Nor be thy generous indignation checked, 
 Norcheck'd the tender tear to Misery given ; 
 From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect, 
 This soften and refine the soul for heaven. 
 But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has driven 
 
 Allusion to Shakspeare. 
 
 Macbeth. How now, ye secret, black, and midnight haga, 
 
 Whatis'tyedo? 
 Witches. A deed v/ithout name. 
 
 Macbeth.-Aet IV. Scene I 
 
 t *c the fine old ballad, called Tkt CAttoran m ffe ITM. 
 11* 
 
178 HUMAN FRAILTY. 
 
 To Censure Fate, and pious Hope forego : 
 
 Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, 
 Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, 
 But frown on all that pass, a monument of wo. 
 
 S'nall he, whose birth, maturity, and age, 
 Scarce fill the circle of one summer's day, 
 
 Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage, 
 Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay 
 If but a cloud obscure the solar ray, : 
 
 If but a momentary shower descend! 
 
 Or shall frail man heaven's high decree gainsay 
 
 Which bade the series of events extend, 
 Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end ! 
 
 One part, one little part, we dimly scan, 
 Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream ; 
 Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, 
 If but that little part incongruous seem. 
 Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem; 
 Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. 
 
 O then renounce that impious self-esteem, 
 That aims to trace the secrets of the skies; 
 Fx>r thou art but of dust ; be humble, and be wise. 
 
 Beattie. 
 
 Human Frailty. 
 
 WHAT are our joys but dreams ? And what oinr hopes 
 But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? 
 There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it 
 Some rainbow promise Not a moment flies, 
 But puts its sickle in the fields of life, 
 And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 
 'Tis but as yesterday, since on yon stars 
 Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd gaz'd 
 In his mid-watch, observant, and dispos'd 
 The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 
 
 Yet in the interim, what mightly shocks 
 Have buffeted mankind whole nations raz'd 
 Cities made desolate the polish'd sunk 
 To barbarism, and once barbaric states 
 Swaying the wand of science and of art , 
 Illustrious deeds and memorable names 
 Blotted from record, and upon the tongue. 
 Of gray tradition voluble no more. 
 
HUMAN FRAILTY. 179 
 
 W T here are the heroes of ages past, , 
 Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 
 W'ho flourished in the infancy of days? 
 All to the grave gone down ! On their fall'n fam'is 
 Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, 
 Sits grim For getf nines s. The warrior's arm 
 Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame; 
 Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaie 
 Of his red eye-ball. 
 
 Yesterday his name 
 
 Was mighty on the earth To-day 'tis wtiat? 
 The meteor of the night of distant years, . 
 That flashM unnoticM, save by wrinkled eld, 
 Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 
 Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 
 Point to the mist-pois'd shroud, then quietly 
 Clos'd her pale lips, and lock'd the secret iif>, 
 Safe in the charnel's treasures. 
 
 O how weak 
 
 Is mortal man ! Ho,w trifling how confin'd 
 tlis scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence, 
 His phrase grows big with immortality ; 
 And he, poor insect of a summer's day, 
 Dreams of eternal honors to his name, 
 Of endless glory, and perennial bays. 
 He idly reasons of eternity, 
 As of the train of ages, when, alas ! 
 Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
 Are, in comparison, a little point, 
 Too trivial for account. 
 
 O it is strange, 
 
 ^Tis parsing strange, to mark his fallacies : 
 Behold him proudly view some pompous pile 
 Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, 
 And smile and say, my name shall live with this 
 Till Time shall he no more ; while at his feet, 
 Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust 
 Of the fall'n fabric of the other day 
 Preaches the solemn lesson. 
 
 He should know 
 
 That time must conquer, that the loudest blast 
 That ever fill'd Renown's obstrep'rous trump 
 Fades in the lapse of a*ges, and expires. 
 Who lies inhum'd in the terrific gloom 
 Of the gigantic pyramid ? Or who 
 Rear'd its huge wall ? Oblivion laughs anrf sayi, 
 
180 HARVEST HYMN. 
 
 The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more 
 Their names shall strike upon the ear of man . 
 Their memory burst its fetters. 
 
 Where is Rome? 
 She lives hut in the tale of other times ; 
 Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home; 
 And her long colonnades, her public walks, 
 Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet, 
 Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, 
 Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honor'd dust. 
 But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
 The doom of ruin ; ciiies numberless 
 Tyre, Siclon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
 And rich Pho3nicia, they are blotted out, 
 Half-raz'd from memory ; and their very name 
 And being in dispute ! 
 
 Harvest Hymn. 
 
 GOD of the year ! With songs of praise, 
 And hearts of love, we come to bless 
 
 Thy bounteous hand ; for thou hast shed 
 Thy manna o'er the wilderness: 
 
 In early spring-time thou didst fling 
 
 O'er earth its robe of blossoming; 
 
 And its sweet treasures, day by day, 
 
 Rose quickening in the blessed ray. 
 
 And now they whiten hill and vale, 
 
 And hang from every vine and tree, 
 Whose pensile branches, bending low, 
 
 Seem'd bowed in thankfulness to thee : 
 The earth, with all its purple isles, 
 Is answering to the genial smiles ; 
 And gales of perfume breathe along, 
 And lift to thee their voiceless song. 
 
 God of the seasons ! Thou hast blest 
 The land with sunlight and with showers; 
 
 And plenty o'er its bosom smiles, 
 To crown the sweet Autumnal hours: 
 
 Praise, praise to thee ! Our hearts expand 
 
 To view the blessings of thy hand ; 
 
 And, on the incense breath of Love 
 
 Go off to their bright home above. ANON 
 
EDUCATION. 181 
 
 Education. 
 
 ALAS ! what differs more than man from man ! 
 And whence this difference ? whence but from himself? 
 For, see the universal race, endowed 
 With the same upright form ! The sun is fixed, 
 And th' infinite magnificence of heaven, 
 Within the reach of every human eye; 
 The sleepless ocean murmurs in all ears; 
 The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
 Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense, 
 Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
 That object is laid open to the view 
 Without reserve or veil; and as a power 
 Is salutary, or its influence sweet, 
 Are each and all enabled to perceive 
 That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
 
 Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all, 
 Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears, 
 Imagination, freedom of the will, 
 Conscience to guide and check, and death 
 To be foretasted, immortality presumed. 
 Strange then, nor less than monstrous migiht be deemeti 
 The failure, if th' Almighty, to this point 
 Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
 The excellence of moral qualities 
 From common understanding, leaving truth 
 And virtue, difficult, abstruse and dark, 
 Hard to be won, and only by a few : 
 Strange, should he deal herein with nice respects, 
 And frustrate all the rest! Believe it not: 
 The primal duties shine aloft like stars; 
 The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 
 Are scattered at the feet of man like flowers. 
 
 The generous inclination, the just rule, 
 Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts- 
 No mystery is here ; no special boon 
 For high and not for low for proudly graced 
 And not for meek in heart. The smoke ascends 
 To heaven as lightly from the cottage hearth. 
 As from the haughty palace. He whose soul 
 Ponders its true equality, may walk 
 The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 
 Yet in that meditation will he find 
 
182 EDUCATION. 
 
 Motive to sadder grief, when his thoughts turn 
 From nature's justice, to the social wrongs 
 That make such difference betwixt man and man. 
 
 Oh for the coming of that glorious time, 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 And best protection, this imperial realm, 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 An obligation on her part, to teach 
 Those who are born to serve her and obey; 
 Binding herself by statute to secure, 
 For all the children whom her soil maintains, 
 The rudiments of Letters, and inform 
 The mind with moral and religious truth, 
 Both understood and practised ; so that none 
 However destitute, be left to droop, 
 By timely culture unsustained, or run 
 Into a wild disorder, or be forced 
 To drudge through weary life, without the aid 
 Of intellectual implements and tools, 
 A savage horde among the civilized, 
 A servile band among the lordly free ! 
 
 This right as sacred, almost, as the right 
 I" exist and be supplied with sustenance 
 And means of life the lisping bahe proclaims 
 To be inherent in him by heaven's will, 
 For the protection of his innocence ; 
 And the rude boy who knits his angry brow, 
 And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent,' 
 Or turns the sacred faculty of speech 
 To impious use, by process indirect 
 Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 
 
 This sacred right is fruitlessly announced 
 This universal plea in vain addressed 
 To eyes and ears of parents, who themselves 
 Did, in the time of their necessity, 
 Urge it in vain ; and, therefore, like a prayer 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven, 
 It mounts to reach the State's parental ear; 
 Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 
 And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 Th' unquestionable good. 
 
 The discipline of slavery is unknown 
 Among us, hence the more do we require 
 
ADDRESS TO LIBERTY. 183 
 
 The discipline of virtue, order else 
 
 Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
 
 Thus, duties rising out of good possessed, 
 
 And prudent caution, needful to avert 
 
 Impending evil, do alike require 
 
 That permanent provision should be made 
 
 For the whole people to he taught and trained: 
 
 So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
 
 Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 
 
 Their place j and genuine piety descend, 
 
 Like an inheritance, from age to age. Wordsworth. 
 
 Address to Liberty. 
 
 O could I worship aught beneath the skies 
 That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise, 
 Thine altar, sacred Liherty, should stand. 
 Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, 
 Wilh fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair, 
 As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air. 
 
 Duly, as ever on the mountain's height, 
 The peep of morning shed a dawning light ; 
 Again, when evening in her sober vest 
 Drew the grey curtain of the fading west; 
 My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise 
 For the chief blessings of my fairest days. 
 But that were sacrilege: praise is not thine, 
 But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : 
 Else I would say. and, as I spake, bid fly 
 A captive bird into the boundless sky, 
 This rising realm adores thee ; thou art come 
 From Sparta hither, and art here at home: 
 We feel thy force still active ; at this hour 
 Enjoy immunity from priestly power; 
 While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
 Owns no superior but the God she fears. 
 
 Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong, 
 Thy rights have suffered, and our land, too long ; 
 Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts that share 
 The fears and hopes of a commercial care : 
 Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
 To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt ; 
 But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
 Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood ; 
 
184 ALL THINGS ARE OF GOD. 
 
 And honest merit stands on slippery ground. 
 
 Where covert guile, and artifice abound. 
 
 Let just restraint, for public piece designed, 
 
 Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind ; 
 
 The foe of virtue has no claim to thee ; 
 
 But let insolvent innocence go free. Coirper. 
 
 " All things are of (rod" 
 
 THOU art, O God, the life and light 
 
 Of all this wondrous world we see* 
 Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
 
 Are but reflections caught from thee : 
 Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 
 And all things fair and bright are thine. 
 
 When day with farewell beam delays. 
 
 Among the opening clouds of even, 
 And we can almost think we gaze 
 
 Through opening vistas into heaven; 
 Those hues that make the sun's decline 
 So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine. 
 
 When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
 O'ershadows all the earth and skies, 
 Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
 
 Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes j 
 That sacred gloom, those fires divine^ 
 So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine. 
 
 When youthful Spring around us breathes, 
 Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; 
 And ev'ry flower that summer wreaths 
 Is born beneath thy kindling eye: 
 Where'er we turn thy glories shine, 
 And all things fair and bright are thine. 
 
 Moore 
 
 The hour of Prayer. 
 CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, 
 While the red light fades away ; 
 Mother, with thine earnest eye, 
 Ever foll'wing silently ; 
 Father, by the breeze of eve, 
 
HOPE IN DEATH. 185 
 
 Galled thy harvest work to leave 
 Pray ! Ere yet the dark hours be, 
 Lift the heart and hend the knee. 
 
 TravTer, in the stranger's land, 
 Far from thine own household band; 
 Mourner haunted by the tone 
 Of a voice from this world gone; 
 Captive, in whose narrow cell 
 Sunshine hath not leave to dwell 
 Sailor, on tlte dark'ning sea ; 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee! 
 
 Warrior, that from battle won 
 Breatliest now at set of sun ; 
 Woman, o'er the lowly slain, 
 Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
 Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
 Kindred by one holy tie ! 
 Heaven's first star alike ye see 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 
 
 Hope triumphant in death. 
 
 UNFADING Hope ! when life's last embers burn, 
 When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, 
 Heav'n to thy charge resigns the awful hour! 
 Oh ! then thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power ! 
 What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 
 The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
 Bright, to the soul thy seraph hands -convey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day: 
 Then, then the triumph of the trance begin ! 
 And all thy Phoenix spirit burns within ! 
 
 Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, 
 The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes 
 Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, 
 It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
 Mysterious worlds, untrnvel'd by the sun ! 
 Where Time's far-wandVing tide has never run, 
 From your unfathom'd shndes, and viewless spheres, 
 A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
 
 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet long and loud, 
 Like Sinai's thunder, peal ing from the cloud f 
 While Nature hears with terror-mingled trust, 
 
18 HOPE IN DEATH. 
 
 The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
 And, like the trembling Hebrew when he trod 
 The roaring waves, and called upon his God, 
 With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
 And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 
 
 Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, ilium* 
 The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb 1 
 Melt and dispel ye specter-doubts, that roll 
 Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul 1 
 Fly, like the moon-ey'd herald of dismay, 
 Chas'd on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
 The strife is o'er The pangs of Nature close, 
 And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
 
 Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze$ 
 The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, 
 On Heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
 Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
 Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail 
 Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
 When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight sl. t 
 Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion's hill ! 
 
 Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! 
 Where is thy home, and whether art thou fled? 
 Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, 
 Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; 
 Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn, 
 And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return. 
 Hark ! from the world's exploding centre driven, 
 With sounds that shock the firmament of Heaven, 
 Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
 On bickering wheels, and adamantine car* 
 
 From planet whirl'd to planet more remote, 
 He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; 
 But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run, 
 Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! 
 So hath the traveler of earth unfurl'd 
 Her trembling wings, emerging from the world; 
 And, o'er the path by mortal never trod, 
 Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! 
 
 Campbell 
 
INCENTIVES TO DEVOTION. 187 
 
 Incentives to Devotion. 
 
 Lo ! the uriletter'd hind, who never knew 
 To raise his mind excursive, to the heights 
 Of abstract contemplation, as he sits 
 On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, 
 What time the insect swarms are murmuring, 
 And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds, 
 That fringe, with loveliest hues, the evening sky, 
 Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse 
 The thrill of gratitude, to him who formed 
 The goodly prospect: he beholds the God 
 Thron'd in the west ; and his reposing ear 
 Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze 
 That floats through neighboring copse or fairy brake, 
 Or lingers, playful, on the haunted stream. 
 
 Go with the cotter to his winter fire, 
 When o'er the moor the loud blast whistles shrill, 
 And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; 
 Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, 
 Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 
 The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds. 
 For his snug hearth, and all his little joys. 
 
 Hear him compare his happier lot, with his 
 Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 
 A poor night-traveler, while the dismal snow 
 Beats in his face, and dubious of his paths, 
 He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, 
 He hears some village mastiff's distant howl, 
 And sees far streaming some lone cottage light; 
 Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, 
 And clasps his shivering hands, or overpower'd, 
 Sinks on the frozen ground, weighed down with sleep 
 From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 
 
 Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praist 
 And glowing gratitude: he turns to bless 
 With honest warmth, his Maker and his God. 
 And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 
 NursM in the lap of ignorance, and bred 
 In want and labor, glows with noble zeal 
 To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 
 Whom starry silence in her cradle rocked, 
 
188 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 And Castalay enchastened with its dews, 
 Closes his eye upon the holy word, 
 And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, 
 Dares to declare his infidelity, 
 And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts! 
 
 What is the pomp of learning? the parade 
 Of letters and of tongues ? Even as the mists 
 Of the gray morn before the rising sun, 
 That pass away and perish. Earthly things 
 Are but the transient pageants of an hour; 
 And eartbly pride is like the passing flower, 
 That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
 
 H. K. White. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 The Rainbow. 
 
 THE evening was glorious, and light through the treesj 
 Play'd in sunshine the rain-drops, the birds, and the breeze : 
 The landscape outstretching in loveliness lay, 
 On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May. 
 For the bright queen of spring, as she pass'd down the vale 
 Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale ; 
 And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours, 
 And fresh in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers. 
 The skies, like a banner in sunset unroll'd, 
 O'er the west threw their splendor of azure and gold; 
 But one cloud at a distance rose dense, and increas'd, 
 Till its margin of black touch'd the zenith and east. 
 
 We gaz'd on these scenes, while around us they glow'd 
 When a vision of beauty appeared on the cloud ; 
 'Twas not like the sun. a* at mid-day we view, 
 Nor the moon, that rolls lightly through star-light and blue. 
 Like a spirit it came in the van of the storm, 
 And the eye and the heart hail'd its beautiful form ; 
 For it look'd not severe, like an angel of wrath, 
 But its garments of brightness illum'd its dark path. 
 In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood, 
 O'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood; 
 And river, field, village, and woodland grew bright, 
 As conscious they gave and afforded delight. 
 
LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. 189 
 
 'Twas tne bow of Omnipotence, bent in his hand, 
 Wbose grasp at creation the universe spann'd ; 
 'Twas the presence of God, in a symbol sublime, 
 His vow from the flood to the exile of time; 
 Not dreadful, as when in a whirlwind he pleads, 
 When storms are his chariot, and lightning his steeds, 
 The black cloud of vengeance his banner unfurl'd, 
 And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken world, 
 In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire, 
 And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire, 
 And the sword and the plague-spot with death strew the plain, 
 And vultures and wolves are the graves of the slain : 
 
 Not such was that rainbow, that beautiful one ! 
 Whose arch was refraction, its key-stone the sun j 
 A pavilion it seem'd with a deity graced, 
 And justice and mercy met tjiere and embraced. 
 Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom, 
 Like love o'er a death-couch, or hope o'er the tomb; 
 Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly retired, 
 As love has just vanished, or hope had expired. 
 
 I gazed not alone on that source of my song ; 
 To all who beheld it these verses belong; 
 Its presence to all was the path of the Lord ! 
 Each full heart expanded, grew warm and adored. 
 Like a visit the converge of friends or a day, 
 That bow from my sight pass'd forever away ; 
 Like that visit, that converse, that day, to my heart, 
 That bow from remembrance can never depart. 
 'Tis a picture in mem'ry, distinctly defined, 
 With the strong and imperishing colors of mind: 
 A part of my being beyond my control, 
 Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 I 
 
 The last Days of Autumn. 
 
