THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND 
 MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID 
 
THE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 F. W. P. GREENWOOD, D. D. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 CHARLES C. LITTLE AND JAMES BROWN. 
 
 MDCCCXLVI. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 
 
 MARIA GREENWOOD, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the District of Massa 
 chusetts. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOLLES, 
 
 DEVONSHIRE STREET. 
 
AC? 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IN accordance with the wish of some of the friends 
 of my late father, I have prepared for the press the 
 following hitherto scattered pieces of his composition. 
 They were originally published, during his lifetime, 
 in the various periodicals of the day ; and are deemed 
 worthy of a more accessible form than that in which 
 they have been, in effect, buried. The present volume 
 is offered to our friends in the idea that it may prove an 
 acceptable addition to those they already possess from 
 the same author, and with the hope that it will be re 
 ceived in the kind spirit they have been wont to exer 
 cise towards his writings. The articles are placed, 
 for the most part, in the order in which they first ap 
 peared. 
 
 The Journal, at the commencement of the book, 
 written during a residence in England, when ill health 
 first compelled my father to leave home, will probably 
 be read with most interest by those who knew him 
 
 M375215 
 
iV PREFACE. 
 
 intimately, and who still are disposed to take an affec 
 tionate concern in all that relates to him. Although, 
 there may be much that is new to us, in the parts of the 
 country in which he travelled, and the objects which 
 he best loved to describe, still its prevailing char 
 acteristic is the same simplicity and pleasant obser 
 vation which distinguished him in his intercourse with 
 his friends.- They may possibly find something in 
 the journal to refresh their memory of this inter 
 course. Even to less interested readers, however, I 
 hope it may not prove unacceptable. 
 
 F. w. G. 
 AUGUST 15th, 1846. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 JOURNAL. 
 
 PAGE 
 JOURNAL KEPT IN ENGLAND IS 1820-21 .... 1 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD 191 
 
 ETERNITY OF GOD . . . . . . . . .199 
 
 MILTON S PROSE WORKS 208 
 
 THE SEA . . .227 
 
 FEMALE LITERATURE 240 
 
 MORAL EDUCATION 256 
 
 RELIGION OF THE SEA ....... 278 
 
 FALLS OF THE NIAGARA 290 
 
 SPIRIT OF REFORM ......... 309 
 
 STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY 342 
 
 DUTIES OF WINTER 363 
 
 THE HOLY LAND .,,,,,,,, 375 
 
 SPRING .... 387 
 
JOUENAL KEPT IN ENGLAND 
 
 IN 1820-21. 
 
MISCELLANIES. 
 
 JOURNAL. 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 ON the first of May, A. D. 1820, I left Boston 
 for Liverpool in the packet ship Falcon. Captain 
 Lewis. I visit Europe for the benefit of my health, 
 and while abroad I shall keep a record of such 
 objects and occurrences as appear to me worthy 
 of notice and remembrance. I may, at some 
 future period, should my life be prolonged, delight 
 in retracing the steps of my pilgrimage, and re 
 visiting, in imagination, the countries from which 
 my own is separated by a rolling ocean. As my 
 journal is intended but for a few eyes beside my 
 own, I shall not hesitate to mention anything 
 because it has been mentioned before, and would 
 be trite and uninteresting to many. I shall speak 
 my impression exactly everything will be new 
 i 
 
2 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 to me, and will be interesting to those who I am 
 sure are interested in all which concerns or befalls 
 me. 
 
 May 20. This is the twentieth day since our 
 departure, and we have not yet completed a half 
 of our voyage. With the exception of two days, 
 we have had head winds all the time, and have 
 been driven several degrees to the south of our 
 proper course. The weather has been unusually 
 rough and cold, the motion of the ship is very 
 disagreeable to me, and my time has passed but 
 heavily. When the wind is not too piercing, and 
 I feel sufficiently alive, I keep upon deck and 
 amuse myself there as well as I can. I love to 
 see the fearless little nautilus spread his blue 
 ribbed sail to the wind and ride unhurt over the 
 waves and foam, and I feel quite grateful when a 
 company of porpoises will come and gambol for 
 an hour or two round the vessel. But even these 
 are sights which I see but seldom, and after I 
 have exhausted all my stock of questions about the 
 management of the ship, and the captain s stock 
 of patience too, I am afraid, by asking them, I 
 employ myself in watching the billows as they 
 curl their white tops and chase each other over 
 the deep. We have had much rain, and once it 
 was accompanied by thunder and lightning. The 
 lightning was vivid and the thunder was heavy. 
 
JOURNAL. 6 
 
 111 such times we are made to feel how weak we 
 are, and how entirely dependent upon the Great 
 Being who rules the storm. 
 
 May 29, The captain went to the maintop a 
 few minutes before 12 o clock, to-day, and soon 
 cried out " Land Ho ! " and a joyful cry it was to 
 me, for I was worn out by the rolling and pitching 
 of the vessel, which has been violent and continual, 
 and has left me not a moment of ease. The wind 
 has been favorable for the last eight days, and in 
 that time we have made more way than we did 
 for the first twenty. The land which we saw was 
 the southern coast of Ireland. It appeared at first 
 like a faint blue spot, scarcely discernible in the 
 horizon, but we went swiftly through the waters 
 and it opened fast upon us. The shore is high 
 and looks bleak and barren, and yet on the top 
 of almost every mass of rock is perched a square 
 stone tower, the residence of some Irish land 
 holder if landholder he might be called. These 
 are the first buildings of the castle kind I ever saw, 
 and as novels and poems and romances had fur 
 nished me with a multitude of associations, I 
 regarded them with the highest pleasure, although 
 the more experienced eye of an European would 
 have passed them unnoticed. In the afternoon we 
 sailed by Cape Clear, the southern extremity of 
 Ireland, and at 11 o clock at night we were abreast 
 
4 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of the lighthouse on Tuskar rock. The land 
 begins to wear a more favorable appearance, and 
 with a spyglass, I can see from the deck not only 
 the castles, churches, and huts, but the cattle and 
 hedges, and now and then a man at work in the 
 fields. This has given me very pleasant occupa 
 tion, and I have the glass in my hand till the 
 daylight dies and I can see no longer. 
 
 May 30. This afternoon we spoke with a ship 
 from Ayr, a town on the west coast of Scotland. 
 Her deck was crowded with natives of that coun 
 try, going to be disappointed in America. As I 
 looked upon them, their wives and their little ones, 
 I pitied them pitied them for the distress which , 
 I think, must have driven them from their own 
 land, and for the blighting of their hopes which 
 I know awaits them in ours. When I went to 
 bed to-night, we were passing the Holyhead and 
 Skerries lighthouses. 
 
 May 31. And when I awoke this morning it 
 was blowing a hard gale, and I saw through the 
 cabin window a pilot-boat close behind us. The 
 sea ran high, and the boat was directing our vessel 
 to a sheltered place and smoother water. The 
 little thing dancing about on the waves, her hardy 
 crew with close caps, oilcloth surtouts and bluff, 
 healthy faces the island of Anglesea just on our 
 side, with its bold rocky shores 3 clustered farm- 
 
JOURNAL. 5 
 
 houses and green fields and hedges formed a 
 view which was to me most novel and picturesque. 
 When we came into a calmer sea, our captain 
 backed his topsails, and the pilot-boat shot up 
 along side the skill with which it was steered 
 so very close under our vessel, yet without touch 
 ing her, delighted me our steward handed one 
 of the crew a bottle of rum, which appeared to be 
 a very acceptable present, and the pilot jumped 
 aboard. In a few hours we entered the Mersey, 
 but it rained so hard that I had no view of Liver 
 pool till we were just opposite to it ; and when I 
 saw it, there was nothing in its appearance which 
 struck my American eye as strange. Its houses 
 were like ours, only the bricks were much darker, 
 and it had the usual quantity of steeples, though to 
 be sure an unusual quantity of windmills. But 
 when we entered the docks, a scene presented 
 itself which was strange enough. Our pilot took 
 an elevated station, and there issued his commands 
 with a voice that stunned and a rapidity that 
 bewildered the poor sailors ; things went wrong, 
 and our ship swung round against one of the 
 piers. She was no sooner within jumping distance 
 from the shore, than a flood of ragamuffins of both 
 sexes and all ages poured in upon us, tendering 
 their unasked and needless assistance, and height 
 ening the general confusion. Our captain ran 
 1* 
 
6 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 about and puffed and scolded and swore (and to 
 his credit be it spoken, it was the first time that I 
 had heard him swear) the pilot bawled himself 
 hoarse, the ropes cracked, and all was noise and 
 chaos. In about half an hour, however, we had 
 gained a place in the King s Dock, without suffer 
 ing any damage, and the captain and myself 
 made our way over a dozen vessels, to the shore. 
 I took apartments in a private house, and after a 
 little rest walked forth to see the city, or as 
 much of it as I could in an hour or two. As I 
 passed through the streets, my attention was of 
 course directed to the ladies, and I could not help 
 observing how gracefully they walked, and how 
 much more firm, assured and elastic their step was 
 than that of my countrywomen. 
 
 June 5. I have had a bad specimen, thus far, of 
 English summer weather, for it has been rainy and 
 cold and uncomfortable ever since my arrival. On 
 Sunday evening I attended divine service at the 
 chapel of the Asylum for the Blind. The objects 
 of this charity composed the choir, and they sang 
 extremely well, to an organ which, though not 
 uncommonly large, nor uncommonly fine, perhaps, 
 for this country, was yet the finest that I had ever 
 heard. The strains which filled the church and 
 echoed from its walls affected me deeply, and I 
 could scarce restrain my tears. Independently of 
 
JOURNAL. f 
 
 the pleasure which music always gives me, it 
 brings to my mind and to my heart, more vividly 
 and touchingly than anything else can do, the 
 recollection of my distant home, my kindred and 
 my friends. The bad weather has prevented my 
 going to the Botanic Garden, which is a little way 
 out of town. 
 