 Now the growing year is over, 
 And the shepherd's tinkling bell, 
 Faintly from ils winter cover, 
 Rings a low farewell: 
 Now the birds of Autumn shiver 
 Where the withered beach-leaves quiver, 
 O'er the dark and lazy river, 
 In the rocky dell. 
 
190 EVENING SKETCH. 
 
 2. Now the mist is on the mountains, 
 Redd'ning in the rising *un ; 
 
 Now the flowers around the fountains 
 
 Perish one by one: 
 Not a spire of grass is growing; 
 But the leaves that late were glowing, 
 Now its blighted green are strowing 
 
 With a mantle dun. 
 
 3. Now the torrent brook is stealing 
 Faintly down the furrowed glade 
 
 Not as when in winter pealing, 
 
 Such a din it made, 
 That the sound of cataracts falling 
 Gave no echo so appalling, 
 As its hoarse and heavy brawling 
 
 In the pine's black shade. 
 
 4. Darkly blue the mist is hovering 
 Round the clifted rock's bare height, 
 
 All the bordering mountains covering 
 
 With a dim uncertain light: 
 Now, a fresher wind prevailing, 
 Wide its heavy burden sailing, 
 Deepens as the day is failing, 
 
 Fast the gloom of night. 
 
 5. Slow the blood-stained moon is rising 
 Through the still and hazy air, 
 
 Lik a sheeted spectre gliding 
 
 In a torch's glare : 
 Few the hours her light is given 
 Mingling clouds of tempest driven 
 O'er the mourning face of heaven, 
 
 All is blackness there." Percivat* 
 
 An Evening sketch. 
 
 'Tis twilight now. 
 
 The sovereign sun behind his western hills 
 In glory hath declined. The mighty clouds, 
 Kissed by his warm effulgence, hang around 
 In all their congregated hues of pride, 
 Like pillars of some tabernacle grand, 
 Worthy his glowing presence ; while the sky t 
 Illumin'd to its center, glows intense, 
 Changing his sapphire majesty to gold. 
 
NIAGARA FALLS. 191 
 
 How deep is the tranquillity ! the trees 
 Are slumbering through their multitude of boughs, 
 Even to the leaflet on. the frailest twig ! 
 A twilight gloom pervades the distant hills ; 
 An azure softness mingling with the sky. 
 Then drags the fisjiman to the yellow shore 
 His laden nets ; and, in the sheltering cove, 
 Behind yon rocky point, his shallop moors, 
 To tempt again the perilous deep at dawn. 
 
 The sea is waveless, as a lake ingulf 'd 
 'Mid sheltering hills, without a ripple spread? 
 Its bosom, silent and immense, the hues 
 Of flickering day have from its surface died, 
 Leaving it garb'd in sunless majesty. 
 With bosoming branches round, yon village hang? 
 It rows of lofty elm trees ; silently, 
 Towering in spiral wreaths to the soft sky, 
 The smoke from many a cheerful hearth ascends, 
 Melting in ether. 
 
 As I gaze, behold 
 
 The evening star illumines the blue south, 
 Twinkling in loveliness. O! holy star, 
 Thou bright dispenser of the twilight dews, 
 Thou herald of Night's glowing galaxy, 
 And harbinger of social bliss ! how oft, 
 Amid the twilights of departed years, 
 Resting beside the river's mirror clear, 
 On trunk of massy oak, with eyes upturn'd 
 To thee in admiration, have I sat, 
 Dreaming sweet dreams till earth-born turbulerux 
 
 all forgot; and thinking that in thee, 
 rom the rudeness of this jarring world 
 
 Was 
 
 Far from the rudeness of this jarrin 
 
 There might be realms of quiet happiness 
 
 Niagara Falls. 
 
 TREMENDOUS torrent ! for an instant husi* 
 The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside 
 Those wide-involving shadows, that my ey 
 May see the fearful beauty of thy face 
 I am not all unworthy of thy sight ; 
 For, from my very boyhood, have I loved 
 Shunning the meaner track of common minds 
 To look on nature in her loftier moods. 
 
192 NIAGARA FALLS. 
 
 At the fierce rushing of the hurricane 
 At the near bursting of the thunderbolt 
 I have been touched with joy ; and, when the sea, 
 Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed 
 Its yawning caves beneath me. T have loved 
 Its dangers and the wrath of elements. 
 But never yet the madness of the sea 
 Hath moved me, as thy grandeur moves me now. 
 
 Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves 
 Grow broken 'midst the rocks ; thy current then 
 Shoots onward, like the irresistible course 
 Of destiny. Ah ! terrible thy rage ! 
 The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there ! My brain 
 Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze 
 Upon the hurrying waters; and my sight 
 Vainly would follow, as toward the verge 
 Sweeps the wide torrent waves innumerable 
 Meet there and madden waves innumerable 
 Urge on and overtake the waves before, 
 And disappear in thunder and in foam. 
 
 They reach they leap the barrier: the abyss 
 Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves. 
 A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods 
 Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock 
 Shatters to vapor the descending sheets ; 
 A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves 
 The mighty pyramid of circling mist 
 To heaven. The solitary hunter, near, 
 Pauses with terror in the forest shades. 
 
 God of all truth ! in other lands I've seen 
 Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, 
 Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw 
 Their fellows deep into impiety; 
 And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face 
 In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here 
 My heart doth open all itself to thee. 
 In this immensity of loneliness 
 I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear 
 The eternal thunder of the cataract brings 
 Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. 
 
 Dread torrent ! that with wonder and with fea 
 Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks 
 Upon thee. and dost bear it from itself 
 Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who wpplkts 
 Age after age, thy unexhausted springs 7 
 
HOHENLINDEN. 193 
 
 What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight 
 Descends into the deep, the swollen waves 
 Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth? 
 
 The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, 
 Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice 
 To thy down-rushing waters ; he hath girt 
 Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. 
 I see thy never-resting waters run, 
 And I bethink me how the tide of time 
 Sweeps to eternity. So pass off man 
 Passlike a noon-day dream the blossoming days, 
 And he awakes to sorrow. * * * * 
 
 Hear, dread Niagara ! my latest voice. 
 Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close 
 Over the bones of him who sings .thee now . 
 Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble 
 Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile, 
 Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, 
 Might rise my radiant forehead in the clouds, 
 To listen to the echoes of my fame. 
 
 Hohenlinden. 
 
 ON Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Lser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight. 
 When the drum beat at dead of nignt, 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
 Each horseman drew his battle blade, 
 And furious every charger neigh'd, 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder rxrea. 
 Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 And redder yet those fires shall glow, 
 On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow. 
 And darker yet shall be the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 12 
 
194 SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 J Tis morn, hut scarce yon lurid sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank, and iiery Hun, 
 5hout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 7. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave ! 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 Ah ! few shall part where many meet 
 The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
 And every turf beneath their feet, 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. Campbell. 
 
 Summer Morning. 
 
 SWEET the beams of rosy morning, 
 
 Silent chasing gloom away j 
 Lovely tints the sky adorning, 
 
 Harbingers of opening day ! 
 See the king of day appearing, 
 
 Slow his progress and serene ; 
 Soon I feel the influence, cheering, 
 
 Of this grand and lovely scene ! 
 
 Jl.ovely songsters join their voices, 
 
 Harmony the grove pervades ; 
 All in nature now rejoices, 
 
 Light and joy succeed the shades. 
 Stars withdraw, and man arises, 
 
 To his labor cheerful goes ; 
 Day's returning blessings prizes, 
 
 And in praise his pleasure shows ! 
 
 May each morn that in succession, 
 
 Adds new mercies ever flowing, 
 Leave a strong and deep impression 
 
 Of my debt, for ever growing ! 
 Debt of love, ah ! how increasing ! 
 
 Days and years fresh blessings bring, 
 But my praise shall flow unceasing, 
 
 And my Maker's love I'll sing ! 
 
 The envious Man. 
 
 MUCH was removed that tempted once to sin, 
 Avarice no gold, no wine the drunkard saw : 
 
CHEERFULNESS. 195 
 
 But envy nad enough, as heretorore, 
 To fill his heart with gall and bitterness. 
 What made the man of envy what he was, 
 Was worth in others, vileness in himself, 
 A lust of praise, with undeserving deeds, 
 And conscious poverty of soul : and still 
 It was his earnest work and daily toil 
 With lying tongue, to make the noble seem 
 Mean as himself. 
 
 On fame's high hill he saw 
 The laurel spread its everlasting green, 
 And wished to climb ; but felt his knees too weak ; 
 And stood below unhappy, laying hands 
 Upon the strong ascending gloriously 
 The steps of honor, bent to draw them back; 
 Involving oft the brightness of their path 
 In mists his breath had raised. 
 
 Whene'er he heard, 
 As oft he did, of joy and happiness, 
 And great prosperity, and rising worth, 
 'Twas like a wave of wormwood o'er his sou. 
 Rolling its bitterness. His joy was wo 
 The wo of others : when from wealth to want, 
 From praises to reproach, from peace to strife, 
 From mirth to tears, he saw a brother fall, 
 Or virtue make a slip his dreams were sweet. 
 
 But chief with slander, daughter of his own, 
 He took unhallowed pleasure ; when she talked, 
 And with her filthy lips defiled the best, 
 His ear drew near ; with wide attention gaped 
 His mouth ; his eye, well pleased, as eager gazed 
 As glutton when the dish he most desired 
 Was placed before him ; and a horrid mirth, 
 At intervals, with laughter shook his sides. 
 
 Pollok. 
 
 Cheerfulness. 
 
 FAIR as the dawning light ! auspicious guest I 
 Source of all comfort to the human breast ! 
 Deprived of thee, in sad despair we moan 
 And tedious roll the heavy moments on. 
 Though beauteous objects all around us rise, 
 To eharm the fancy and delight the eyes ; 
 
196 CHEERFULNESS. 
 
 Tho' art's fair works and nature's gifts conspire 
 To please each sense, and satiate each desire, 
 'Tis joyless all, till thy enliv'ning ray 
 Scatters the melancholy gloom away, 
 Then opens to the soul a heavenly scene, 
 Gladness and peace, all sprightly, all serene. 
 
 Where dost thou deign, say, in what blest retreat, 
 To choose thy mansion, and to fix thy seat ? 
 Thy sacred presence how shall we explore ? 
 Can avarice gain thee with her golden store ? 
 Can vain ambition with her boasted charms, 
 Tempt thee with her wide extended arms? 
 No, with Content alone canst thou abide 
 Thy sister, ever smiling by thy side. 
 
 When boon companions, void of ev'ry care, 
 Crown the full bowl, and the rich banquet share, 
 And give a loose to pleasure art thou there ? 
 Or when the assembled great and fair advance 
 To celebrate the mask, the play, the dance, 
 While beauty spreads its sweetest charms around, 
 And airs ecstatic swell their tuneful sound, 
 Art thou within the pompous circle found ? 
 Does not thy influence more sedately shine ? 
 Can such tumultuous joys as these be thine? 
 
 Surely more mild, more constant in their course, 
 Thy pleasures issue from a nobler source, 
 From sweet discretion ruling in the breast, 
 From passions temper'd, ana from lusts represt j 
 From thoughts unconscious of a guilty smart, 
 And the calm transports of an honest heart. 
 
 Thy aid, O ever faithful, ever kind ! 
 Through life, through death, attends the virtuous mind , 
 Of angry fate wards from us ev'ry blow. 
 Cures ev'ry ill, and softens ev'ry wo. 
 Whatever good our mortal state desires, 
 What wisdom finds, or innocence inspires ; 
 From nature's bounteous hand whatever flows 
 Whate'er our Maker's providence bestows 
 By thee mankind enjoys, by thee repays 
 A grateful tribute of perpetual praise. Fitzgerald.' 
 
BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 197 
 
 Night before the Battle of Waterloo. 
 
 THERE was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
 Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
 Arid all went merry as a marriage-bell 
 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a ris'ncr 
 
 knell- 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? No ; 'twas but the wind. 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfmed ; 
 No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing hours with flying feet 
 . But, hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm ! Arm ! it is it is the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
 Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
 And when they smiled because he deern'd it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well. 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
 He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since, upon nights so sweet, such awful morn could 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 
198 TIME'S CHANGES. 
 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed 
 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
 
 And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ; 
 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
 
 Or whispering with white lips " The foe ! They come ' 
 
 they come !" 
 
 Arid wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ' 
 The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard and heard, too, have her Saxon foes. 
 How iii the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instills 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years ; 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear drops as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, alas! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
 The morn, the marshaling in arms, the day, 
 Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, 
 The earth is cover'd with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
 llider and horse friend, foe in one red burial blent ! 
 
 Byron, 
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 written by one who had long- been a resident in India, 
 
 on his return to his native country. 
 1. I CAME, but they had passed away 
 The fair in form, the pure in mind; 
 
TIME'S CHANGES. 199 
 
 And, like a stricken deer, I stray 
 
 Where all are strange, and none are kind 
 Kind to the worm, the wearied soul, 
 
 That pants, that struggles- for repose : 
 
 that my steps had reached the goal 
 Where earthly sighs and sorrows close ! 
 
 Years have passed o'er me, like a dream 
 That leaves no trace on memoiy's page : 
 
 1 look around me, and I seem r 
 
 Some relic of a former age. 
 Alone, as in a stranger clirne, 
 
 Where stranger voices mock my ear, 
 I mark the lagging course of time, 
 
 Without a wish a hope a fear! 
 
 Yet I had hopes and they nave iled ; 
 
 And fears and they were all too true ; 
 My wishes too but they are dcau ; 
 
 And what have I with life to do? 
 Tis but to wear a weary load 
 
 I may not, dare not, cast away ; 
 To sigh for one small, still abode, 
 
 Where I may sleep as sweet as they j 
 
 As they the loveliest of their race, 
 
 Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep, 
 Whose worth my soul delights to trace, 
 
 Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep, 
 To weep beneath the silent moon, 
 
 With none to chide, to hear, to see : 
 Life can bestow no greater boon 
 
 On one whom death disdains to free. 
 
 I leave the World that knows me not, 
 
 To hold communion with the dead j 
 And fancy consecrates the spot 
 
 Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. 
 I see each shade all silvery white 
 
 I hear each spirit's melting sigh ; 
 I turn to clasp those forms of light, 
 
 And the pale morning chills my eye. 
 
 But soon the last dim morn shall rise, 
 The lamp of life hums feebly now, 
 
 When stranger hands shall close my eyes, 
 And smooth my cold and dewy brow. 
 
 Unknown I lived; so let me die: 
 Nor stone, nor monumental cross, 
 
200 WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Tell where his nameless ashes lie, 
 
 Who sighed for gold, and found it dross* 
 
 The Winter Night. 
 
 Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
 Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain, 
 While crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 
 
 Rose in my soul, 
 When on my ear this plaintive strain 
 Slow, solemn, stole : 
 
 "Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 
 And freeze, thou bitter, biting frost ! 
 Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
 Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
 More hard unkindness, unrelenting 
 Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
 Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man bestows 
 
 See stern oppression's iron grip, 
 Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
 Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
 Wo, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
 
 Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
 Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
 
 How pampered luxury, flattery by her side, 
 The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
 With all the servile wretches in the rear,-* 
 
 Looks o'er proud property, extended wide, 
 And eyes the simple rustic hind, 
 Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
 A creature of another kind, 
 Some coarser substance, unrefined, 
 
 Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, belo^r. 
 
 Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
 With lordly honor's lofty brow, 
 
 The powers you proudly own ? 
 Is there, beneath love's noble name, 
 Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim, 
 
 To bless himself alone? 
 
 O ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
 Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
 
COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 201 
 
 Think for a moment on his wretched fate 
 Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
 
 Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, 
 
 Stretched on his- straw he lays himself to sleep, 
 While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
 
 Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap :=- 
 
 Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
 
 Where guilt and poor misfortune pine J 
 
 Guilt, erring man relenting view ! 
 
 But shall thy legal rage pursue 
 
 The wretch, already crushed low 
 
 By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
 Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
 A brother to relieve how exquisite the bliss \ n 
 
 I heard no more ; for Chanticleer 
 
 Shook oft* the powdery snow, 
 And hailed the morning with a cheer^ 
 
 A cottage rousing crow* 
 But deep this truth impressed my mind 
 
 Through all his works abroad, 
 The heart benevolent and kind 
 The most resembles God. Burns* 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night, or a Scottish Peasant's >V 
 mily Devotion. 
 
 THE frugal supper done, with cheerful face, 
 
 They round the fireside form a circle widej 
 The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace, 
 
 The sacred Bible once his father's pride : 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
 
 His hoary locks displaying, thin and bare, 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He seeks a portion with judicious care ; 
 And "Let us worship God," he says with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise j 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
 Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; 
 Or noble Elgin beats the heav'nward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compar'd with these. Italian trills are tame, 
 
 12* 
 
20U COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise, 
 Nor unison have they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Abra'm was the friend of God on high ; 
 Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
 Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How He, who bore in heav'n the second name, 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: 
 tlow his first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 
 command. 
 
 Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays: 
 Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days j 
 There, ever bask in uncreated rays, 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear ; 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear, 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
 
 Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride, 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
 When men display to congregations wide, 
 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
 The pow'r incens'd the pageant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole j 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 
 May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
 And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; 
 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" 
 
 And certain, in fair virtue's heav'nly road 
 
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 203 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 
 What is a lord ling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind, 
 Studied in arts most vile, in wickedness refin'd I Burns. 
 
 Tlie Burial of Sir John Moore, 
 
 NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
 As his corse o'er the rampart we hurried ; 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
 The sod with our bayonets turning, 
 Dy the trembling moon-beams' misty light, 
 And our lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we bound him ; 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 His martial cloak wrapt around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
 And bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
 And smooth'd down his lowly pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
 And we, far away o'er the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll speak of the spirit that's gone, 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him 
 But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, 
 In the grave where his comrades nave laid him. 
 
 Not the half of our heavy task was done, 
 When the bell toli'd the hour for, retiring ; 
 And we heard, too, the distant random gun, 
 That the foe was then suddenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone, 
 But we left him alone* with his glory. Wolfe. 
 