 To-day I heard Sir James Smith, the author of 
 an Introduction to Botany, &c. deliver a lecture 
 on that subject at the Liverpool Royal Institution. 
 His manner pleased me, for though it cannot be 
 called fluent, as he often hesitates and trips in his 
 expressions, it is very clear, interesting and 
 instructing. He makes use of few of those hard 
 botanical terms which would only perplex a 
 promiscuous audience, and when he does use 
 them, he explains their meaning. He liberally 
 enlivens and illustrates his subject by introducing 
 notices of little botanical phenomena and nice 
 adaptations of the several parts of plants to their 
 situations and offices, by telling, in short, what 
 may be termed botanical anecdotes. And all 
 lecturers, particularly upon natural science and 
 philosophy, would do well to follow the same 
 course, if they wish to convey information and fix 
 the attention of their hearers. I was introduced 
 to this gentleman after the lecture, and he politely 
 invited me, should I pass that way, to his resi- 
 
8 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 dence in Norwich. The Liverpool Royal Insti 
 tution is on a useful though not extensive or im 
 posing plan. It is but an infant, as yet, however, 
 and if not crushed in its infancy, may come to a 
 noble manhood. In one of the rgoms of this 
 building is hung a series of original paintings, 
 exhibiting the rise and early progress of the 
 Italian School. This curious and valuable col 
 lection was formed by Mr. Roscoe and purchased 
 at the sale of his effects. This learned and worthy 
 man, this honor to Liverpool, is still so embarrassed 
 in his affairs, that he secludes himself from all com 
 pany, and I did not therefore attempt to see him. 
 
 While I was in a shop to-day, a man came in 
 to solicit charity. " The taxes are very high" said 
 the woman, " and I can give you nothing." In 
 my own country no one could have made this 
 excuse, and so the answer would have been, " I 
 can give you nothing, for the times are very hard." 
 
 June 13. For the past week I have been resid 
 ing with the family of a merchant in this place, to 
 whose hospitality I am much indebted, and for 
 which, I hope, I shall ever feel grateful. Kind 
 attentions are always highly acceptable to the 
 traveller and stranger ; but never so much so, as 
 when he leaves for the first time his own country, 
 and arrives for the first time in another, when he 
 feels doubtful of his reception, and thankful for 
 
JOURNAL. 9 
 
 the least marks of regard. The gentleman whom 
 I have mentioned owns an estate in Shropshire, 
 which he is accustomed to visit once in every 
 year ; and this being the season for his excursion, 
 I was invited to accompany the family into the 
 country. The invitation was heartily given and 
 readily accepted. I should at any rate have de 
 sired to pass a few days in the quiet of retirement, 
 enjoying the luxury of pure air, and observing 
 the manners of the English yeomanry, but beside 
 being furnished with such an opportunity, I should 
 at the same time be advanced sixty miles on 
 my way to London. We were detained by rain 
 several days after the time which was appointed 
 for our journey, but to-day, about two o clock, 
 we left Liverpool. Ourselves and carriage were 
 taken over the Mersey in a steamboat and landed 
 at Birkenhead. On the shore and a little to the 
 right of our road there are the ruins of a church 
 or abby ; but though all such things excite in me 
 a lively interest, I could not stop to inquire about 
 or examine them. In riding along I was every 
 moment reminded of my being in a foreign land. 
 The stage coaches which whirled past us, crammed 
 within and covered without, in such a manner by 
 passengers and baggage, that a stone of a middling 
 size, lying in the road and encountering a wheel, 
 would most surely have upset them the fields 
 intersected in every direction by hedges instead 
 
10 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of stone walls the cottages built of brick or 
 stone, instead of wood, and roofed with thatch in 
 stead of shingles the church steeples formed of 
 stone to the summit and patched with ivy to the 
 very weathercock all these were features in the 
 prospect which the face of my own country does 
 not present, and which therefore were strange to 
 the eyes of her son. We supped and lodged at 
 Chester. This place is remarkable on many ac 
 counts. It is of great antiquity, it is a bishop s see, 
 and it is the only city in England whose walls are 
 entire. We entered it by the north gate ; which 
 is a neat stone arch, and, as well as the other gates, 
 of modern structure. 
 
 June 14. Early this morning I took a walk 
 upon the walls. The prospect from them is on 
 all sides beautiful, and they form a delightful 
 promenade for the citizens, who, appearing to be 
 sensible of their value, at least in this respect, 
 keep them in good preservation. Between the 
 east and north gates there is a tower, joined to 
 and projecting from the walls, which bears the 
 date of 1613, and from which I copied the follow 
 ing inscription : 
 
 KING CHARLES 
 STOOD ON THIS TOWER, 
 SEPT. 24, 1645, AND SAW 
 HIS ARMY DEFEATED 
 
 ON ROWTON MOOR. 
 