204 EARTH TO EARTH. 
 
 "Earth to Earth, and Dust to Dust: 1 
 
 " EARTH to earth, and dust to dust !" 
 Here the evil and the just, 
 Here the youthful and the old, 
 Here the fearful and the bold, 
 Ilere the matron and the maid 
 In one silent bed are laid ; 
 Here the vassal and the king 
 Side by side lie withering; 
 Here the sword and sceptre rust 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust." 
 
 on age shall roll along 
 O'er this pale and mighty throng; 
 Thop that wept them, those that weep 
 ju. snail with these sleepers sleep. 
 Brothers, sisters of the worm, 
 Summers sun or winter's storm, 
 Song of peace or battle's roar, 
 Ne'er shall break their slumbers more: 
 Death shall keep his sullen trust 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" 
 
 But a day is coming fast, 
 Earth, thy mightiest and thy last ! 
 It shall come in fear and wonder, 
 Heralded with trump and thunder ; 
 It shall come in strife and toil ; 
 It shall come in blood and spoil; 
 It shall come in empire's groans, 
 Burning temples, trampled thrones: 
 Then, ambition, rue thy lust ! 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" 
 
 Then shall come the judgment sign, 
 In the East the KING shall shine, 
 Flashing from heaven's golden gate, 
 Thousand thousands round his state, 
 Spirits with the crown and plume ; 
 Tremble then, thou sullen tomb ! 
 Heaven shall open on our sight, 
 Earth be turned to living light- 
 Kingdom of the ransomed just 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! H 
 
ROSE OF THE WLIDERNESS. 206 
 
 Then thy mount, Jerusalem, 
 Shall be gorgeous as a gem; 
 Then shall in the desert rise 
 Fruits of more than paradise, 
 Earth by angel feet be trod, 
 One great garden of her God ! 
 Till are dried the martyr's tears, 
 Through a thousand glorious years ! 
 Now in hope of HIM we trust, 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust." Croly. 
 
 PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 
 
 The Rose of the Wilderness. 
 
 AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, . . 
 
 I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood, 
 On the wind shaken weeds that embosom the bowetj 
 
 Where the home of my forefathers stood. 
 All ruined and wild is their roofless abode, 
 
 And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree ; 
 And travel'd by few is the grass-covered road, 
 Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trodej 
 
 To his hills that encircle the sea. 
 
 Yet wand'ring, I found on my ruinous walk, 
 
 By the dial stone aged and green, 
 One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 
 
 To mark where a garden had been. 
 Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 
 
 All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew, 
 From each wandering sun-beam a lonely embrace, 
 For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place, 
 
 Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 
 
 Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all 
 
 That remains in this desolate heart ! 
 The fabric of bliss to its center may fall ; 
 
 But patience shall never depart ! 
 Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright. 
 
 In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd, 
 With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
 Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, 
 
 -And leave but a desert behind. 
 
206 MOUNT PARNASSUS. 
 
 Be hush'd my dark spirit! for wisdom condemn^ 
 
 When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 
 Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 
 
 A thousand wild waves on the shore! 
 Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, 
 
 May thy front be unnlter'd, thy courage elate ; 
 Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain, 
 Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ; 
 
 To bear is to conquer our fate. Campbell. 
 
 Apostrophe to Mount Parnassus. 
 
 1. O THOU Parnassus ! whom I now survey, 
 Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
 
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
 But soaring, snow-clad, through thy native sky, 
 In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
 
 What marvel that I thus essay to sing ? 
 The humblest of thy pilgrims, passing by, 
 
 Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse shall wave her 
 wing. 
 
 Oft have I dreamed of thee ! whose glorious name 
 Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore j 
 And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
 That I, in feeblest accents, must adore. 
 When I recount thy worshippers of yore, 
 I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
 
 Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
 But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
 In silent joy, to think at last I look on thee ! 
 
 Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
 
 Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
 Shall T, unmoved, behold the hallowed scene 
 
 Which others rave of, though they know it not? 
 
 Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
 And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
 
 Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
 Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
 Or glides., with glassy foot, o'er yon melodious wave. 
 
 Byron. 
 
THE OCEAN. 207 
 
 The Ocean. 
 
 THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel, 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean roll 1 ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vainj 
 Man marks the earth with ruin his control 
 Stops with the shore ; upon thy watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage save his own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depth with bubbling groan, 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake 
 They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alike th' Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
 Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou, 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play : 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thy a2ure brow : 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
 Calm or convuls'd in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clinic 
 Dark heaving, boundless, endless, and sublime 
 
SACKING OF PRAGUE. 
 
 The image of Eternity the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee j thou goest forth, dread fathomless, alone. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The Sacking of Prague. 
 
 OH ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph c as'd awhile. 
 And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile, 
 When leagu'd Oppression pour'd to Northern wars 
 Her whisker'd panders and her fierce hussars, 
 Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
 Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn j 
 Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
 Presaging wrath to Poland and to man ! 
 
 Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd, 
 Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid, 
 Oh ! Heav'n, he cried, my bleeding country save ! 
 Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? 
 Yet, though destruction sweeps these lovely 
 Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
 By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, 
 And swear for her to live ! with her to die ! 
 
 He said, and on the rampart heights array'd 
 His trusty warriors, few but undismay'd ; 
 Firm plac'd and slow, a horrid front they form, * 
 Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; 
 Low, murm'ring sounds along their banners fly, 
 Revenge, or death the watchword and reply ; 
 Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
 And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm ! 
 
 In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
 From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew ; 
 Oh bloodiest picture in the Book of Time, 
 Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime. 
 Found not a gen'rous friend, a pitying foe, 
 Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo ! 
 Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, 
 Clos'd her bright eye, and curb'd her high career j 
 Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell j 
 And freedom shriek'd as Kosciusko fell ! 
 
 The sun went down, nor ceas'd the carnage there. 
 Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air j 
 
GREEK AND TURKMAN. 200 
 
 Oh Prague's proud arch the fires of rum glow, 
 His blood-dy'd waters raurm'ring far below; 
 The storm prevails, the rampart yields away, 
 Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! 
 Hark ! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 
 A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! 
 Earth shook, red meteors fiash'd along the sky. 
 And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry ! 
 
 Oh ! righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave 
 Why slept the sword Omnipotent to save? 
 Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy rod, 
 That smote the foes of Zion and of God, 
 That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car 
 Was yoked in wrath, and thimder'd from afar? 
 Where was the storm that slumher'd till the host 
 Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast? 
 Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
 And heav'd an ocean on their march below ! 
 
 Departed spirits of the mighty dead I 
 Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 
 Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, 
 Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ! 
 Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 
 And make her arm puissant as your own! 
 Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return. 
 The Patriot Tell the Bruce of Bannockburn ! 
 
 Yes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see 
 That man hath yet a soul and dare be free ! 
 A little while, along thy sadd'ning plains, 
 The starless night of desolation reigns; 
 Truth shall restore the light by Nature giv'n, 
 And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heav'n ! 
 Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, 
 Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world ! 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 The Greek and the Turkman. 
 
 THE Turkman lay beside the river ; 
 The wind play'd loose through bow and quitrei} 
 The charger on the bank fed free ; 
 The shield hung glittering from the tree j 
 The trumpet, shawm, and attabal, 
 Were hid from dew by cloak and pall ; 
 
210 GRfcEK AND TURKMAN. 
 
 For long and weary was the way 
 
 The hordes had march'd that burning day. 
 
 Above them, on the sky of June, 
 Broad as a buckler, glow'd the moon, 
 Flooding with glory vale and hill; 
 In silver sprang the mountain rill ; 
 The weeping shrub in silver bent ; 
 A pile of silver stood the lent : 
 
 All soundless, sweet tranquillity, 
 
 All beauty, hill, and tent, and tree. 
 
 Th^r* came a sound 'twas like the gush 
 When night winds shake the rose's bush ; 
 There came a sound 'twas like the How 
 Of rivers swell'd with melting snow; 
 There came a sound 'twas like the tread 
 Of wolves along the valley's bed ; 
 
 There came a sound 'twas like the voar 
 
 Of ocean on its winter shore. 
 
 "Death to the Turk!" uprose the yell; 
 On rolled the charge a thunder peal: 
 The Tartan arrows fell like rain, 
 They clank'd on helm, on mail, on chain ; 
 In blood, in hate, in death, were twin'd 
 Savage and Greek, mad, bleeding, blind ; 
 And still on flank, on front, and rear, 
 Rag'd, Constantine, thy thirstiest spear ! 
 
 Brassy and pale, a type of doom, 
 Labor'd the moon, through deep'ning gloom ; 
 Down plung'd her orb 'twas pitchy night : 
 Now Turkman, turn thy reins for flight ! 
 On rush'd their thousands through the dark ; 
 But in their camp a ruddy spark 
 Like an uncertain meteor, reel'd : 
 Thy hand, brave king, that firebrand wheel'd ! 
 
 Wild burst the burning element 
 O'er man and courser, flag and tent ; 
 And through the blaze the Greeks outsprang, 
 Like tigers, bloody, foot and fang, 
 With dagger's stab, and falchion's sweep, 
 Delving the stunn'd and staggering heap, 
 Till lay the slave by chief and Khan, 
 And all was gore that once was man. 
 There's wailing on the Euxine 
 Her chivalry shall rido no more. 
 
HYMN TO THE STARS. 211 
 
 There's waning on chy hills, Altai, 
 For chiefs the Grecian vultures' prey ! 
 But Bosphorus, thy silver wave 
 Hears shouts for the returning brave 
 
 The bravest of her kingly line, 
 
 For there comes glorious Constantioe; Croly 
 
 Morning Meditations. 
 
 IN sleep's serene oblivion laid, 
 I've safely pass'd the silent night ; 
 Again I see the breaking shade, 
 Again behold the morning light. 
 
 New born I bless the waking hour; 
 Once more, with awe, rejoice to be 
 My conscious oul resumes her power, 
 And soars, my guardian God, to thee. 
 
 O guide me through the various maze 
 
 My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread ; 
 
 And spread thy shield's protecting blaze, 
 
 Where dangers press around my head. 
 
 A deeper shacje shall soon impend 
 A deeper sleep my eyes oppress: 
 Yet then thy strength shall still defend* 
 Thy goodness still delight to bless. 
 
 That deeper shade shall break away ; 
 That deeper sleep shall leave mine eyes; 
 Thy light shall give eternal day ; 
 Thy love, the rapture of the skies. 
 
 Hawkeswortn. 
 
 Hymn to the Stars. 
 
 AY, there ye shine, and there have shone, 
 
 In one eternal 'hour of prime,' 
 Each rolling burningly, alone, 
 
 Through boundless space and countless time. 
 Ay, there ye shine the golden dews 
 
 That lave the realms by seraphs trod, 
 There, through yon echoing vault, diffuse 
 
 The song of choral worlds to God. 
 
 Ye visible spirits! bright as erst 
 Young JEdeu'a birthnight saw ye 
 
212 HYMN TO THE STARS. 
 
 On all her flowers and fountains first, 
 Yet sparkling from the hand divine ; 
 
 Yes, bright as then ye smil'd, to catch 
 The music of a sphere so fair, 
 
 Ye hold your high immortal watch, 
 And gird your God's pavilion there. 
 
 Gold frets to dust, yet there ye are ; 
 
 Time rots the diamond, there ye roll 
 In primal light, as if each star 
 
 Enshrined an everlasting soul ! 
 And does it not since your bright throngs 
 
 One all-enlight'ning Spirit own, 
 Prais'd there by pure, sidereal tongues, 
 
 Eternal, glorious, blest, alone? 
 
 Could man but see what ye have seen, 
 
 Unfold awhile the shrouded past, 
 From all that is, to what has been, 
 
 The glance how rich ! the range how vast ! 
 The birth of time, the rise, the fall 
 
 Of empires, myriads, ages flown, 
 Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships, all 
 
 The things whose echoes are not gone. 
 
 Ye saw rapt Zoroaster send 
 
 His oul into your mystic reign ; 
 Ye sa^ th' adoring Sabian benjd 
 
 The living hills his mighty fane! 
 Beneath his blue and beaming sky, 
 
 He worshipped at your lofiy shrine, 
 And deern'd he saw, with gifted eye, 
 
 The Godhead in his works divine. 
 
 And there ye shine, as if to mock 
 
 The children of a mortal sire. 
 The storm, the bolt, the earthquake's shock, 
 
 The red volcano's cataract fire, 
 Drought, famine, plague, and blood, and flame^ 
 
 All nature's ills and life's worse woes 
 Are nought to you ; ye smile the same, 
 
 And scorn alike their dawn and close. 
 
 Ay. there ye roll emblems sublime 
 
 Oi him whose spirit o'er us moves, 
 Beyond the clouds of grief and crime, 
 
 Still shining on the world he loves: 
 Nor is one scene to mortals given, 
 
 That more divides the soul and sod, 
 
ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY, 213 
 
 Than yon proud heraldry of heaven 
 Yon burning blazonry of God. 
 
 Address to the Mummy, in BelzonVs Exhibition, London, 
 
 AND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story !) 
 In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, 
 
 When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
 And time had not begun to overthrow 
 
 Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 
 
 Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 
 
 Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy, 
 Thou hast a tongue-^-come, let us hear its tune; 
 Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy ! 
 
 Re visiting the glimpses of the moo** 
 Not like thin ghosts, and disembodied creatures, 
 But with thy bbnes and flesh, and limbs and features. 
 
 Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect 
 To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? 
 
 Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
 Of either pyramid that bears his name? 
 
 Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer? 
 
 Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a Mason and forbidden 
 
 By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade ; 
 Then say what secret melody was hidden 
 
 In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise play'd ? 
 Perhaps thou wert a Priest if so, my struggles^ 
 Are vain ; Egyptian priests ne'er owned their juggles. 
 
 Perchance that very hand, nowpinion'd flat, 
 Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 
 
 Or dropp'd a half-penny in Homer's hat, 
 Or dolfd thine own to let Queen Dido pass, 
 
 Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
 
 A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 
 
 Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
 
 We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations'; 
 The Roman empire has begun and ended ; 
 
 New worlds have risen we have lost old nations ; 
 And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 
 While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 
 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head 
 
 When the great Persian conquerer, Cambysee, 
 
214 ON TIME. 
 
 March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, 
 
 O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 
 And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder 
 When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 
 
 If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, 
 
 The nature of ihy private life unfold: 
 A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, 
 
 And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled : 
 Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? 
 What was thy name and station, age and race ? 
 
 Statue of flesh immortal of the dead! 
 
 Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
 Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 
 
 And standest undecayed within our presence, 
 Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, 
 When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. 
 
 Why should this worthless tegument endure, 
 
 If its undying guest be lost for ever? 
 O let us keep the soul enbalmed and pure 
 
 In living virtue ; that Avhen both must sever. 
 Although corruption may our frame consume, 
 Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 
 
 On Time. 
 
 MOV'D by a strange mysterious power, 
 That hastes along the rapid hour, 
 
 I touch the deep ton d string; 
 E'en now I see his wither'd face, 
 Beneath yon tower's mouldering base, 
 
 Where mossy vestments cling. 
 
 Dark roll'd his cheerless eye around, 
 Severe his grisly visage frown'd 
 
 No locks his head array 'd, 
 He grasped a hero's antique bust, 
 The marble crumbled into dust, 
 
 And sunk amidst the shade. 
 
 Malignant triumph filled his eyes, 
 " See hapless mortals, see," he cries, 
 
 (C How vain your idle schemes ! 
 Beneath my grasp, the fairest form 
 Dissolves and mingles with the worm , 
 Thus vanish mortal dreams. 
 
EXPRESSIONS OF NATURE. 215 
 
 The works of God ! and man I spoil j 
 The proudest proofs of human toil, 
 
 I treat as childish toys : 
 I crush the noble and the brave, 
 Peauty I mar, and in the grave 
 
 I bury human joys." 
 
 Hold ! ruthless phantom hold ! I cried, 
 If thou canst mock the dreams of pride, 
 
 And meaner hopes devour, 
 Virtue, beyond thy reach, shall bloom, 
 When other charms sink to the tomb, 
 
 She scorns thy envious power. 
 
 On frosty wings the demon fled, 
 Howling as o'er the wall lie sped, 
 
 " Another year is gone !" 
 The ruin'd spire the crumbling tow'r, 
 Nodding, obey'd his awful pow'r, 
 
 As time flew swiftly on. 
 
 Since beauty then, to time must bow, 
 And age deform the fairest brow, 
 
 Let brighter charms be yours : 
 The virtuous mind embalm'd in truth, 
 Shall bloom in everlasting youth, 
 
 While Time himself endures.' Osbernt. 
 
 The Silent Expression of Nature. 
 
 WHEN thoughtful to the vault of heaven 
 
 I lift my wondering eyes, 
 And see the clear and quiet even, 
 
 To night resign the skies, 
 The moon, in silence, rear her crest, 
 
 The stars in silence shine, 
 A secret rapture fill my breast, 
 
 That speaks its birth divine. 
 
 Unheard, the dews around me fall, 
 
 And heavenly influence shed ; 
 And, silent, on this earthly ball, 
 
 Celestial footsteps tread. 
 Aerial music wakes the spheres, 
 
 Touch'd by harmonious powers : 
 With sounds, unheard by mortal ears, 
 
 They charm the lingering hours. 
 
216 MAN OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Night reigns, in silence, o'er the pole, 
 
 And spreads her gems unheard : 
 Her lessons penetrate the soul. 
 
 Yet borrow not a word. 
 Noiseless the sun emits his fire, 
 
 And pours his golden streams ; 
 And silently the shades retire 
 
 Before his rising beams. 
 
 The hand that moves, and regulates, 
 
 And guides the vast machine, 
 That governs wills, and times, and fates,- 
 
 Retires, and works unseen. 
 Angelic visitants forsake 
 
 Their amaranthine bowers ; 
 On silent wing their stations take, 
 
 And watch th' allotted hours. 
 
 Sick of the vanity of man, 
 
 His noise, and pomp, and show 
 I'll move upon great Nature's plan, 
 
 And, silent, work below. 
 With inward harmony of soul, 
 
 I'll wait the upper sphere ; 
 Shining, I'll mount above the pole, 
 
 And break my silence there. 
 
 The Man of Benevolence. 
 