JOURNAL. 1 1 
 
 This moor is about eight miles to the southeast 
 of Chester. A. locked gate, at the bottom of the 
 staircase which led to the tower, forbade my 
 ascending to it, and I was thus prevented from 
 following the footsteps of majesty. Under the 
 walls, at the western side, there is a handsome 
 race-ground ; and beauty and fashion and child 
 hood and age assemble to witness an innocent 
 contention of animal speed from the top of those 
 very battlements, where once armed men were 
 planted to meet armed men in mortal combat, 
 where the father and the husband and the son 
 and the brother and the lover, fought and strug 
 gled and bled for the lives and honor of the dear 
 ones who were trembling and weeping at home, 
 while the sudden shock of the battering engines 
 made the solid foundations reel, and instead of 
 the glad and eager cheering, there was the quick 
 command and the earnest exhortation and the 
 proud defiance and the exulting shout and the 
 dying groan. Descending from the walls, I en 
 tered what are called the Rows. These are covered 
 walks, in the principal streets, formed by a pro 
 jection of the houses, or rather by the retiring of 
 their second stories. It is as if the front rooms 
 on the second floor were given up to the public 
 by breaking down that part of the house side 
 which closed them from the street and supporting 
 
12 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the pile which was thus left hanging over, by 
 small wooden pillars. You are in this manner 
 shaded from a scorching sun, or sheltered from 
 the pelting rain or biting wind. But a stranger, 
 who is not informed beforehand of this comfort, 
 may lose the advantage of it entirely, and I had 
 taken several long walks in the narrow and dirty 
 streets, before I was told that I might walk on a 
 dry floor, and look down from an eminence of six 
 or eight feet on all their mud and bustle. I 
 shaped my course for the cathedral. It is, I was 
 informed, one of the shabbiest in the kingdom ; 
 but it was the first which I had ever seen and I 
 approached it with reverence. It is built in the 
 common form, that of a cross; and the mate 
 rial is a very soft and friable reddish-colored free 
 stone ; so soft and friable, that they are con 
 stantly repairing it ; they were at work upon it at 
 this time, and as they make use of the same kind 
 of stone in their repairs, the labor will never be 
 finished. The interior is gloomy and damp and 
 chilling, the floor is dirty, the fretted roof has 
 fallen, and left the wood- work bare. At the height 
 of twenty feet, perhaps, from the ground, there 
 is a jog in the walls on each side of about two or 
 three feet, as near as I could judge, making a 
 kind of foot-path ; and as this path is interrupted at 
 intervals by the buttresses, a small arch is made 
 
JOURNAL. 13 
 
 through each of them. These passages are the 
 galleries, and through these we may suppose that 
 the friars used to pass and repass to and from 
 their accustomed offices. I looked up and gazed 
 till I could almost imagine I saw a brother in his 
 cowl glide silently along, appearing and disap 
 pearing, till he vanished through the last aperture 
 but no they have long since been swept 
 away, and their tapers are extinguished, and their 
 chanting is hushed, and their prayers are said ; 
 and it seemed to me, at the moment, as if a 
 huge edifice like this were only fitted to the service 
 of that religion for which it was first erected ; and 
 that when her spirit had been forced to abandon 
 the sanctuary, with all her sweeping train of shows 
 and ceremonies, she had thrown back her male 
 diction on its walls, and given them up to darkness 
 and coldness and silence forever. That part of 
 the cathedral of which I have been speaking is 
 called the nave : it occupies the greater portion of 
 the building, and appears to serve no other purpose 
 than that of a grand entrance, and a receptacle 
 for tombs. Among the monumental tablets I 
 observed one to the memory of Archdeacon 
 Travis, who defended the indefensible text of the 
 three heavenly witnesses, i John v. 7, and against 
 whom Porson wrote a complete and most learned 
 reply. At the end of the great aisle, a door opens 
 2 
 
14 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 into the choir, that part of the house which is set 
 off for public worship and it is a very small 
 part. On the left side, and in the centre, is the 
 pulpit, and immediately opposite is the episcopal 
 throne, in the form of a pulpit, painted white, and 
 gilt. On the right and left of the door are the 
 pews of the dignitaries, or prebendaries stalls, 
 which are denoted on the walls by painted letters, 
 in this way, DIACONUS I. &c. In one of the 
 rooms into which I was led, and with the name of 
 which I was not acquainted though I hope to 
 grow wiser in these matters as I go along were 
 the tombs of some of the old abbots, and a large 
 stone coffin or chest inclosing a leaden one. This, 
 the boy who accompanied me said was the tomb 
 of a German emperor a story which I did not 
 see fit to believe ; but as there was no inscription, 
 and I had no other means of information, I sub 
 mitted to remain ignorant. In another room was 
 a fragment of a stone coffin, which had been dug 
 up in the cathedral, and which had contained, ac 
 cording to my guide, the ashes of Hugh Lupus, 
 the first earl of Chester. This I did believe, for 
 there was a wolf s head rudely sculptured on the 
 stone, and below it a monogram, or knot of letters, 
 which, when properly picked out and joined in 
 order together, would make, I was assured, the 
 name Hugh Lupus. This was a piece of business, 
 
JOURNAL. 15 
 
 however, for which I had no time, and giving the 
 boy a shilling I left the cathedral. 
 