 Let me record 
 
 His praise the man of great benevolence, 
 Who charity with glowing heart embraced, 
 And to her gentle bidding, made his feet 
 Swift ministers. Of all mankind, his soul 
 Was most in harmony with heaven : as one 
 Sole family of brothers, sisters, friends ; 
 One in their origin, one in their rights 
 To all the common gifts of providence, 
 And in their hopes, their joys, and sorrows one, 
 He viewed the universal human race. 
 
 He needed not a law of state to force 
 Grudging submission to the law of God : 
 The law of love was in his heart alive. 
 What he possessed, he counted not his own, 
 But, like a faithful steward in a house 
 Of public alms, what freely he received, 
 
MAN OF BENEVOLENCi', 217 
 
 He freely gave ; distributing to all 
 The helpless, the last mite beyond his own 
 Temperate support, and reckoning still the gift 
 But justice, due to want; and so it was ; 
 Altho' the world, with compliment not ill 
 Applied, adorned it with a fairer name. 
 
 Nor did he wait till to his door the voice 
 Of supplication came, but went abroad, 
 With foot as silent as the starry dews, 
 In search of misery that pined unseen, 
 And would not ask. And who can tell what sights 
 He saw ! what groans he heard in that cold world 
 Below ! where Sin, in league with gloomy Death, 
 March'd daily thro' the length and breadth of all 
 The land, wasting at will, and making earth, 
 Fair earth ! a lazar-house, a dungeon dark; { 
 Where Disappointment fed on Ruined Hope ; 
 Where guilt, worn out, leaned on the triple edge 
 Of want, remorse, despair; where Cruelty 
 Reached forth a cup of wormwood to the lips 
 Of sorrow, that to deeper sorrow wailed ; 
 Where Mockery, arid Disease, and Poverty, 
 Met miserable Age, erewhile sore bent 
 With his own burthen ; where the arrowy winds 
 Of winter pierced the naked orphan babe, 
 And chilled the mother's heart who had no home, 
 And where, alas ! in mid-time of his day, 
 The honest man, robb'd by some villain's hand, 
 Or with long sickness pale, and paler yet 
 With want and hunger, oft drank bitter draughts 
 Of his own tears, and had no bread to eat. 
 
 Oh ! who can tell what sights he saw, what shapes 
 Of wretchedness ! or who describe what smiles 
 Of gratitude illumed the face of wo, 
 While from his hand he gave the bounty forth ! 
 As when the sun, from cancer wheeling back, 
 Returned to Capricorn, and showed the north, 
 That long had lain in cold and cheerless night, 
 His beamy countenance; all nature then 
 Rejoiced together glad ; the flower looked up 
 And smiled ; the forest from his locks shook off 
 The hoary frosts, and clapp'd his hands ; the birds 
 Awoke, and, singing, rose to meet the day ; 
 And from his hollow den, where many months 
 He slumbered sad in darkness, blithe and light 
 Of heart the savage sprung, and saw again 
 
 18 
 
218 THE PASSIONS. 
 
 His mountains shine ; and with new songs of love, 
 
 Allured the virgin's ear; so did the house, 
 
 The prison-house of guilt, and and all th' abodes 
 
 Of unprovided helplessness, revive, 
 
 As on them looked the sunny messenger 
 
 Of charity, by angels tended still, 
 
 That marked his deeds, and wrote them in the book 
 
 Of God's remembrance : careless he to be 
 
 Observed of men ; or have each mite bestowed, 
 
 Recorded punctual with the name and place 
 
 In every bill of news : pleased to do good, 
 
 He gave and sought no more. Pollok. 
 
 The Passions : An Ode. 
 
 WHEN music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sang, 
 The passions oft, to hear her shell, 
 Throng'd around her magic cell, 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting; 
 By turns, thev felt the glowing mind 
 Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refined; 
 Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
 Fill'dwith fury, rapt, inspir'd, 
 From the' supporting myrtles round, 
 They snatch'd her instruments of sound ; 
 And, as they oft had heard apart, 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
 Each for madness rui'd the hour 
 Would prove his own expressive power. 
 First, Fear, his hand its skill to try, 
 Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ; 
 And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 
 E'en at the sound himself had made. 
 
 Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes on fire, 
 In lightnings own'd his secret stings; 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woful measures wan Despair, 
 In sullen sounds his grief beguil'd 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
THE PASSIONS. 210 
 
 But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
 What was thy delighted measure ? 
 Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, 
 And hade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong; 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
 She called on Echo still through all her song: 
 And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
 And Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden- hair. 
 
 And longer had she sung but, with a frown, 
 
 Revenge impatient rose. 
 He threw his blood-slain'd sword in thunder down; 
 
 And, with a withering look, 
 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo : 
 
 And, ever and anon, he beat, 
 
 The doubling drum with furious heat : 
 And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
 
 Dejected Pity at his side, 
 
 Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
 
 Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
 While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd -bursting from his 
 ead. 
 
 Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fixed 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state 
 Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd ; 
 And now it courted Love ; now, raviug. call'd on Hate 
 
 With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, 
 
 Pale Melancholy sat retir'd ; 
 
 And, from her wild sequester'd seat, 
 
 In notes, by distance made more sweet, 
 Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; 
 
 And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
 
 Bubbling runnels join'd the sound : 
 Through glades and glooms ths mingled measures stole, 
 Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, 
 
 (Round a holy calm diffusing, 
 
 Love of peace, and lonely musing,) 
 In hollow murmurs died away. 
 
 But, O ! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
 
220 ELEGY IN A 
 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
 
 Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung! 
 The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. 
 
 The oak crown'd Sisters, and their chaste eyed dueen, 
 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 
 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
 
 Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, 
 
 And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear 
 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
 
 He, with viny crown advancing, 
 First to the lively pipe his hand address'd 
 
 But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. 
 They would have thought who heard the strain, 
 They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 
 
 Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 
 While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
 
 Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round ; 
 
 Loose were her tresses seen, -her zone unbound, 
 
 And he, amidst his frolic play, 
 
 As if he would the charming air repay, 
 Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. Collins 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. 
 
 THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
 
 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 221 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
 Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 Await, alike, th' inevitable hour ; 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
 Tf memory o'er their t6mb no trophies raise, 
 Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death 1 
 
 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid 
 Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire j 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
 Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear j 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
222 ELEGY IN A 
 
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 Some mute, inglorious Millon here may rest; 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride. 
 With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray : 
 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 
 Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spell'd by the unletter'd muse, 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 That leach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires: 
 Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
 Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who mindful of th' unhonored dead. 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
 If chance by lonely Contemplation led 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 'fate. 
 
COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 223 
 
 Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 
 Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That wreaths its old, fantastic roots so high, 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; 
 Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 
 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
 
 K One morn I missed him on th' accustomed hill, 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite tree: 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : 
 
 " The next, with dirges, due, in sad array, 
 Slow through the cliurchway path we saw him borne: 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 The Epitaph. 
 
 HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 
 Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere: 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
 He gave to misery all he had a tear; 
 
 He gained from heaven 'twas all he wished a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
 (There they, alike, in trembling hope repose) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. Gray* 
 
 On the Barrows, or Monumental Mounds, in the Prairies 
 of the Western Rivers. 
 
 THE sun's last rays wore fading from the west, 
 The deep'ning shade stole slowly o'er the plain, 
 The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest, 
 And all was silence, save the mournful strain 
 
224 THE BARROWS. 
 
 With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain, 
 Her absent lover to her lonely nest. 
 
 Now, one by one, emerging to the sight, 
 The brighter stars assume their seats on high ; 
 
 The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright, 
 As the last twilight fled along the sky, 
 And all her train, in cloudless majesty, 
 
 Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night. 
 
 I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, 
 And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene j 
 
 From the dark summit of an Indian mound, 
 I saw the plain, outspread in living green; 
 Its fringe of cliffs was in the distance seen, 
 
 And the dark line of forest sweeping round. 
 
 I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose j 
 
 Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay ; 
 There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes, 
 
 There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay ; 
 
 And mighty tribes, swept from the face of day, 
 Forgot their wars, and found a long repose. 
 
 Ye mouldering relics of departed years, 
 
 Your names have perish'd ; not a trace remains. 
 Save where the grass-grown mound its summit re<** 
 
 From the green bosom of your native plains. 
 
 Say, do your spirits wear oblivion's chains ? 
 Did death forever quench your hopes and fears ? 
 
 ' Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss, 
 Which simple nature to your bosoms gave, 
 
 Find other worlds with fairer skies than this, 
 Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave, 
 In whose bright climes the virtuous and the brav 
 
 Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ? 
 
 Where the great hunter still pursues the chase, 
 And, o'er the sunny mountains tracks the deer, 
 
 Or where he finds each long-extinguish'd race, 
 And sees once more the mighty mammoth rear 
 The giant form which lies imbedded here, 
 
 Of other years the sole remaining trace. 
 
 Or, it may be, that still ye linger near 
 
 The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride j 
 
THE RUINS. 225 
 
 And, could your forms to mortal eye appear, 
 Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside, 
 Then might I see your restless shadows glide, 
 
 With watchful care, around these relics dear. 
 
 If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet 
 
 Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. 
 I would not thus profane their lone retreat, 
 
 Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head 
 
 Lay pillowed on his everlasting bed, 
 Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. 
 
 Farewell ! and may you still in peace repose ; 
 Still o'er you may the flowers untrodden, bloom, 
 And softly wave to every breeze that blows, 
 Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb, 
 In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, 
 And mingle with the clay from which they rose. 
 
 Flint. 
 
 The Ruins. 
 
 I'VE seen, in twilight's pensive hour, 
 The moss-clad dome, the mouldering tower, 
 
 In awful ruin stand ; 
 That dome, where grateful voices sung, 
 That tower, whose chiming music rung 
 
 Majestically grand ! 
 
 I've seen, 'mid sculptur'd pride, the tomb 
 Where heroes slept, in silent gloorrij 
 
 Unconscious of their fame ; 
 Those who, with laurel'd honors crown'd, 
 Among their foes spread terror round, 
 And gain'd an empty name ! 
 
 I've seen, in death's dark palace laid, 
 The ruins of a beauteous maid, 
 
 Cadaverous and pale ! 
 That maiden who, while life remain'd, 
 O'er rival charms in triumph reign'd, 
 
 The mistress of the vale. 
 
 I've seen, where dungeon damps abide, 
 A youth, admir'd in manhood's pride, 
 
 13* 
 
226 EVENING MEDITATION. 
 
 In morbid fancy rave ; 
 He who, in reason's happier day, 
 Was virtuous, witty, nobly gay, 
 
 Learn'd, generous, and brave. 
 
 Nor dome, nor tower in twilight shade. 
 Nor hero fallen, nor beauteous maid, 
 
 To ruin all consign'd, 
 Can with such pathos touch my breast. 
 As (on the maniac's form impress'd) 
 
 The ruins of the MIND ! Osborne. 
 
 A Summer Evening' Meditation. 
 
 'Tis past ! The sultry tyrant of the south 
 Has spent his short-lived rage ; more grateful hours 
 Move silent on : the skies no more repel 
 The dazzled sight, but with mild maiden beams 
 Of tempered luster, court the cherish'd eye 
 To wander o'er their sphere, where, hung aloft, 
 Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow 
 New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns, 
 Impatient for the night, and seems to push 
 Her brother down the sky. 
 
 Fair Venus shines 
 
 Even in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam 
 Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 
 Of softened radiance from her dewy locks. 
 The shadows spread apace ; while meek-eyed Eve, 
 Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires 
 Through the Hesperian gardens of the west, 
 And shuts the gates of day. 
 
 'Tis now the hour 
 
 "Wnen Contemplation, from her sunless haunts, 
 The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth 
 Of unpierc'd woods, where wrapt in solid shade 
 She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon, 
 And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun, 
 Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points 
 To yon blue concave swelled by breath divine, 
 Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven 
 Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 
 
 boundless blazeten thousand trembling fires, 
 
EVENING MEDITATION. 227 
 
 And dancing lusters, where th' unsteady eye, 
 Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfined 
 O'er all this field of glories spacious field, 
 And worthy of the Master he, whose hand 
 With hieroglyphics older than the Nile, 
 Inscrib'd the mystic tablet, hung on high 
 To public gaze, and said Adore, O Man \ 
 The finger of thy God! 
 
 How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise 
 But are they silent all ? or is there not 
 A tongue in every star, that talks with man 
 And woos him to be wise or woos in vain 
 This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, 
 And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 
 At this still hour, the self-collected soul 
 Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there 
 Of high descent, and more than mortal rank 
 An embryo God a spark of fire divine, 
 Which must burn on for ages, when the sunj 
 (Fair transitory creature of a day !) 
 Has closed his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, 
 Forgets his wonted journey through the east. 
 
 Seized in thought, 
 
 On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail, 
 From the green borders of the peopled earth, 
 And the pale moon, her duteous fair attendant j 
 From solitary Mars ; from the vast orb 
 Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 
 Dances in ether like the lightest leaf, 
 To the dim verge the suburbs of the system, 
 W T here cheerless Saturn 'midst his watery mdons, 
 Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, 
 Sits like an exiled monarch. Fearless thence 
 I launch into the trackless deeps of space, 
 Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear 
 Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine 
 Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light 
 From the proud regent of our scanty day 
 Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, 
 And only less than He who marks their track, 
 And guides their fiery wheels. 
 
 But O thou mighty mind ! whose powerful word 
 Said, " Thus let all things be," and thus they were 
 Where shall I seek thy presence ? how, unblamed, 
 Invoke thy dread perfection ? 
 
228 EVENING MEDITATION. 
 
 Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee? 
 
 Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion 
 
 Support thy throne ? Oh ! look with pity down 
 
 On erring guilty man ; not in thy names 
 
 Of terror clad ; nor with those thunders armed 
 
 That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalled 
 
 The scattered tribes thou hast a gentler voice, 
 
 That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, 
 
 Abashed, yet longing to behold her Maker. 
 
 But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers 
 In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, 
 And seeks again the known accustomed spot, . 
 Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and 
 A mansion fair and spacious for its guest, 
 And all replete with wonders. Let me here, 
 Content and grateful, wait th 7 appointed time, 
 And ripen for the skies : the hour will come 
 When all these splendors bursting on my sight, 
 Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravished sense 
 Unlock the glories of the world unkaown. 
 
 BarbaubL 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 229 
 
 PART III. 
 
 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 The Discovery of America : Settlement of Virginia by 
 the English. 
 
 AMERICA was discovered in the year 1492, hy Christo- 
 pher Columbus, a native of Genoa an expedition having 
 been fitted out for that purpose, at his most earnest solicita- 
 tions, by the Spanish government. The project of seeking 
 for a Continent west of the Atlantic, had long been entertain- 
 ed by Columbus ; but notwithstanding the perseverance and 
 fortitude with which he brought it to a successful termination, 
 he was defrauded of the just right of associating his name 
 with this vast portion of the earth. In this he was supplant- 
 ed by Amerigo Vespucci, a native of Florence, who in 1499 
 went on a voyage to America, and who published an account 
 of his adventures so ingeniously framed, as to make it ap- 
 pear that he had the glory of first discovering the continent. 
 
 But the English were the second people that discovered 
 the new world, and the first that discovered the continent of 
 America. On the 24th of June, 1497, Giovanni Caboto, (or 
 Cabot,) and his son Sebastian, who were commissioned oy 
 Henry VIII. to sail in quest of new countries, discovered a 
 large island, to which they gave the name of Prima Vesta, or 
 first seen ; now called Newfoundland. From this they steered 
 to the north, in search of a passage to India ; but finding no 
 appearance of a passage, they tacked about, and ran as far as 
 Florida, the island of Cuba, as he relates, being on his left. 
 . On the accession of Elizabeth to the crown of England, 
 a period commenced, highly auspicious to mercantile exten- 
 sion. The coast of Labrador was explored by Martin Fro- 
 bisher, under her auspices, in the years 1576, '7, '8; and Sir 
 Francis Drake, about this time, accomplished his celebrated 
 voyage around the globe. 
 
 In 1584, Sir Walter Raleigh,*a favorite at that time of the 
 queen, despatched two small vessels, under the command oT 
 Philip Amidas and Arthur Barlow, which reached the coast 
 of North Carolina on the 4th of July, making their passage 
 
230 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 in sixty-seven days by way of the Canary islands and the 
 West Indies. On their return, Amidas and Barlow gave a 
 splendid description of the country of its beauty, fertility, 
 mildness of climate, and serenity of atmosphere ; and Eliza- 
 beth gave it the name of Virginia. 
 
 In 15S5, Sir Walter Raleigh fitted out a squadron of se- 
 ven small vessels, with one hundred and eighty adventurers, 
 which sailed from Plimouth, under the command of Sir Rich- 
 ard Greenville. This colony was left on the island of Roa- 
 noke, under the care of Captain Lane ; but through bad man 
 agement, turning all their attention to the search for gold and 
 silver, they were soon assailed by a two-fold calamity the 
 hostility of the natives and the prospect of famine. Sir 
 Francis Drake, on his return from the West Indies, at the 
 unanimons request of the colonists, carried them back to 
 England, and thus ended the ill-conducted experiment, after 
 a trial of nine months. Early in the following year, three 
 more vessels arrived at the same spot, with one hundred and 
 fifty settlers ; but misfortune pursued this infant settlement. 
 The threatened Spanish armada engrossed the attention ol 
 the parent country, the colony received no supplies, and the 
 inhabitants perished miserably by famine, or by the hands oi 
 their surrounding enemies. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh being engaged in other ambitious 
 undertakings, so vast and various as were beyond his power 
 to accomplish, and becoming cold to the unprofitable schemt 
 of effecting settlements in America, assigned his interest in 
 that country to Sir Thomas Smith and a company of mer- 
 chants in London, in 1596. These were satisfied for the pre- 
 sent to pursue a petty traffic with the natives, and made r>a 
 attempt to take possession of the soil. 
 
 But in the succeeding reign of James, who having con- 
 cluded an amicable treaty with Spain, and terminated a te- 
 dious war, the period was more auspicious for settlements in 
 America. The attention of the monarch was called to this 
 subject by the efforts of distinguished geographers and men 
 of science. James divided into districts of nearly equal extent, 
 that portion of North America which stretches from the 34th 
 to the 45th degree of north latitude, excepting the territory 
 of any other Christian prince or people already occupied ; 
 one called the First, or South Colony, the 'other the Second, 
 or North Colony of Virginia. 
 