 Taking up our journey, we turned from the 
 public road, in order to pass through the pretty 
 village of Gresford. Here there is an old church, 
 which, while our horses rested, my curiosity 
 prompted me to enter, mine host bearing the 
 keys. There is some delicate carved work just 
 before you come to the pulpit, and much of the 
 painted glass is preserved, and secured from future 
 injury as far as possible by wire net-work placed 
 on the outside of the windows. I noticed, beside 
 several neat monuments in the modern style, a 
 droll-looking one of the seventeenth century, 
 which immediately put me in mind of the engrav 
 ings of such funeral effigies as I had seen in mag 
 azines, &c. before I ever thought to see their origi 
 nals. It was a monument to the memory of Sir 
 Richard Trevor, who was represented in a recum 
 bent position, with his head and shoulders and the 
 pommel of his sword in one niche, and his legs and 
 the end of his sword sticking out from the side of 
 another ; while the solid space which divided these 
 niches, and severed in so sad a manner the greater 
 part of the poor knight s body, w T as dedicated to 
 the setting forth, in pure Welsh, of his virtues, 
 valor, &c. To crown the whole, his eyes, 
 cheeks, painted beard and huge whiskers, were 
 
16 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 colored, and the rest of his face left in the native 
 whiteness of the marble. He cut a most ghastly 
 figure, to be sure. Among the little spires, on the 
 top of the tower, I discerned, on coming out, a 
 number of images, some with mitres on their 
 heads, some with cowls, and some with three- 
 cornered hats and wigs. This singular company, 
 representing, as I was told, the twelve apostles, 
 were of the same height with the pyramidical 
 spires, and at a short distance could not be distin 
 guished from them. The cornice all around, under 
 the eaves of the church, was filled with all sorts of 
 animals, carved in relief: elephants, alligators, mice, 
 owls, and sundry others for which it would be hard 
 to find a name ; and the sponts which conducted 
 the water from the roof were shaped into lions 
 mouths, birds beaks and other forms, some of 
 which were indecent as well as grotesque. The 
 bells of this church are famous for their melody, 
 but we had not the good luck to hear them. We 
 stopped for the night at Overton. 
 
 June 15. At Elsemere we breakfasted, but 
 made no stay ; reached Shrewsbury to dinner, and 
 proceeded in the afternoon to Wrentnall, a small 
 township in the parish of Pulverbatch, eight miles 
 from Shrewsbury. Here lies the estate of my 
 friend, Mr. F. It is pleasantly situated on a hill, 
 and in the midst of hills. To the north-east there 
 
JOURNAL. 17 
 
 is a view of Shrewsbury, and the Wrekin lifts it 
 self up in the eastern horizon. This hill is well 
 known in connection with the well-known toast of 
 " All friends round the Wrekin." 
 
 June 20. In this retreat I have spent several 
 delightful days, and in delightful society. I have 
 a horse at my service, on whose back I explore 
 the country in all directions. The people, as far 
 as I have seen them, are moral, contented, civil 
 and obliging. They attend the parish church reg 
 ularly, where their behavior is decent and devout, 
 and bring their children with them, who are all put 
 together and instructed to read the responses 
 clearly and correctly. They are far more humble 
 in their manners than the American country-peo 
 ple ; and when they accost you in the road it is with 
 a respectful manner, with hat in hand, and not 
 with a familiar nod of equality, as is the case with 
 the New England farmer, if he thinks it worth his 
 while to accost you at all. There is such a thing 
 as being civil without being servile, I know ; but it 
 struck me that the bow of the poor man in Eng 
 land to a gentleman was rather too low to be 
 made to a being of the same order in the creation 
 as himself ; and though I am disposed to think that 
 the poor man in America is often more pert than 
 is becoming, I would rather see him err on this 
 side than on the other. Wealth and talents must 
 
 2* 
 
18 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 always make an aristocracy in society, let the form 
 of government be what it will, and they must 
 always command as much respect as is their due ; 
 the only fear is that they may exact more. There 
 is by no means so wide a difference made by na 
 ture in our race, that a tithe of mankind are to be 
 looked up to as gods and the nine other parts to 
 be spit upon as dogs ; and therefore it is, that I 
 dislike to see a man exhibit the least symptom of 
 forgetting his manhood and the respect which he 
 should pay to his own self. I am no leveller. I 
 am sure that the head should think and govern, 
 and that the hands and feet should work and walk, 
 because God and nature intended these to be their 
 proper offices. I dread a mob ; but even the ex 
 cesses of a mob are but the uneducated and misdi 
 rected impulses of a high and natural feeling, 
 which becomes dangerous and dreadful only be 
 cause it wants the means of education and direc 
 tion, and bursts forth with fury only because it 
 suffers an ignominious, galling and unnatural con 
 finement. Thus it is that in the republic of Amer 
 ica we have no fear of mobs, while in the monarch 
 ies of England and France they are under con 
 stant apprehensions from their violence. In the 
 former country, the constitution of society gives 
 to every man as much importance as he ought to 
 have, and, generally speaking, as much as he wants ; 
 
JOURNAL. 19 
 
 while, under the latter governments, the low are 
 perpetually envying the high for distinctions which 
 the high are determined to withhold from them. 
 Though I think what I have said is in general true, 
 yet I do not mean to apply it too strictly to the 
 people among whom I now reside. They certainly 
 appeared, as I have observed, to be contented, 
 and, though civil, not servile. I was led into the 
 above remarks by the difference which I observed 
 between their manners and those of my country 
 men a difference which becomes wider and 
 more remarkable when we carry our reflections 
 from the calmness of a sequestered village to 
 more extensive scenes of action, and fields where 
 the passions are more severely provoked and more 
 frequently roused. 
 