 In 1606, he authorized certain gentlemen, mostly resi- 
 dents of London, to settle in a limited district of the former : 
 an equal extent of the latter he allotted to several gentlemen 
 of Bristol, Plymouth, and other parts of the west of England. 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 231 
 
 These grants laid the first foundation of states which in a 
 few centuries were destined to become rivals to the mothef 
 country in wealth, in science, and in power. 
 
 The supreme government of the colonies was vested in 
 a council resident in England, to be nominated by the king; 
 the subordinate jurisdiction in a council which was to reside 
 in America, and also to be named by the crown, and to act 
 conformably to its instructions. Whatever was required for 
 their sustenance, or for the support of commerce, he permit- 
 ted to be shipped from England free of duty, during the space 
 of seven years ; and as an incitement to industry, granted 
 them the liberty of trading with other nations, appropriating 
 the duties to be laid on foreign traffic for twenty-one years, 
 as a fund for their own exclusive benefit. 
 
 A vessel of one hundred tons, and two barques, under 
 the command of Captain Newport, sailed with one hundred 
 and five men, destined to remain in the country : amongf 
 these was a Mr. Percy, brother of the earl of Northumber- 
 land, and several officers who had served with reputation in 
 the preceding reign. The first land that was discovered was 
 a promontory, the southern boundary of the Chesapeake, 
 April, 1607 : this was named cape Henry, in honor of the 
 prince of Wales. The spacious inlet was entered, and the 
 expedition coasted the southern shore, and up a river sixty 
 miles, called by the natives Powhatan, to which the English 
 gave the name of James River, in honor of their sovereign. 
 Here a site was fixed for the infant settlement, which wag 
 named James Town. 
 
 Imprudent in their conduct toward the natives, this 
 feeble society was early involved in war. Scarcity of provi- 
 sions introduced diseases ; and in a few months half their 
 original number were swept away, and the remainder left 
 sickly and dejected. 
 
 The government soon devolved on Captain John Smith, 
 who was originally one of the council appointed by the king, 
 but who had unjustly been deprived of his authority by the 
 colonists. This gentleman, who was emphatically the fa- 
 ther of Virginia, was a native of Lincolnshire: he had dis- 
 tinguished himself in feats of courage and chivalry, particu- 
 larly while engaged in the Hungarian army against the Turks, 
 His undaunted temper, deeply tinctured with the romantic 
 spirit of the times, was happily adapted to the present trying 
 situation of the colony. 
 
 Soon after he had been called as their leader, while 
 hunting in the woods, he was attacked by two hundred In- 
 dians, who poured in upon him a continued flight of arrows* 
 
232 . AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 After performing wonderful feats, he sunk in the unequal 
 contest, and was made a prisoner. Charmed by his arts and 
 his valor, they released him from captivity. Afterwards he 
 was beset by three hundred more of these ferocious people, 
 pursued into a marsh, and, after he had thrown away his 
 arms, which he could no longer use by reason of the cold, he 
 was taken and carried in triumph to Powhatan, the princi- 
 pal chieftain of Virginia. 
 
 - Here the doom of death was pronounced upon him, 
 and he was about to receive the fatal blow, when the favorite 
 daughter of Powhatan, interposed in his behalf. This amia- 
 ble child (not then thirteen years of age) not only prevented 
 the execution of Smith by her entreaties and tears, but caused 
 him to be set at liberty, and sent him, from time to time, sea- 
 sonable presents of provisions. 
 
 The colony was now reduced to thirty-eight persons. 
 Soon after, however, succors arrived from England, and an 
 addition of one hundred new planters was added to their num- 
 ber. But the culture of the land, and other useful employ- 
 ments were neglected, in the futile idea that gold had been 
 discovered issuing from a small stream which emptied into 
 James River. The effects of the delusion were soon severe- 
 ly felt in the prospect of approaching famine. In the hope 
 of obtaining relief, Smith, in a small open boat, and with a 
 feeble crew, went in search of aid from the Indians. 
 
 In two different excursions, that occupied upward of 
 four months, he visited all the countries on the eastern and 
 western shores of the Chesapeake bay, entering the principal 
 creeks, and tracing the rivers as far as their falls, and ob- 
 tained a supply of food for the suffering colony. In these 
 tours, he sailed upwards of three thousand miles, amidst al- 
 most incredible hardships, and brought back with him an 
 account of that large tract of country, now comprehended 
 in the two states of Virginia and Maryland, so full and cor- 
 rect, that his map is the original from which all subsequent 
 delineations have been formed until lately. 
 
 About this period, the old charter being found inconve- 
 nient and oppressive, a new charter was granted by James, 
 by which the boundaries of the colony were enlarged; the 
 council in Virginia was abolished, and the government vest- 
 ed entirely in one residing in London, the members of which 
 were to be chosen by the proprietors, and these to nominate 
 a governor, who was to reside in Virginia, and carry their 
 orders into execution. 
 
 Lord Delaware was at first appointed to this office ; 
 but as this nobleman could net immediately leave England, 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 233 
 
 the power was vested in Sir Thomas Gates and Sir George 
 Somers, who were despatched from England with five hun- 
 dred planters. A violent hurricane separated the fleet on 
 their way ; and the ships without the officers, only arrived at 
 James Town. Presently every thing was reduced to a state 
 of anarchy; Captain Smith, at once the shield and the sword 
 of the colony, being disabled by an accidental explosion of 
 gun-powder, the wretchedness which followed is beyond de- 
 scription ; and the. arrival of Gates and Somers, who had 
 been cast away on one of the Bermuda islands, although it 
 saved the wretched survivors at James Town from immediate 
 death, was unable to preserve them till autumn. 
 
 . Nothing remained but to seek immediate assistance ; 
 and with only sixteen days' provision, the colony set sail, in 
 hopes of reaching the banks of Newfoundland, and getting 
 relief. But before they had arrived at the mouth of the river 
 they met Lord Delaware, who brought a large supply of sus- 
 tenance, new settlers, and everything requisite either for 
 cultivation or defense. Under the skilful administration of 
 this nobleman, the colony began, once more, to assume a 
 promising appearance. He was succeeded by Sir Thomas 
 Dale, who concluded a treaty of friendship with the Powha- 
 tans one of the most powerful and warlike tribes of Virginia. 
 
 Pocahontas, the amiable female who had preserved the 
 life of Captain Smith, frequently visited the English settle- 
 ments ; and during this intercourse, she was betrayed on 
 board a vessel and there imprisoned. Her father, who loved 
 her with the most ardent affection, was obliged to discontinue 
 hostilities on such conditions as were dictated by his treache- 
 rous enemy. She was afterwards solicited by Mr. Rolfe, a 
 respectable planter in marriage. Powhatan consented, and 
 the marriage was celebrated with extraordinary pomp. 
 
 From this time, the most friendly intercourse subsist- 
 ed between the colonies and the Indians. Rolfe and his wife 
 went to England, where, by the introduction of Captain Smith 
 Pochahontas was received by the court with the respect doe 
 to her birth ; she was instructed in the Christian religion, and 
 publicly baptized. About returning to America, Pocahontas 
 died at Gravesend; leaving one son, from whom are sprung 
 some of the most respectable families of Virginia. 
 
 Hitherto no individual right of property in land was 
 established ; all was holden and dealt out in common. But 
 the governor, in 1616, divided a considerable extent of land 
 into small lots, and granted one of these for ever to each in- 
 dividual; from which period the colony rapidly extended. 
 The culture of tobacco, since become the great staple of Vir 
 
i>34 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 ginia, was introduced; but the eager demand for the article 
 in England, caused for some time a scarcity of food in the 
 colony. 
 
 About this time, a Dutch ship from the coast of Guinea, 
 having sailed up James River, sold to the planters a part of 
 her negroes ; which race has been augmented in Virginia by 
 successive importations and by natural increase, till it forms 
 more than one third part of the population. 
 
 In 1619, Sir George Yeardly, the governor, impelled 
 by that popular spirit of freedom which has ever been the 
 characteristic of Americans, called the first general assembly 
 which was held in Virginia. At this time eleven corpora- 
 tions sent representatives to the convention, which was per- 
 mitted to assume legislative power, the natural privilege of 
 man. The supreme authority was lodged, partly in the go- 
 vernor, partly in a council of state appointed by the compa- 
 ny, and in a general assembly, composed of representative? 
 of the people. 
 
 A natural effect of the happy change was aji increase 
 of agriculture. The company extended the trade of the co- 
 lony to Holland and other countries. This measure pro- 
 duced the first difference of sentiment between the colony and 
 the parent state. Jealous at seeing a commodity, (tobacco,) 
 for which the demand was daily increasing, conducted to 
 foreign ports beyond its control, thereby causing a diminu- 
 tion of revenue, the latter endeavored to check this colonial 
 enterprise, without considering that the restraint was a 
 breach of the sacred principles of justice. 
 
 The suspicion of the monarch James was soon roused, 
 and the charter, by decision of the king's bench was declared 
 forfeit and the company dissolved. Charles I. adopted all 
 his father's maxim's in respect to Virginia, which, during a 
 great part of his reign, knew no other law that the royal will. 
 But the colonists resisting, Charles yielded to the" popular 
 voice: he recalled Harvey, the obnoxious governor, and ap- 
 pointed Sir William Berkeley, a man of great abilities, pru- 
 dent, virtuous, and popular; whose influence was directed in 
 finally restoring to the people much the same share in the 
 government, as they had enjoyed previously to the revoca- 
 tion of the charter. 
 
 After the execution of the king, and the establishment 
 of the commonwealth under Cromwell, through the influ- 
 ence of the governor, the colonists continued to adhere to 
 their loyalty to the king. In 1651, the English commonwealth 
 took vigorous measures to reduce the Virginians to obedience. 
 A numerous squadron, with land forces, was dispatched for 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 235 
 
 this purpose. Berkeley resisted, but was unable to maintain 
 an equal contest, and was soon defeated. The people were, 
 however, allowed to retain the privileges of citizens ; but 
 Berkeley retired as a private citizen. 
 
 Cromwell's parliament framed acts prohibiting all in- 
 tercourse between the colonies and foreign states, and allow- 
 ing no trade but in English ships. On the death of Matthews, 
 the last governor appointed by Cromwell, the Virginians 
 burst out in new violence. They called Sir WilliarrTBerke- 
 ley from his retirement, boldly erected the royal standard, 
 and proclaimed Charles II., son of their late monarch, to be 
 *.heir laAvful sovereign. Charles was however soon placed 
 <m the throne, and the Virginians were thus saved from the 
 ihastisement to which they were exposed by their previous 
 leclaration in his favor. But the new king and parliament 
 rewarded their fidelity by increasing the restraints upon co- 
 lonial commerce ! 
 
 The number of inhabitants in Virginia in 1688, ex- 
 ceeded sixty thousand j and its population in the previous 
 twenty-eight years was doubled. In 1691, the college of 
 William and Mary was founded. To aid in its erection 
 and support, the sovereigns whose name ft bears, gave nearly 
 two thousand pounds out of their private purse, and granted 
 twenty thousand acres of land, and a duty on tobacco, for 
 its further encouragement. 
 
 
 
 Settlement of Massachusetts. 
 
 THE partition of the great territory of Virginia into North 
 and South colonies, has already been mentioned. Still mote 
 
236 AMERICAN HISTORY ; 
 
 feeble were the operations of the Plymouth company, to 
 whom was assigned the conduct of the northern division, al- 
 though animated by the zeal of Sir John Popham, chief jus- 
 tice of England, Sir Fernando Gorges, and other public 
 spirited gentlemen of the west. 
 
 In the year 1607, the same in which James Town was 
 founded, a small settlement was commenced on the river Sa- 
 gadahoc, now called the Kennebec ; but this was soon aban- 
 doned. Some fishing vessels visited Cape Cod several times ; 
 among them, one commanded by Captain Smith, who re- 
 turned with a high-wrought description of the coast and 
 country, exhibiting a map of the bays, harbors, &c., on 
 which he inscribed " New England;" the Prince of Wales, 
 delighted with the representations of Smith, immediately 
 confirmed the name. 
 
 To the operations of religion, rather than to the desire 
 of pecuniary emolument, are the various settlements of New 
 England indebted for their origin. The sacred rights of con- 
 science and of private judgment were not then properly un- 
 derstood ; nor was the charity and mutual forbearance taught 
 Christians by their divine Master, .practised in any country. 
 Every church employed the hand of power in supporting its 
 own doctrines, and opposing the tenets of another. 
 
 In reforming the rituals and exterior symbols of the 
 church of England, Elizabeth, lest by too wide a departure 
 from the Romish church, she might alarm the populace, had 
 allowed many of the ancient ceremonies to reman unaltered. 
 With several of these a large number of her subjects being 
 dissatisfied, they wished to address their Creator according 
 to their own opinions, but were subjected to very rigorous 
 penalties. 
 
 Those who dissented from the established church ob- 
 tained the general name of Puritans, a term applied to them 
 because they wished for a purer form of discipline and wor- 
 ship. Among the most popular and strenuous declaimers 
 against the established church, were the Brownists, a sect 
 formed about 1581, by Robert Brown, who afterwards re- 
 nounced his principles of separation, and took orders in the 
 church against which he had so loudly declaimed. The Rev. 
 John Robinson, the father of the first settlement of New 
 England, is said to have been a follower of Brown, but after- 
 wards renounced the principles of the Brownists, and be- 
 came the founder of a new sect, denominated Independents. 
 
 Mr. Robinson affirmed that all^ Christian congregations 
 were so many independent religious societies, that had a right 
 U> be governed by their own laws, independent of any foreign 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 237 
 
 jurisdiction. Being persecuted in England, he, with many 
 others embracing his opinions, removed to Holland, where 
 they formed churches upon their own principles. Remaining 
 there some years, the society were desirous to remove to 
 some other place : they turned their thoughts to America, 
 and applied to James, who, though he refused to give them 
 any positive assurance of toleration, seems to have intimated 
 some promise of passive indulgence. 
 
 They readily procured a tract of land from the Ply- 
 mouth Company. One hundred and twenty persons sailed 
 from Plymouth in 1620, their destination being Hudson's 
 river : by some treachery of the Dutch, who then contem- 
 plated, and afterwards effected a settlement at that place, 
 they were carried to the north, and landed on Cape Cod, the 
 eleventh of November of that year. 
 
 They chose for their residence a place called by the 
 Indians Patuxet, to which they gave the name of New Ply- 
 mouth. Before spring, half their number were cut off by 
 famine or disease. In a few days after they landed, Captain 
 Standish was engaged in skirmishing with the Indians ; 
 and the many disasters which followed, together with the 
 implacable "hostility of the Indians, which always has sub- 
 sisted, are perhaps more owing to the imprudence of the first 
 settlers, than to the bad disposition of the natives. 
 
 This colony, like that of Virginia, at first held their 
 goods and property in common ; and their progress was re- 
 tarded as well by this circumstance, as by the impulse of 
 imaginary inspiration, which regulated all their actions. At 
 the end of ten years, these well-meaning people, when they 
 became incorporated with their more powerful neighbors of 
 Massachusetts Bay, did not exceed three hundred. 
 
 In the year 1629, Mr. White, a non-conformist minister 
 at Dorchester, having formed an association, purchased from 
 the Plymouth company a tract extending in length from 
 three miles north of Merrimac river, to three miles south of 
 Charles river, and in breadth from the Atlantic to the South- 
 ern ocean ; and obtained a charter from Charles, similar to 
 that given to the two Virginian companies by James. Five 
 ships were fitted out, on l)oard of which were embarked up- 
 wards of three hundred souls, amongst whom were several 
 eminent non-conforming ministers. 
 
 On their arrival, they found the remnant of a small 
 party that had left England the preceding year, under the 
 conduct of Mr. Endicott, who had been appointed by his 
 companions deputy governor. They were settled at a place 
 called by the Indians Naumkeag, to which he had given th* 
 
238 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 scripture name of Salem. The new colonists immediately- 
 formed a church, elected a pastor, teacher, and elder, disre- 
 garding the intentions of the king. They disencumbered 
 their public worship of every superliuous ceremony, and re- 
 duced it to the lowest standard of Calvinistic simplicity. 
 
 But much as we respect that noble spirit which ena- 
 bled them to part with their native soil, we must condemn 
 the persecuting spirit of the colonists themselves. Some of 
 the colonists, retaining a high veneration for the ritual of the 
 church of England, refused to join the colonial state esta- 
 blishment, and assembled separately to worship ; Endicott 
 called before him two of the principal offenders, expelled 
 them from the colony, and sent them home in the first ships 
 returning to England. 
 
 The government of the colony was soon transferred 
 to America, and vested iri those members of the company 
 who should reside there. John Winthrop was appointed 
 governor, and Thomas Dudley deputy governor, with eight- 
 teen assistants. In the 'course of the next year, 1630, fifteen 
 hundred persons arrived in Massachusetts from England, 
 amongst whom were several distinguished families, some of 
 them in easy, and others in affluent circumstances; and 
 Boston, Charlestown, Dorchester, Roxbury, and other 
 towns were settled. 
 
 The first general court, held at Charlestown, ventured 
 to deviate from their charter in a matter of great moment: a 
 law was passed, declaring that none should be freemen, or 
 be entitled to any share in the government, except those who 
 had been received as members of the church. 
 
 The fanatical spirit continued to increase. A minister 
 of Salem, named Roger Williams, having conceived an 
 aversion to the cross of St. George, a symbol in the English 
 standard, declaimed against it with great vehemence, as a 
 relic of superstition ; and Endicott, in a transport of zeal, 
 cut out the cross from the ensign displayed before the gov- 
 ernor's gate. This frivolous matter divided the colony; but 
 the matter was at length compromised by retaining the 
 cross in the ensigns of forts and vessels, and erasing it from 
 the colors of the militia. 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 239 
 
 Settlement of Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Hampshire 
 Maine, Maryland, and North and South Carolina. 
 