 WRENTNALL, near Shrewsbury, 
 DEAR PARENTS, JUNE 28, 1820. 
 
 This is Mr. F s country place, to which 
 
 you know I told you I was going. I left Liver 
 pool about the middle of this month, while the 
 weather was still unsettled ; and we had frequent 
 rain till some days ago, when it cleared up, and has 
 continued quite warm and dry ever since. The 
 first large town through which we came, on our 
 journey here, was Chester. It is the only city in 
 England whose w r alls are perfect. We entered 
 by one of the gates, which has been lately rebuilt, 
 
20 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and is now only an arch, without any real gate, 
 because there is now no need of one. All the 
 houses are of brick or stone, and look quite old and 
 gloomy, and the streets are narrow and very dirty. 
 It gives name to a bishoprick, and therefore has a 
 cathedral. This is a huge building, constructed of 
 a soft red stone, which the rain and the scythe of 
 father Time are continually at work upon, and it 
 was undergoing extensive repairs while I was 
 there. I found out a person to show me the in 
 side, and though it was extremely damp and shab 
 by, I was struck with its size and construction, so 
 different from the appearance of our own smaller 
 and simpler houses of worship. There are many 
 divisions of the interior space, the names of which 
 I am not yet learned enough to give you ; suffice 
 it to say, that the part devoted to religious service 
 is a very small portion of the whole. In this is 
 the bishop s throne, which is merely a gilt pulpit. 
 The floor of every part almost is made up of 
 grave-stones, so that you cannot take a step with 
 out treading over the sleepers. This cathedral is 
 many hundred years old. The top of the city 
 walls is railed in, and forms a very clean and beau 
 tiful walk, from which you have a view of the sur 
 rounding country. After we left Chester we went 
 to see Eaton Hall, the seat of Lord Grosvenor, a 
 few miles out of the city. Perhaps you know that 
 
JOURNAL. 21 
 
 a great many of the noblemen s seats are what 
 they call show-houses ; that is, they are shown at 
 certain times to visiters, by the servants, who gain 
 a very handsome perquisite by it. The old house 
 keeper of Warwick Castle, they say, has laid up 
 in her lifetime no less than thirty thousand pounds 
 by this profitable business. Eaton Hall is a mod 
 ern building of gray stone, and in the castle style. 
 After passing the porter s lodge, which stands on 
 the road, we drove two miles through the park 
 before we came to the house. A neat pretty-look 
 ing young woman, with a white apron and white 
 cap, (and all the servants and lower order of women 
 here wear plain white caps) came to the door and 
 carried us through the apartments. They are 
 among the most splendid in the kingdom, and I 
 only wish that A. and little Dot could have seen 
 them too for as to my part I would much rather 
 see some rusty piece of antiquity than the most 
 costly palace in the world but the children could 
 not help being delighted with all this magnificence. 
 First there was the hall of entrance, with a gallery 
 around it, and the windows emblazoned with the 
 various coats of arms of the family in painted 
 glass ; and white marble chimney-pieces, most 
 delicately carved into gothic arches and flowers 
 and heads ; and in the middle of the hall hung a 
 chandelier, which cost fifteen hundred guineas. 
 
22 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Then we went into the library, and the first draw 
 ing-room, and the second drawing-room, and the 
 billiard-room, and the dining-room, and the music- 
 saloon, and I don t know what else. In all these 
 rooms there were paintings by West and other 
 masters, and chandeliers and tables of rosewood 
 and sandal- wood and ebony inlaid with brass ; 
 and the grim old ancestors of the family were 
 stained on the windows ; and the walls of the room, 
 instead of being painted or covered with paper, 
 were hung with the richest silks and damasks. 
 Lord Grosvenor can w r ell do all this, for his in 
 come is one hundred thousand pounds per year. 
 We resumed our journey, and passing through 
 Wrexham and Elsemere in Wales, and Shrews 
 bury the county town of Shropshire, reached this 
 place, which is about eight miles from Shrewsbury. 
 I have been here a fortnight, and spent the time 
 very happily. If Mr. and Mrs. F. were my fa 
 ther and mother they could not be kinder to me 
 than they are. My health is improving, though I 
 am still quite weak and have had some bad head 
 aches. I ride out, on one of Mr. F. s horses, every 
 day, or else in his phaeton with him and some 
 young ladies who are staying here. I have been 
 once to Shrewsbury, which is one of the oldest 
 cities in England, and went to see the old Abbey 
 church. There is a very correct picture of it in 
 
JOURNAL. 23 
 
 the book I gave Mary S. it is called there, I 
 believe, Shrewsbury Abbey. Though I have not 
 marked this letter as private, I hardly think it will 
 be worth while to show it, because I have written 
 it merely to inform you how and where I am, and 
 to give some amusement to the children. A ves 
 sel has lately arrived at Liverpool from Boston, 
 and I was surprised to find it brought me no let 
 ters. This will not do. I told you in my last that 
 you would not hear from me before I was in Lon 
 don, but my stay here being longer than I expect 
 ed, you see I have been better than my word. 
 Give my love to all the children and every friend. 
 Your affectionate son, 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 To Miss E C . JUNE 26, 1820. 
 