 IN 1636, Roger Williams was banished from Salem ; 
 and, accompanied by many of his hearers, the exile went 
 south, purchased a tract of land of the natives, to which he 
 gave the name of Providence; and a Mr. Coddington, with 
 seventy-six others, exiled from Boston, bought a fertile island 
 on Narraganset Bay, that acquired the name qf Rhode Island. 
 Mr. Coddington embraced the sentiments of the Quakers, or 
 Friends ; he received a charter from the British parliament, 
 in which it was ordered, that " none were ever to be molested 
 for any difference of opinion in religious matters :" yet, the 
 very first assembly convened on this authority, excluded 
 Roman Catholics from voting at elections, and from every 
 office in the government ! 
 
 To similar causes the state of Connecticut is indebted 
 for its origin. Mr. Hooker, a favorite minister of Massachu- 
 setts, with about one hundred families, 'after a fatiguing 
 march, settled on the western side of the river Connecticut, 
 and laid the foundation of Hartford, Springfield, and Weath- 
 ersfield. Their right to this territory was disputed by the 
 Dutch, who had settled at the mouth of the Hudson, and by 
 the lords Say-and-Seal and Brook. The Dutch were soon 
 expelled; and the others uniting with the colony, all were 
 incorporated by a royal charter. 
 
 New Hampshire was first settled in the spring of 1623, 
 under the patronage of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, Captain John 
 
 at a place called Little Harbor ; the others settled at Dover. 
 Mr. Wheelwright, a clergyman, banished from Massa- 
 chusetts, founded Exeter in 1638. 
 
 Maine was riot permanently settled until 1635. Gorges 
 obtained a grant of this territory, which remain'ed under its 
 own government until 1652, when its soil and jurisdiction, 
 AS far as the middle of Casco Bay, was claimed by Massa- 
 chusetts. 
 
 The mutual hostility of the English and Indians com- 
 menced with the first settlement ; but it was not until the 
 year 1637, that a systematic warfare was begun. The P^. 
 Hoods, who brought into the field more than a thousand wsj* 
 
240 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 riors, were exterminated in a few months by the combined 
 troops of Massachusetts and Connecticut. In the night, the 
 Pequods were attacked, near the head of Mistic, by the Con- 
 necticut troops and Narraganset Indians, commanded by 
 Captain Mason: in a few moments, five or six hundred lay 
 gasping in their blood, or were silent in the arms of death. 
 " The darkness of the forest," observes a New England au- 
 thor, "the blaze of the dwellings, the ghastly looks of the 
 dead, the groans of the dying, the shrieks of the women and 
 children, and the yells of the friendly savages, presented a 
 scene of sublimity and terror indescribably dreadful." 
 
 In 1643, an alliance for mutual defense was formed be- 
 tween the New England colonies, excepting Rhode Island, 
 which Massachusetts was unwilling to admit. This alliance 
 continued until the charters were annulled by James the 
 Second. 
 
 Up to 1638, twenty-one thousand British subjects had 
 settled in New England ; and the country had begun to ex- 
 tend the fisheries, arid to export corn and lumber to the West 
 Indies. In 1656, the persecution of the Quakers was at its 
 height. A number of these inoffensive people having arrived 
 in die Massachusetts colony, from England and Barbadoes 
 and given offense to the clergy of the established church by 
 the novelty of their religion, were imprisoned, and by the 
 first opportunity sent away. 
 
 A law was passed, which prohibited masters of ships 
 from bringing Quakers into Massachusetts, and themselves 
 from coming there, under a graduated penalty, rising, in case 
 of a return from banishment to death. In consequence, 
 several were hanged ! These proceedings are still the more 
 reprehensible and remarkable, when contrasted with a pre- 
 vious declaration of their government, which tendered "hos- 
 pitality and succor to all Christian strangers, flying from 
 wars, famine, or the tyranny of persecution." The Ana- 
 baptists were also persecuted ; many were disfranchised, 
 and some were banished. 
 
 On the accession of James II., several of the New Eng- 
 land colonies were deprived of their charters ; but these, with 
 various unimportant modifications, were restored after the 
 revolution. Sir William Phipps, a native of Maine, who 
 rose to wealth and power in a manner the most extraordina- 
 ry, was the first governor of Massachusetts under the new 
 charter. With a force of seven hundred men, he wrested 
 from the French, L'Acadie, now called Nova Scotia. He 
 afterwards made an unsuccessful attempt on Quebec, with 
 the loss of one thousand men. 
 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 241 
 
 The new charter, whilst it curtailed the liberties, ex- 
 tended the territory of Massachusetts ; to it were now annex- 
 ed New Plymouth, Maine, and Nova Scotia, with all the 
 country between the latter and the river St. Lawrence; also 
 Elizabeth Islands, Martha's Vineyard, and Nantucket. The 
 people, however, had just reason to complain that they no 
 longer chose their governor, under whose control was the 
 militia, and who levied taxes without their consent, and 
 tried capital offenses. 
 
 About this time the pillars of society were shaken to 
 the foundation, in and about Salem, by imaginary witch- 
 craft. The delusion commenced in Salem village, now Dan- 
 vers, in the family of Rev. Samuel Paris. Two young girls, 
 one a daughter of Mr. Paris, aged 9, the other a niece, aged 
 11, were affected with singular nervous disorders, which, as 
 they baffled the skill of the physician, were thought to pro- 
 ceed from an " evil hand." The children were believed by 
 the neighbors to be bewitched, and the belief, sanctioned by 
 the opinion of the physician, became general throughout the 
 vicinity. 
 
 The more the girls were noticed and pitied, the more 
 singular and extravagant was their conduct. Upon the ad- 
 vice of the neighboring ministers, two or three private fasts 
 were first kept ; afterwards a public one in the village and 
 other congregations ; and finally, the general court appointed 
 a fast through the colony. This course gave the occurrences 
 a solemn aspect, and probably contributed to the public cre- 
 dulity, till the supposed witchcraft had extended throughout 
 a great part of the county of Essex. The infatuation pre- 
 vailed from March to October, 1692, during whick time 
 twenty persons, men and women, were executed. It was 
 then that suspicion roused from its lethargy ; condemnation 
 ceased; the accusers were silent; those under sentence 
 were reprieved, and afterwards pardoned. 
 
 In the years 1627, '38, '63, and '70, New England ex- 
 perienced violent earthquakes. In the year 1638, Harvard 
 College, near Boston, the oldest seminary of learning in the 
 United States, was founded. Four hundred pounds were 
 roted to it by the general court ; and this sum was nearly 
 doubled by a bequest from Mr. John Harvard, a minister of 
 Charlestown. This institution is now the most richly en- 
 dowed of all the American colleges. 
 
 Yale College, at New Haven, was founded in 1701, 
 ten years after that of William and Mary, in Virginia; an<i 
 Dartmouth College, in New Hampshire, wa* founded in 1769* 
 The first printing press established in the British colonies 
 
 14 
 
242 AMERICAN HISTORY 
 
 was In 1639, at Cambridge, superintended by Stephen Daye ; 
 but erected chiefly at the expense of Mr. Glover, an English 
 clergyman, who died on his passage to America. 
 
 Maryland, the first colony that, from its beginning, 
 was directly governed as a province of the British empire, 
 was founded by Sir George Calvert, baron of Baltimore in 
 Ireland, a Roman Catholic nobleman, born in England. He 
 first went to Virginia; but meeting an unwelcome reception 
 there, on account of his religion, he fixed his attention to the 
 lands north p 4 f the Potomac, and obtained a grant of them 
 from Charles I. This country was called Maryland, in 
 honor of the queen, 'Henrietta Maria. 
 
 The religious toleration established by .the charter, the 
 first draft of which is said to have been written by Sir George 
 himself, is honorable to his memory. The grant was given 
 to his eldest son, Cecilius, who succeeded to his titles; but 
 Leonard Calvert, brother to Cecilius, was the first governor, 
 and made the first stand, at an island in the Potomac, which, 
 he named St. Clement's, in 1633. He made several pur- 
 chases of the Indians, with whom he cultivated a constant 
 friendship, as well on the Potomac as on both shores of the 
 Chesapeake. 
 
 J^ever did any people enjoy more happiness than the 
 inhabitants of Maryland. Whilst Virginia harassed all 
 who dissentec| from the English church, and the northern 
 colonies all who dissented from the puritans, the Roman 
 Catholics of Maryland, a sect who in the old world never 
 professed the doctfine of toleration, received and protected 
 their brethren of eyery Christian church, and its population 
 was rapidly increased. 
 
 About the middle of the seventeenth century, some 
 emigrants, chiefly from Virginia, began a settlement in the 
 county of Albemarle; and soon afterwards, another estab- 
 lishment was commenced at Cape Fear, by adventurers from 
 Massachusetts. These were held together by the laws of 
 nature without any written code, for some time. But Charles 
 JI. compelled the colonists to become subservient to his 
 rule, and granted to Lord Clarendon and others the tract of 
 land which now composes North and South Carolina ; per- 
 fect freedom in religion was granted in the charter. 
 
 The first settlement was placed under the command 
 of Sir William Berkeley, Governor of Virginia, who assigned 
 jus authority to Mr. Drummond. In 1671, the proprietors 
 extended their settlements to the brinks of Ashley and Coop- 
 er rivers, where harlestown now stands ; and eventually 
 |nis mscame the separate state of South Carolina. The culture 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 243 
 
 of cotton commenced here in 1700, and that of indigo in 
 1748. 
 
 Settlement of New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Dela- 
 ware, and Georgia. 
 
 NEW YORK was first settled by the Dutch, and was by them 
 held for about half a century. It was however claimed by 
 England as the first discoverer. Peter Stuyvesarot, the third 
 and last Dutch governor, began his administration in 1647, 
 and was distinguished no less for his fidelity than his vigi- 
 lance. In 1664 the colony surrendered to the English ; and 
 the whole territory now comprising New York, New Jersey, 
 together with Pennsylvania, Delaware, and a part of Con- 
 necticut, was assigned by Charles II. to his brother the Duke 
 of York. The Dutch inhabitants remained ; Stuyvesant re- 
 tained his estate, and died in the colony. The country was 
 governed by the duke's officers until 1688; when representa- 
 tives of the people were allowed a voice in the legislature. 
 
 In 1664, the Duke of York sold that part of his grant 
 now called New Jersey to Lord Berkeley and Sir George 
 Carteret. It had previously been settled by Hollanders, 
 Swedes, and Danes. The county of Bergen was the first 
 inhabited ; and very soon the towns of Elizabeth, Newark, 
 Middletown, and Shrewsbury, were settled. The college, 
 originally established at New'ark, was, in 1748, finally fixed 
 at Princeton : its chief benefactor was Governor Belcher. 
 Among the governors of New Jersey was the celebrated Bar- 
 clay, author of the Apology for the Quakers, of which sect 
 a large number had established themselves there. 
 
 Pennsylvania was founded by William Penn, son of a 
 distinguished admiral of the same name. From principle 
 this excellent man joined the Quakers, then an obscure and 
 persecuted sect. As one of the members, and a preacher, 
 Penn was repeatedly imprisoned ; but he pleaded his own 
 cause with great boldness, and procured his own acquittal 
 
244 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 from an independent jury, who with himself were imprison- 
 ed until an unjust penalty was paid. 
 
 In 1631, he purchased of Charles the tract now called 
 Pennsylvania, for an acquittance of sixteen thousand pounds 
 due to his father: and soon after, he obtained from the Duke 
 of York a conveyance of the town of New Castle, with the 
 country which now forms the state of Delaware. The first 
 colony, which were chiefly of his own sect, began their set- 
 tlement above the confluence of the Schuylkill ana* Delaware 
 rivers. In August, 1682, this amiable man embarked, with 
 about two thousand emigrants, and in October, arrived in the 
 Delaware. 
 
 Besides his own people, he was aided in the first settle- 
 ment by Swedes, Dutch, Finlanders, and other English. The 
 first legislative assembly was held at Chester, at that time 
 called Upland. Among the first laws was one which de- 
 clared " that none, acknowledging one God, and living 
 peaceable in society, should be molested for his opinions or 
 his practice ; nor be compelled to frequent or maintain any 
 ministry whatever." Philadelphia was begun in 1683, and 
 in 1699, it contained seven hundred houses, and about four 
 thousand inhabitants. 
 
 During the first seventy years of this settlement, no 
 instance occurred of the Indians killing unarmed people. 
 The wise and good man, Penn, made every exertion and sa- 
 crifice to promote the peace and prosperity of his favorite 
 colony ; and between the persecution he had to encounter in 
 England, and the difficulties in Pennsylvania, his life was a 
 continued scene of vexation his private fortune was materi- 
 ally injured by the advances he made he was harassed by 
 his creditors, and obliged to undergo a temporary deprivation 
 of his personal liberty. 
 
 He died in London, in 1718, leaving an inheritance to 
 his children ultimately of immense value, which they en- 
 joyed until the revolution, when it was assigned to the com- 
 monwealth for an equitable sum of money. In the interval 
 between 1730 and the war of the revolution, in this state, 
 there was a great influx of emigrants, principally from Ger- 
 many and Ireland ; and these people early brought the 
 useful arts and manufactures into Pennsylvania. To the 
 Germans she is indebted for the spinning and weaving of , 
 linen and woolen cloths ; to the Irish, for various trades 
 indispensable to useful agriculture. 
 
 Delaware was first settled in 1627, by the Swedes and 
 Finlanders, and the colony bore the name of New Sweden, 
 It was afterwards conquered by the Dutch from New York. 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 245 
 
 and remained subservient to that colony, until it passed in 
 to the hands of the English. 
 
 Georgia was the last settled of the thirteen colonies tha. 
 revolted from Britain. It received its name from George II. 
 In November, 1732, one hundred and sixteen persons embarked 
 at Gravesend, under Oglethorpe ; andearly in the ensuing year 
 arrived at Charleston. From this port they proceeded to theif 
 destined territory, and laid the foundation of Savannah. 
 
 The Spaniards laid claim to this territory, and made 
 extensive preparations to attack it. But through the finesse 
 of Oglethorpe, in practising an innocent deception, their 
 plans were defeated. For many years, this settlement lan- 
 guished from a variety of causes. General Oglethorpe was 
 distinguished as a soldier, a statesman, and a philanthropist; 
 At the beginning of the American revolution, he was offered 
 the command of the British army in America, but this from 
 principle he declined. After the contest was decided, he 
 died at the age of ninety-seven years, being the oldest gene- 
 ral in the British service. 
 
 War with France and conquest of Canada. 
 
 NEARLY coeval with the first English settlement at 
 James Town, in Virginia, was the establishment of a French 
 colony at Quebec, on the great river St. Lawrence. The 
 question of boundary between England and France, had 
 long been a subject of unavailing negotiation. France, 
 besides having Canada in the north, had also discovered and 
 settled on the Mississippi in the south ; and in 1753, she 
 strove, by a military chain, the links of which were to he 
 formed by outposts stretching along the Ohio and the lakes, 
 to connect these two extremities, and thus restrain th 
 British colonists to a small territory on the Atlantic ocean, 
 if not entirely expel them from the country. 
 
 The question of jurisdiction remained to be decided by 
 the sword. Repeated complaints of violence having come 
 to the ears of the Governor of Virginia, he determined to 
 send a suitable person to the French commander at Fort Du 
 Gluesne. (now Pittsburgh,) demanding the reason of hishos* 
 tile proceedings, and insisting that he should evacuate th* 
 Jbrt which he had recently erected. For this arduous w** 
 
246 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 dertaking, George Washington, a major of militia, then lit- 
 tle more than twenty-one years of age, offered his services. 
 
 The execution of this task seems to have been accom- 
 plished with all that prudence and courage, which were so 
 eminently displayed by this hero in afterlife. At imminent 
 peril, being waylaid and fired at by the Indians, he not only 
 faithfully accomplished the errand on which he had been sent, 
 but gained extensive information of the distances and bear- 
 ings of places, and of the number, size, and strength of nearly 
 all the enemy's fortresses. 
 
 The reply of the. French commander brought matters 
 to a crisis; and in 1754, the Virginia assembly organized a 
 regiment, to support the claims of the English over the ter- 
 ritory in dispute : of this regiment a Mr. Fry was appointed 
 colonel, and the young Washington lieutenant-colonel. Col. 
 Fry dying,, the command of the whole devolved on Wash- 
 ington. The French having been strongly reinforced, Wa'sh- 
 ington was obliged to fall back was attacked in works which 
 he had not time to complete, and, after a brave defense, was 
 obliged to capitulate, the enemy allowing him to march out 
 with the honors of war, and retire unmolested to the inha- 
 bited parts of Virginia. 
 
 The next year, 1755, General Braddock was sent from 
 Europe to Virginia, with two regiments, where he was join- 
 ed by as .many provincials as made his force amount to twen- 
 ty-two hundred. Braddock was a brave man, but lacked 
 that courtesy which could conciliate the Americans, and that 
 modesty which should profit from the knowledge of those 
 who better knew the ground over which he was to pass, and 
 the mode of French and Indian warfare, than himself. He 
 pushed on incautiously, until within a few miles of fort Du 
 Quesne, he fell into an ambush of French and Indians. 
 
 In a short time, Washington, who acted as aid to Brad- 
 dock, and whose duty called him to be on horseback, was the 
 only person mounted who was left alive, or not wounded. 
 The van of the army was forced back, and the whole thrown 
 into confusion. The slaughter was dreadful. Braddock was 
 mortally wounded. What was remarkable, the provincial 
 troops preserved their order, and covered the retreat under 
 Washington ; while the regulars broke their ranks, and could 
 not be rallied. 
 
 Three successive campaigns procured 'nothing but ex- 
 pense and disappointment to the English. With an inferior 
 force, the French had succeeded in every campaign ; and 
 gloomy apprehensions were entertained as to the destiny of 
 the British colonies. But in 1756, a change of ministry in 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 247 
 
 England took place.. William Pitt was placed at the helm. 
 To despair, succeeded hope ; and to hope, victory. Supplies 
 were granted with liberality, and given without reluctance ; 
 tsoldiers enlisted freely, and fought with enthusiasm. 
 