 To show you, my dear friend, that I am not 
 only eager to perform my promise of writing to 
 you, but that I feel grateful for the frank manner 
 in which you requested a correspondence, I ad 
 dress you as soon as I am recovered from my fa 
 tigues, and date from a place in which I have been 
 happy. It is a retired little township called 
 Wrentnall for which you might search vainly 
 in the map, but it lies eight miles from Shrewsbury ; 
 and as you may be curious of further particulars, 
 I can inform you that, while I now hold the pen, 
 it lacks fifteen minutes of noon by Shrewsbury 
 
24 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 clock. I am among lovely hills and kind friends ; 
 but though such a situation must needs be pleas 
 ant, a sigh will come, when I am thinking, as I 
 now am, of the lovelier hills of Milton and the 
 friends who are dwelling somewhere about them. 
 There are famous places here in England, and 
 famous people, and fine old churches and bright 
 green fields but there is nothing like home, after 
 all ; and though I am, by no means, what you may 
 call home-sick, yet I do long to see it, already. 
 However, here I am, and here I shall stay, till the 
 object for which I came, if it is to be answered, is 
 answered. And now, my friend, what shall I tell 
 you about ? The ocean ? O, it is a wondrous 
 thing, and my soul was never moved so strongly 
 as when I came on deck, the first morning, and 
 found myself on the vasty deep in the midst of a 
 heaven-bound circle, and confined to a bark which 
 the magnificence around it had caused to shrink 
 into the dimensions of a nutshell. And when the 
 sky became darkened, and a mighty wind moved 
 upon the face of the waters, I looked over the rail 
 ing and realized the full force of the Scripture ex 
 pressions which make the sea lift up its voice and 
 clap its hands. 
 
 Liverpool is a city of merchants, and had 
 but little for me to see, and still less to tell of. 
 A brother-in-law of Mr. W. W. was so good 
 
JOURNAL. 25 
 
 as to invite me to his country seat, whither I 
 accompanied him and his family, and where I have 
 been staying a fortnight, and may perhaps stay ten 
 days more. Nothing pleases me more in the coun 
 try than the hedges, which are the boundaries of 
 every field and the fences of every lane. They are 
 formed principally of the hawthorn, but with a 
 plentiful intermixture of wild-rose, sweetbriar and 
 holly, with its " polished leaves and berries red." 
 I can walk at this season into any green lane and 
 in a few moments make up a broad nosegay of 
 the flowers which grow under the hedges, and 
 such a classical nosegay too the daisy, the hya 
 cinth, the foxglove, the rose and the harebell, 
 with a plenty more. The harebell is certainly 
 the most beautiful wild-flower I ever set eyes on. 
 I have left out the honeysuckle, which also climbs 
 wild upon the hedges. 
 
 Staying in the same house with me, as fellow 
 guests, are three Liverpool ladies, one of whom 
 is the second daughter of Mr. Roscoe, who, 
 with her sister, has published, some little poems, 
 which have been republished, I believe, in Boston. 
 She is full of conversation, animation, imagination 
 and poetry indeed, she is very like your own 
 self. I have one request to make you. I wish 
 you to send me, when you are so good and con 
 siderate as to answer this, two or three or more 
 3 
 
26 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of your poetical pieces, particularly " The Ice 
 Spirit." Think how far I am from home and you 
 will not, you cannot refuse me. I will never show 
 them where it would be in the least improper to 
 do so. When you meet with any of my friends, 
 tell them that my dearest thoughts are about them. 
 
 and and will see that I subscribe 
 
 myself 
 
 Their, as well as your, 
 
 affectionate friend, 
 
 F. W. P. GREENWOOD. 
 
 June 23. To-day a party of us rode over to 
 Shrewsbury. This is one of the most ancient 
 towns in England. Its foundation is supposed to 
 have been laid as far back as the fifth century, and, 
 till they were forced to desert it, it was a royal 
 residence of the ancient Welsh. The Saxon name 
 was Scrobbes-byrig, which has been softened into 
 Shrewsbury ; it is also called Salop, which name 
 is given to the county likewise, as well as that of 
 Shropshire. Its situation is beautiful and com 
 manding. It stands on a peninsula formed by 
 the Severn, and the isthmus is defended by an 
 ancient castle. Detached portions of the old city- 
 wall are remaining, together with one of its towers, 
 which is now, without any external alteration, 
 converted into a small dwelling-house. On the 
 
JOURNAL. 27 
 
 western side of the town is a beautiful public 
 walk, bounded by the Severn, and consisting of 
 several avenues of luxuriant lime-trees, which, 
 though planted in the year 1719, have the vigor 
 and foliage of youth. The river does not appear 
 to be more than thirty yards wide, and it is crossed 
 by two handsome stone bridges. A town, situated 
 like this, we should naturally suppose would be 
 healthy, and accordingly Speed says of it 
 " Wholesome is the air, delectable and goodf v 
 yielding the spring and the autumn, seedtime 
 and harvest, in a temperate condition, and afford- 
 eth health to the inhabitants in all seasons of the 
 year." I must here confess that I picked up this 
 quotation by accident, and that it was the fruit of 
 no investigation of my own into the folio pages of 
 that venerable chronicler. But every body knows 
 that this town is famous for the battles which have 
 been fought before its walls, particularly for the 
 memorable one between Henry IV. and Percy, 
 Glendower and Douglas : 
 
 Douglas ! whose high deeds, 
 Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms, 
 Hold from all soldiers chief majority, 
 And military title capital, 
 Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ." 
 