 In a short time the French were dispossessed, not only 
 of all the territories in dispute, but of Quebec, and her an- 
 cient province of Canada ; so that all which remained to her 
 of her numerous settlements in North America, was New- 
 Orleans, with a few plantations on the Mississippi. Full of 
 youth and spirit, the gallant General Wolf, who led the Eu- 
 ropean and colonial troops to victory ,,fell before the walls of 
 Quebec, in the moment of sticcess. In 1762, hostilities hav- 
 ing raged nearly eight years, a general peace was concluded : 
 France ceded Canada, and Spain relinquished, as the price of 
 recovering Havana, which had been taken by the British, 
 both the Floridas to Great Britain.' 
 
 Difficulties between Great Britain and the Colonies, and 
 the consequent War of the Revolution. 
 
 ALTHOUGH the American colonies had principally con- 
 tributed to the great extension of the rjower of Great Britain, 
 co-operating with the vigilance of mord than four hundred 
 cruisers on the sea, and furnishing more than twenty-four 
 thousand soldiers ; yet the latter regarded her plantations as 
 mere instruments in her hands. On the contrary, the higk 
 sentiments of liberty and independence nurtured in the co- 
 lonies from their local situation and habits, were increased 
 by the removal of hostile neighbors. Ideas favorable to in- 
 dependence increased ; and whilst combustible materials were 
 collecting in the new world, a brand- to enkindle them wa 
 preparing in the old. 
 
 In 1765, under the auspices of the minister, George 
 
248 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 Grenville, the obnoxious stamp act passed in the British par 
 liament, by which the instruments of writing in daily use 
 were to be null and void, unless, executed on paper or parch- 
 ment stamped with a specific duty : law documents, leases, 
 deeds and indentures, newspapers and advertisements, alma- 
 nacs and pamphlets, executed and printed in America, all 
 must contribute to the British treasury. 
 
 The bill did not pass without the decided opposition of 
 patriots in the British legislature, who foretold the result, and 
 who declared that, the colonies being planted by British op- 
 pression, and having assisted the mother country, ihe mother 
 nad no claim on the child to derive from it a revenue. The 
 bill did not take effect until seven months after its passage ; 
 thus giving the colonists an opportunity of leisurely exami- 
 ning and viewing the subject on every side. 
 
 They were struck with silent consternation ; but the 
 voice of opposition was first heard in Virginia. Patrick 
 Henry, on the 20th of May, brought into the house of bur- 
 gesses in that colony, a number of resolutions, which were 
 adopted, and which concluded with declaring, " That every 
 individual, who, by speaking or acting, should assert or main- 
 tain that any person or body of men, except the general as- 
 sembly of the province, had any right to impose taxation 
 there, should be deemed an enemy to his majesty's colony." 
 These resolutions were immediately disseminated 
 through the other provinces, the tongues and the pens of 
 well-informed men labored in the holy cause, the fire of liber- 
 ty blazed forth from the press. The assembly of Massachusetts 
 passed a resolution in favor of a continental congress, and 
 fixed a day for its meeting at New-York, in Octobe Th 
 other colonies, with the exception of four, ao e/ie- ,ue mrita 
 lion, and assembled at the appointed place. Here they agreed 
 on a declaration of their rights. There was, however, a 
 considerable degree of timidity evinced in this congress. 
 The boldest and most impressive arguments were offered by 
 James Otis of Massachusetts. 
 
 The time arrived for the act to take effect ; and the aver- 
 sion to it was expressed in still stronger terms throughout 
 the colonies. By a common consent, its provisions were dis- 
 regarded, and business was conducted, in defiance of the par- 
 liament, as if no stamp act was in .existence: associations 
 were formed against importing British manufactures until 
 the law should be repealed ; and lawyers were prohibited 
 from instituting any action for money due to any inhabitant 
 of England. 
 
 The spirited conduct of the colonists affecting the ia- 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 240 
 
 terests of the British merchants, had the desired effect. 
 Warm discussions took place in, the British parliament, and 
 the ablest speakers in both houses denied the justice of tax- 
 ing the colonies. The opposition could not be withstood j 
 and in March, 1766, the law was repealed. Simultaneously, 
 however, with repealing this act, the British Parliament 
 passed another, declaring that the British parliament had a 
 right to make laws binding the colonies in all cases what- 
 ever; and soon after another bill was passed, imposing in 
 the colonies duties on glass, paper, painters' colors, and tea. 
 
 The fire of opposition was now rekindled with addition- 
 al ardor, by the same principle, exhibited in its new form. 
 The best talents throughout the colonies were engaged in 
 the public prints and in pamphlets, to work up the public feel- 
 ing against the arbitrary measures of the British parliament-. 
 New associations were formed to suspend the importation of 
 British manufactures. The Massachusetts assembly, having 
 passed resolutions to this effect) drew forth the marked dis- 
 pleasure of the crown ; and) on their refusal to cancel their 
 resolutions, were dissolved. 
 
 In 1768, Mr. Hancock's sloop Liberty was seized at 
 Boston, for not entering all the wines she had brought from 
 Madeira : this inflamed the populace to a high degree of re- 
 sentment. Soon afterwards* two British regiments, and 
 some armed vessels, were sent to Boston, to assist the reve- 
 nue officers. The parliament, encouraged by the expectation 
 of quelling the refractory by their arms, continued to dissolve 
 the opposing assemblies j but the colonies remained firm in 
 their purposes. 
 
 Lord North succeeded the Duke of Grafton, as British 
 premier in 1770 ; and the act was repealed imposing a duty 
 on glass, paper, and painters' colors ; but that on tea was re a 
 tained. Some slight prospect of allaying the difficulties sue^- 
 ceeded. But on the second of March an affray took place in 
 Boston, between a private soldier and an inhabitant. This 
 was succeeded, in a few days afterwards, by a mob meeting 
 a party of British soldiers under arms, who were dared to 
 fire, and who at length did fire, and killed five persons. The 
 captain who commanded, and the troops who fired, were 
 afterwards tried for murder, and acquitted. 
 
 Things continued in this mode of partial irritation 
 until 1773, when the British East India Company were au* 
 thorized to export their tea to all places, free of duty. As this 
 would enable them to sell that article cheaper in America, 
 with the government exactions, than they had before sold it 
 without them, it was confidently calculated that teas might 
 
 14' 
 
260 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 be extensively disposed of in the colonies. Large consign- 
 ments of tea were sent to various ports, and agents appoint- 
 ed lor its disposal. 
 
 The consignees, in several places, were compelled to 
 relinquish their appointments. Popular vengeance prevented 
 the landing at New York or Philadelphia. In Boston it was 
 otherwise. The tea for the supply of that port was consign- 
 ed to the sons and particular friends of Governor Hutchin- 
 sbn. The tea was landed by the strenuous exertions of the 
 governor and consignees. But soon a party of men. dressed 
 as Indians boarded the tea ships, broke open the cargoes, 
 and threw the contents into the sea. 
 
 Enraged against the people of Boston, the parliament 
 resolved to take legislative vengeance on that devoted town. 
 Disregarding the forms of the British constitution, by which 
 none are to be punished without trial, they passed a bill, 
 closing, in a commercial sense, its port: its custom house 
 and trade were soon after removed to Salem. The charter 
 of the colony was new modelled, so that the whole executive 
 government was taken from the people, and the nomination 
 to all important offices vested in the crown ; and it was en- 
 acted, that if any person was indicted for any capital offense 
 committed in aiding the magistrates, he might be sent to 
 Great Britain or another colony for trial. 
 
 Property, liberty, and life, Were thus subject to minis- 
 terial caprice. The parliament went still farther, and passed 
 an act extending the boundaries of Canada, southward td 
 the Ohio, westward to the Mississippi, and northward to the 
 borders of the Hudson's Bay Company, assimilating its laws 
 witk the French, which dispensed with the trial by jury, 
 and rendering the inhabitants passive agents in the hands of 
 power. 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 261 
 
 The same subject ctilitinued. 
 
 Tilt flame was now kindled In every breast ; and asso- 
 ciations were formed, and committees of correspondence 
 were established, which produced a unity of thought and 
 action throughout the colonies. General Gage, the British 
 commander in chief, arrived in Boston, in 1774, with more 
 troops, with the avowed intention of dragooning the refrac- 
 tory Bostonians into compliance. A general sympathy was 
 excited for the suffering inhabitants of Boston : addresses 
 poured in from all quarters; Marblehead offered to the Bos- 
 ton merchants the use of their wharves, and Salem refused 
 to adopt the trade, the offer of which had been proffered as a 
 temptation to her cupidity. 
 
 Affairs rapidly approached a crisis. The preparations 
 for offense and defense, induced General Gage to fortify 
 Boston, and to seize on the powder lodged at the arsenal at 
 Charlestowh. 
 
 In September, deputies from most of the fcolonies met 
 in congress, at Philadelphia. These delegates approved of 
 the conduct of the people of Massachusetts ; wrote a letter 
 to General Gage; published a declaration of rights; formed 
 an association not to import or use British goods ; sent a 1 
 petition to the king of Great Britain; an address to the in-, 
 habitants of that kingdom ; another to the inhabitants of 
 Canada; and another to the inhabitants of the colonies. In 
 the beginning of the next year, (1775,) wflts passed thejisfieri/ 
 bill, by which the northern colonies Were forbidden to fisri 
 on the banks of Newfoundland for a certain time. This 
 bore hard upon the commerce of these colonies, which was 1 
 in a great measure supported by the fishery. 
 
 Soon after, another bill was passed, which restrained 
 the trade of the middle and southern colonies to Great 
 Britain, Ireland, and the West Indies, except under certain 
 conditions. These repeated acts of oppression on the part 
 of Great Britain, alienated the affections of America from 
 her parent and sovereign, and produced a combined opposi- 
 tion to the whole system df taxation. Preparations began to 
 be made to oppose by force the execution of these acts of 
 parliament. The militia of the country were trained to the 
 use of arms great encouragement was given to the manu- 
 facture of gunpowder, and measures Were taken to obtaiii 
 all kinds of military stores. 
 
252 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 In February, Colonel Leslie was sent with a detach- 
 ment of troops from Boston, to take possession of some can- 
 non at Salem. But the people had intelligence of the design 
 took up the drawbridge in that town, and prevented the 
 troops from passing, until the cannon were secured; so that 
 the expedition failed. In April, Colonel Smith and Major 
 Pitcairn were sent with a body of troops, to destroy the mi- 
 litary stores which had been collected at Concord, about 
 twenty miles from Boston. At Lexington the militia were 
 collected on a green, to oppose the incursion of the British 
 forces. These were fired upon by the British troops, and 
 eight men killed on the spot. 
 
 The militia were dispersed, and the troops proceeded to 
 Concord, where they destroyed a few stores. But on their 
 return they were incessantly harassed by the Americans, 
 xvho, inflamed with just resentment, fired upon them from 
 houses aiid fences, and pursued them to Boston. Here was 
 spilled the first blood in the war which severed America from 
 the British empire, Lexington opened the first scene of the 
 great drama, which, in its progress, exhibited the most illus 
 trious characters and events, and closed with a revolution 
 equally glorious fur the actors, and important in its conse 
 quences to the human race. 
 
 This battle roused all America. The militia collected 
 from all quarters, and Boston was in a few days besieged by 
 twenty thousand men. A stop was put to all intercourse be- 
 tween the town and country, and the inhabitants were re- 
 duced to great want of provisions. General Gage promised 
 to let the people depart, if they would deliver up their arms. 
 The people complied; but when the general had obtained 
 their arms, he refused to let the people go. 
 
 In the mean time, a small number of men, under the 
 command of Colonel Allen and Colonel Easton, without any 
 public orders, surprised and took the British garrison at Ti 
 conderoga without the loss of a man. 
 
 9. In June following, our troops attempted to fortify Bun- 
 ker's Hill, which lies in Charlestown, and but a mile and a 
 half from Boston. They had during the night thrown up a 
 small breastwork, which sheltered them from the fire of the 
 British cannon. But the next morning, the British army 
 was sent to drive them from the hill ; and landing under 
 cover of their cannon, they set fire to Charlestown, which 
 was consumed, and marched to attack our troops in the en- 
 trenchments. 
 
 A severe engagement ensued, in which the British suf- 
 fered a very great loss, both of officers and privates. They 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 253 
 
 were repulsed at first, and thrown into disorder; but they 
 finally carried the fortification with the point of the bayonet. 
 The Americans suffered a small loss compared with the Bri- 
 tish ; but the death of the brave General Warren, who fell 
 in the action, a martyr to the cause of his country, was se- 
 verely felt and universally lamented. 
 
 About this time, the continental congress appointed 
 George Washington, Esq. to the chief command of the con- 
 tinental arrny. This gentleman had been a distinguished 
 and successful officer in the preceding war, and he seemed 
 destined by Heaven to be the savior of his country. He ac- 
 cepted the appointment with a diffidence which was proof 
 of his prudence aud his greatness. He refused any pay for 
 eight years laborious and arduous service ; and by his match- 
 less skill, fortitude, and perseverance, conducted America, 
 through indescribable difficulties, to independence and peace. 
 While true merit is esteemed, or virtue honored, mankind 
 will never cease to revere the memory of this hero ; and 
 while gratitude remains in the human breast, the praises of 
 WASHINGTON shall dwell on every American tongue. 
 
 General Washington, with other officers appointed by 
 congress, arrived at Cambridge, and took command of the 
 American army in July. From this time, the affairs of 
 America began to assume the appearance of a regular and 
 general opposition to the forces of Great Britain. 
 
 In autumn, a body of troops, under the command of 
 General Montgomery, besieged and took the garrison at St. 
 John's, which commands the entrance into Canada. The 
 prisoners amounted to about seven hundred. General Mont- 
 gomery pursued his success, and took Montreal, and design- 
 ed to push his victories to Quebec. A body of troops, com- 
 manded by Arnold, was ordered to march to Canada by the 
 river Kennebec, and through the wilderness. After suffering 
 every hardship, and the most distressing hunger, they ar- 
 rived in Canada, and were joined by General Montgomery 
 oefore Quebec. 
 
 This city, which was commanded by Governor Carle- 
 ton, was immediately besieged. But there being little hope 
 of taking the town by a siege, it was determined to storm it. 
 The attack was made on the last day of December, but 
 proved unsuccessful, and fatal to the brave general, who with 
 his aid was killed in attempting to scale the walls. Of the 
 three divisions which attacked the town, one only entered, 
 and that was compelled to surrender to superior force. After 
 this defeat, Arnold who now commanded the troops, conti- 
 oued some months before Quebec, although his troops suffer- 
 
254 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 ed incredibly by cold and sickness. But the next spring the 
 Americans were obliged to retreat from Canada. 
 
 About this time the large and flourishing town of 
 Norfolk, in Virginia, was wantonly burnt by order of Lord 
 Dunmore, the royal governor. General Gage went to 
 England in September, and was succeeded in command by 
 General Howe, Falmouth, a considerable town in the pro- 
 vince of Maine, in Massachusetts, shared the fate of Norfolk; 
 being laid in ashes by order of the British admiral. 
 
 The British king entered into treaties with some of 
 the German princes for about seventeen thousand men, who 
 were to be sent to America the next year, to assist in subdu- 
 ing the colonies. The British Parliament also passed an act, 
 forbidding all intercourse with America ; and while they 
 repealed the Boston port and fishery bills, they declared all 
 American property on the high seas forfeited to the captors. 
 
 This act induced congress to change the mode of car- 
 rying on the war ; and measures were taken to annojr the 
 enemy in Boston. For this purpose batteries were opened 
 on several hills, from whence shot and bombs were thrown 
 into the town. But th batteries which were opened on 
 Dorchester point had the best effect, and soon obliged general 
 Howe to abandon the town. In March. 1776, the British 
 troops embarked for Halifax, and general Washington en- 
 tered the town in triumph: 
 
 In the ensuing summer, a small squadron of ships; 
 under the command of sir Peter Parker, and a body of troops 
 under the generals Clinton and Cornwallis, attempted to 
 take Charleston, the capital of South Carolina. The ships 
 made a violent attack upon the fort on Sullivan's island, but 
 were repulsed with great loss, and the expedition wai 
 abandoned. 
 
 The same subject continued. 
 
 IN July, 1776, congress published their Declaration of 
 Independence, which forever separated America from Great 
 Britain. This great event took place two hundred and 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 255 
 
 eighty-four years after the first discovery of America by 
 Columbus one hundred and seventy from the first effect- 
 ual settlements in Virgin ia and one hundred and fifty-six 
 from the first settlement of Plymouth in Massachusetts, 
 which were the earliest English settlements in America; 
 Just after this declaration, General Howe, with a powerful 
 force, arrived near New-York, and landed the troops upon 
 Staten Island. General Washington was in New-York, with 
 about thirteen thousand men, encamped either in the city, 01 
 in the neighboring fortifications. 
 
 The operations of the Briiish began by the action on 
 Long Island, in the month of August. The Americans were 
 defeated, and General Sullivan and Lord Sterling, with A 
 large body of men, were made prisoners. The night after 
 the engagement, a retreat was ordered, and executed with 
 such silence, that the Americans left the Island without 
 alarming their enemies, and without loss. In September, 
 the city of New-York was abandoned by the American ar- 
 my, and taken by the British. 
 
 In November, fort Washington, on York Island, was 
 tanen, and more than two thousand men made prisoners. 
 Fort Lee, opposite to Fort Washington, on the Jersey shore, 
 was soon after taken, but the garrison escaped. About the 
 same time, General Clinton was sent, with a body of troops, 
 to take possession of Rhode Island, and succeeded. In ad- 
 dition to all these losses and defeats, the American army 
 suffered by desertion, and more by sickness, which was ep- 
 idemic, and very mortal. 
 
 The northern army, at Ticonderoga, was in a disagreea- 
 ble situation, particularly after the battle on Lake Champlain, 
 in which the American force consisting^of a few light vessels 
 under the command of Arnold and General Waterbury, was 
 totally dispersed. But General Carleton, instead of pursu- 
 ing his victory, landed at Crown Point, reconnoitered our 
 posts at Ticonderoga and Mount Independence, and returned 
 to winter quarters in Canada. 
 
 At the close of this year, the American army was 
 dwindled to a handful of men ; and General Lee was taken 
 prisoner in New-Jersey. Far from being discouraged at 
 these losses, congress took measures to raise and establish an 
 army. In this critical situation, General Washington sur- 
 prised and took a large body of Hessians, who were canton- 
 ed at Trenton j and soon after, another body of the British 
 troops, at Princeton. The address in planning and executing 
 ,hese enterprises, reflected the highest honor on the com- 
 jiander and the success revived the desponding hopeg f 
 
56 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 America. The loss of General Mercer, a gallant officer, at 
 Princeton, was the principal circumstance that allayed thd 
 joy of victory. 
 
 The following year (1777) was distinguished by very 
 memorable events in favor of America. On the opening of 
 the campaign, governor Tryon was sent, with a body of 
 troops, to destroy the stores at Danbury, in Connecticut. 
 The plan was executed, and the town mostly burnt. 
 The enemy suffered in their retreat, and the Americans lost 
 general Wooster, a brave and experienced officer. General 
 Prescott was taken from nis quarters on Rhode Island, by 
 the address and enterprise of Col. Barton, and conveyed 
 prisoner to the continent. 
 
 General Burgoyne, who commanded the northern 
 British army, took possession of Ticonderoga, which had 
 been abandoned by the Americans; He pushed his successes, 
 crossed lake George, and encamped upon the banks of the 
 Hudson, near Saratoga. His progress was however checked 
 by the defeat of Colonel Baum, near Bennington, in which 
 the undisciplined militia of Vermont under General Stark, 
 displayed unexampled bravery and captured almost the 
 whole detachment. 
 
 The militia assembled from all parts of New England, 
 to stop the progress of General Burgoyne. These, with the 
 regular troops, formed a respectable army, commanded by 
 General Gates. After two severe actions, in which the 
 generals Lincoln and Arnold behaved with uncommon gal- 
 lantry, and were wounded. General Burgoyne found himself 
 enclosed with brave troops, and was forced to surrender his 
 whole army, amounting to seventhousand men, into the 
 hands of the Americans. This happened in October. This 
 event diffused a universal joy over America, and laid a foun- 
 dation for the treaty with France. 
 
 But before these transactions, the main body of the Bri- 
 tish forces had embarked at New^-York, sailed up the Chesa- 
 peake, and landed at the head of Elk River. The army soon 
 began their march for Philadelphia* General Washington 
 had determined to oppose them, and for this purpose made a 
 stand upon the heights near Brandywine Creek. Here the 
 armies engaged, and the Americans were overpowered, and 
 suifered great loss. 
 
 The enemy soon pursued their march, and took pos- 
 session of Philadelphia toward the close of September. Not 
 long after, the two armies were again engaged at German- 
 town, and in the beginning of the action the Americans had 
 Jic advantage j but by some unlucky accident, the fortune of 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 25V 
 
 the day was turned in favor of the British. Both sides suf- 
 fered considerable loss ; oa the side of the Americans was 
 General Nash. 
 
 In an attack upon the forts at Mud Island and Red 
 Bank, the Hessians were unsuccessful, and their commander, 
 Colonel Donop, killed. The British also lost the Augusta, a 
 ship of the line. But the forts were afterwards taken, and 
 the navigation of the Delaware opened. General Washing- 
 ton was reinforced with part of the troops which had com- 
 posed the northern army, under General Gates ; and both 
 armies retired to winter quarters. 
 
 In October, the same month in which General Burgoyne 
 was taken at Saratoga, General Vaughan, with a small fleet, 
 sailed up Hudson's River, and wantonly burnt Kingston, a 
 beautiful Dutch settlement, on the west side of the river. 
 
 ] 3. The beginning of the next year ( 1778) was distinguish- 
 ed by a treaty of alliance between France and America ; br 
 which we obtained a powerful ally. When the Englisn 
 ministry was informed that this treaty was on foot, they 
 dispatched commissioners to America to attempt a reconcilia- 
 tion. But America would not now accept their offers. Early 
 in the spring, Count de Estaing, with a fleet of fifteen sail of 
 the line, was sent by the court of France, to assist America. 
 
 General Howe left the Army, and returned to England ; 
 the command then devolved upon Sir Henry Clinton. In 
 June, the British army left Philadelphia, and marched for 
 New-York. On their march they were much annoyed by 
 the Americans ; and at Monmouth a very regular action took 
 place between part of the armies; the enemy were repulsed 
 with great loss; and had General Lee obeyed his orders, a 
 signal victory must have been obtained. General Lee, for 
 his ill conduct that day, was suspended, and was never 
 afterwards permitted to join the army. 
 
 In August, General Sullivan, with a large body of 
 troops, attempted to take possession of Rhode Island, but did 
 not succeed. Soon after the stores and shipping at Bedford, 
 in Massachusetts, were burnt by a party of British troops. 
 The same year, Savannah, the capital of Georgia, was taken 
 by the British, under the command of Colonel Campbell. 
 In the following year, (1779,) General Lincoln was appointed 
 to the command of the southern army. Governor Tryon 
 and Sir George Collier made an incursion into Connecticut, 
 and burnt with wanton barbarity, the towns of Fairfield and 
 Nor walk. 
 
 But the American arms were crowned with success in 
 * bold attack upon Stony Point, which was surprised and 
 
258 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 taken by General Wayne, in the night of the 15th of July 
 Five hundred men were made prisoners, with a small loss on 
 either side. A party of British forces attempted, this sum- 
 mer, to build a fort on Penobscot River, for the purpose of 
 cutting timber in the neighboring forests. A plan was laid, 
 by Massachusetts, to dislodge them, and a considerable fleet 
 collected for the purpose. But the plan failed of success, 
 and the whole marine force fell into the hands of the British, 
 except some vessels which were burnt by the Americans 
 themselves. 
 
 In October, General Lincoln and Count de Estaing 
 made an assault upon Savannah; but they were repulsed 
 with considerable loss. In this action, the celebrated Polish 
 Count Polaski, who had acquired the reputation of a brave 
 soldier, was mortally wounded. In this summer, General 
 Sullivan marched with a body of troops into the Indian 
 country, and burnt and destroyed all their provisions and 
 settlements that fell in his way. 
 
 On the opening of the campaign, the next year, (1780,) 
 the British troops left Rhode Island. An expedition under 
 General Clinton and Lord Cornwallis, was undertaken 
 against Charleston, South Carolina, where General Lincoln 
 commanded. This town, after a close siege of about six 
 weeks, was surrendered to the Britsh commander; and Gene- 
 ral Lincoln, and the whole American garrison, were made 
 prisoners. 
 
 General Gates was appointed to the command in the 
 soutnern department and another army collected. In August, 
 Lord Cornwallis attacked the American troops at Camden, 
 in South Carolina, and routed them with considerable loss. 
 He afterwards marched through the southern states, and 
 supposed them entirely subdued. The same summer, the 
 British troops made frequent incursions from New-York into 
 the Jerseys, ravaging and plundering the country. In some 
 of these descents, the Rev. Mr. Caldwell, a respectable cler- 
 gyman and warm patriot, and his lady, were inhumanly 
 murdered by the savage soldiery. 
 
 In July, a French fleet, under Monsieur de Ternay, 
 nrith a body of land forces, commanded by Count de Rocham- 
 beau, arrived at Rhode Island, to the great joy of the Ame- 
 ricans. 
 
 This year was also distinguished by the infamous trea- 
 
 ,son of Arnold. General Washington having some businesi 
 
 to transact at Wetherstield, in Connecticut, left Arnold to 
 
 command the important post of West Point, which guard* 
 
 a pass in Hudson's River, about sixty miles from N?/w-York. 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 259 
 
 Arnold's conduct in the city of Philadelphia, the preceding 
 winter had been censured, and the treatment he received in 
 consequence had given him offense. He determined to have 
 revenge : and for this purpose he entered into a negotiation 
 with Sir Henry Clinton, to deliver West Point and the army 
 into the hands of the British. 
 
 While General Washington was absent, he dismount- 
 ed the cannon in some of the forts, and took other steps to 
 render the taking of the post easy for the enemy. But by 
 a providential discovery the whole plan was defeated. Ma- 
 jor Andre, aid to General Clinton, a brave officer, who had 
 been up the river as a spy, to concert the plan of operations 
 with Arnold, was taken, condemned by a court-martial, and 
 executed. Arnold made his escape by getting on board the 
 Vulture, a British vessel which lay in the river. His conduct 
 has stamped him with infamy, and, like all traitors, he is 
 despised by all mankind. General Washington arrived in 
 camp just after Arnold had made his escape, and restored 
 order in the garrison. 
 
 After the defeat of General Gates, in Carolina, General 
 Green was appointed to the command in the southern de- 
 partment. From this period, things in this quarter wore a 
 more favorable aspect. Colonel Tarleton, the active com- 
 mander of the British legion, was defeated by General Mor- 
 gan, the intrepid commander of the riflemen. After a variety 
 of movements, the two armies met Guilford, in North 
 Carolina. Here was one of the best fought actions during 
 the war. General Greene and Lord Cornwallis exerted 
 themselves, at the head of their respective armies; and al- 
 though the Americans were obliged to retire from the field 
 of bactle, yet the British army suffered an immense loss, and 
 could not pursue the victory. This action happened on thd 
 15th of March, 1781. 
 
 In the spring, Arnold, who was made a brigadier-gene- 
 ral in the British service, with a small number of troops, 
 sailed for Virginia, and plundered the country. This called 
 the attention *f the French fleet to that quarter, and a naval 
 engagement took place, between the English and French, in 
 which some of the English ships were much damaged, and 
 one entirely disabled. 
 
 After the battle of Guilford, General Greene moved 
 toward South Carolina, to drive the British from their posts 
 in that state. Here Lord Rawdon obtained an inconsiderable 
 advantage over the Americans, near Camden. But General 
 Greene more than recovered this disadvantage, by the bril- 
 liant and successful action at the Eutaw Springs, where! 
 
260 AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 General Marion distinguished himself, and th? brave 
 Colonel Washington was wounded and taken prisoner. 
 Lord Cornwallis, finding General Greene successful in Ca- 
 rolina, marched to Virginia, collected his forces, and fortified 
 himself in Yorktown. 
 
 In the mean time, Arnold made an incursion into Con- 
 necticut, burnt a part of New London, took Fort Griswold 
 by storm, and put the garrison to the sword. The garrison 
 consisted chiefly of men suddenly collected from the little 
 town of Groton, which, by the savage cruelty of the British 
 officer who commanded the attack, lost, in one hour, almost 
 all its heads of families. The brave Colonel Ledyard, who 
 commanded the fort, was slain with his own sword after he 
 had surrendered. 
 
 The Marquis de la Fayetle, the brave and generous no- 
 bleman, whose services command the gratitude of every 
 American, had been despatched from the main army to watch 
 the motions of Lord Cornwallis, in Virginia. About the last 
 of August, Count de Grasse arrived with a large fleet in the 
 Chesapeake, and blocked up the British troops at Yorktown. 
 Admiral Greaves, with a British fleet, appeared off the Capes, 
 and an action succeeded, but it was not decisive. 
 
 General Washington had before this time moved the 
 main body of his army, together with the French troops, to 
 the southward ; and, as soon as he heard of the arrival of the 
 French fleet in the Chesapeake, he made rapid marches to 
 the head of the Elk, where, embarking, the troops soon ar- 
 rived at Yorktown. A close siege immediately commenced, 
 and was carried on with such vigor by the combined forces 
 of America and France, that Lord Cornwallis was obliged to 
 surrender. 
 
 This glorious event, which took place on the 19th of 
 October, 1781, decided the contest in favor of America, and 
 laid the foundation of a general peace. A few months after 
 the surrender of Cornwallis, the British evacuated all their 
 posts in South Carolina and Georgia, and retired to the main 
 army in New-York. 
 
 The next spring, (1782,) Sii Guy Carlton arrived in 
 New- York, and took command of the British army in Ameri- 
 ca. Immediately after his arrival, he acquainted General 
 Washington and congress, that negotiations for a peace had 
 been commenced at Paris. On the 30th of November, 1782, 
 the provisional articles of peace were signed at Paris, by 
 which Great Britain acknowleged the independence and 
 sovereignty of the United States of America. 
 
 Thus ended a long and arduous conflict, in which Great 
 
DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 261 
 
 Britain expended near a hundred millions of money, with a 
 hundred thousand lives, and won nothing. America endured 
 every cruelty and distress from her enemies lost many lives 
 and much treasure but delivered herself from a foreign do- 
 minion, and gained a rank among the nations of the earth, 
 mm 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE, 
 
 By the epresentatives of the United States of America, in 
 Congress -assembled, July 4, ] 776. 
 
 WHEN, in the course of human events, it becomes neces- 
 sary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have 
 connected them with another, and to assume among the pow- 
 ers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the 
 laws of mtureand of nature's God entitle them a decent re- 
 spect for the opinions of mankind requires, that they should 
 declare the causes which impel them to the separation. 
 
 We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are 
 treated equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with 
 certain unalienable rights ; that among these are life, liberty 
 and the pursuit of happiness. That, to secure these rights, 
 governments are instituted among men, deriving their just 
 powers from the consent of the governed ; that when any 
 form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is 
 the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute 
 new government, laying its foundation on such principles, 
 snd organizing its powers in such form as to them shall seem 
 
262 DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 most likely to affect their saftety and happiness. Prudence, 
 indeed, will dictate, that governments long established, 
 should not be changed for Jig-In and transient causes; and 
 accordingly, all experience hath shown, that mankind are 
 more disposed to suiler, while evils are sufferable, than to 
 right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are 
 accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpa- 
 tions, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design 
 to reduce'them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it 
 is their duty-, to throw off such government, and to provide 
 new guards for their future security. Such has been the pa- 
 tient sufferance of these colonies ; and such is now the ne- 
 cessity which constrains them to alter their former system 
 of government. The history of the present king of Great 
 Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all 
 having in direct object the establishment of an absolute 
 tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be sub- 
 mitted to a candid world. 
 
 He has refused his assent to laws the most wholesome 
 and necessary for the public good. 
 
 He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate 
 and pressing importance, unless suspended in their opera- 
 tion till his assent should be obtained; and when so sus- 
 pended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them. 
 
 He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation 
 of large districts of people, unless those people would re- 
 linquish the right of representation in the legislature a right 
 inestimable to them, and formidable to tyrants only. 
 
 He has called together legislative bodies, at places un- 
 usual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of 
 their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them 
 into compliance with his measures. 
 
 He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for op- 
 posing with manly firmness, his invasions on the rights of 
 the people. 
 
 He has refused for a long time after such dissolutions, to 
 cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, 
 incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at 
 large for their exercise ; the state remaining, in the mean- 
 time, exposed to all the danger of invasion from without, and 
 convulsions within. 
 
 He has endeavored to prevent the population of these 
 states ; for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturaliza- 
 tion of foreigners ; refusing to pass others to encourage their 
 migration hither, and raising the conditions of new appro- 
 priations ef lands. 
 
DECLARATION OP INDEPENDENCE. 26 
 
 He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing 
 his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers. 
 
 He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the 
 tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their 
 salaries. 
 
 He has erected a multitude of offices, and sent here swarms 
 of officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance. 
 
 He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies, 
 without the consent of our legislatures. 
 
 He has affected to render tine military independent of, and 
 superior to, the ciy.il power. 
 
 He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdic- 
 tion, foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our 
 laws ; giving his assent to their a,cts of pretended legislation : 
 
 For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us : 
 
 For protecting them by a mock trial, from punishment for 
 any murder they should commit on the inhabitants of these 
 states : 
 
 For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world : 
 
 For imposing tajfes on us without our consent : 
 
 For depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of trial by 
 jury: 
 
 For transporting us beyond seas, to be tried for pretended 
 offenses : 
 
 For abolishing the free system of English law in a neigh- 
 boring province, establishing therein an arbitrary govern- 
 ment, and enlarging its boundaries so as to render it at once 
 an example and fit instrument for introducing the same ab- 
 solute rule in these colonies : 
 
 For taking away our charters, abolishing our most valu- 
 able laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our 
 governments : 
 
 For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring them- 
 selves invested with power to, legislate for us in all cases 
 whatsoever : 
 
 He has abdicated government here, by declaring us out of 
 his protection, arid waging war against us. 
 
 He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our 
 towns, and destroyed the lives of our people. 
 
 He is, at this time, transporting large armies of foreign 
 mercenaries, to complete the works of death, desolation and 
 tyranny, already begun, with circumstances of cruelty and 
 perfidy, scarcely paralleled in th.e most barbarous ages, and 
 totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation. 
 
 He has constrained our fellow citizens, taken captive on 
 the high seas, to bear arms against their country, to become 
 
264 DECLARATION OP INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall 
 themselves by their hands. 
 
 He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has 
 endeavored to faring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the 
 merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare is an 
 undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions. 
 
 la every stage of these oppressions, we have petitioned 
 for redress, in the most humble terms : our petitions have 
 been answered only by repeated injury. A prince whose 
 character is thus marked, by every act which may define a 
 tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. 
 
 Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British 
 brethren. We have warned them, from time to time, of at- 
 tempts made by their legislature, to extend an unwarrantable 
 jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the cir- 
 cumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We 
 have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and 
 we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred, 
 to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably inter- 
 rupt our connexions and correspondence. They, too, have 
 been deaf to the voice of justice and consanguinity. We 
 must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces 
 our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of man- 
 kind enemies in war in peace, friends. 
 
 We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of 
 America, in general congress assembled, appealing to the 
 Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our inten- 
 tions, do, in the name and by the authority of the good peo- 
 ple of, these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that 
 these united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and 
 independent states ; that they are absolved from all allegi- 
 ance to the British crown, and that all political connexion 
 between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought 
 to be totally dissolved ; and that as free arid independent 
 states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, con- 
 tract alliances, establish commerce, and do all other acts and 
 things which independent states may of right do. And for 
 the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the 
 protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each 
 other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. 
 
 Signed by order and in behalf of the Congress. 
 
 JOHN HANCOCK, President. 
 Attest, CHARLES THOMPSON, Secretary. 
 
 New Hampshire Josiah Bartlett William Whipple, Ma-, 
 thew Thornton. 
 
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