 This battle secured to Henry the crown, and to 
 the house of Lancaster the throne, and gave Shaks- 
 
28 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 peare a subject for his immortal verse, who has 
 also handed down to us the still more terrible en 
 counter between the puissant Sir John Falstaif and 
 the fiery Hotspur, which lasted a long hour by 
 Shrewsbury clock. 
 
 As I have a great passion for old churches, 
 I visited one which stood on the eastern bank 
 of the Severn, opposite the English Bridge, and 
 is called the Abbey Church, having belonged 
 4o the magnificent and extensive Abbey of St. 
 Peter and St. Paul. It is built of the same kind 
 of dark red stone as the Cathedral of Chester. 
 Its tower is simple, but well-proportioned, and con 
 tains a fine large window, the glass of which is 
 painted with different devices and coats of arms. 
 The eye is caught, upon entering this church, by a 
 window at the eastern end, on which are painted 
 figures, as large as life, of St. Peter and Paul, King 
 Solomon, &c., the effect of which is very good. 
 The painting on this window is modern, while that 
 of the former and of several smaller ones is ancient. 
 There are several old monuments in this church ; 
 one of which is supposed, but on no very good 
 authority, to be that of Roger de Montgomery, 
 the founder of the Abbey, and a kinsman of 
 William the Conqueror. There is also a tomb 
 belonging to the Onslow family, on which are rep 
 resented recumbent figures of Richard Onslow and 
 
JOURNAL. 29 
 
 his lady, with their hands joined in the attitude of 
 prayer. He was speaker of the house of commons 
 in Queen Elizabeth s time, and it is remarkable 
 that two of his descendants, and of the same name, 
 have enjoyed the same dignity Sir Richard and 
 Arthur Onslow. These figures are dressed in the 
 fashion of the golden days of good Queen Bess. 
 The whole of the present church is only the nave 
 of the ancient Abbey Church, and the church was 
 but a small part of the entire Abbey. What an 
 idea does this give of the extent of the old eccle 
 siastical structures and establishments ! As I was 
 leaving the church I asked my guide, who was a 
 well-dressed woman, and, as I supposed, the sex 
 ton s wife, whether there was anything more to be 
 seen she answered there was not. I then put 
 two shillings into her hand and was going away ; 
 but whether her conscience smote her for having 
 told a lie, or her heart was softened by receiving 
 a larger fee than she expected, we had no sooner 
 reached the door than she said, she believed there 
 was one thing more that I might like to see, and 
 she would go with me to the place where it stood. 
 She then led me round behind the church into a 
 garden, which was once the monk s refectory or 
 dining hall, and at one end of which was one of 
 the most beautiful little things I ever saw a light 
 octagonal structure of gray stone, with painted 
 3* 
 
30 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 windows, small bass-reliefs, delicate mouldings, 
 and walls thickly covered with ivy. In the centre 
 of the roof inside is carved a crucifix. This ex 
 quisite building is no more, I should judge, than 
 five feet in diameter and ten in height ; arid is 
 supposed to have been used as a kind of pulpit 
 from which one of the monks read a portion 
 from a father, or some other holy book, while the 
 rest of his brethren were at dinner. I would have 
 given the woman another shilling for leading me 
 to a sight of this beauty if she had not been near 
 preventing my seeing it altogether. In the eve 
 ning we returned to Wrentnall. 
 
 June 26. In the parish to which this township 
 belongs, and also in many of the neighboring 
 parishes, the farmers have formed a club for the 
 purpose of relieving those of its members who 
 may at any time become destitute. Some of these 
 clubs answer the purpose for which they were 
 established very well ; and others squander and 
 misapply the money which is raised in common, 
 and do very little good, if any. The anniversary 
 of the Pulverbatch Club was celebrated to-day. 
 After attending service and hearing a sermon they 
 sat down to a dinner such an one, most likely, 
 as nine-tenths of the members tasted of but once 
 a year. After dinner they were to have a dance 
 on a green, near the inn. The day had been too 
 
JOURNAL. 31 
 
 warm for any of us to think of going to church, 
 but we resolved to attend the dance, as soon as 
 the sun had descended low enough to render a 
 walk of half a mile in any degree tolerable. Ac 
 cordingly between five and six o clock we set out 
 for the green. But the dancers had not yet come 
 forth the day was hot, and they preferred, very 
 naturally, ale to exercise. The scene before the 
 inn was however sufficiently amusing to detain 
 us till it should please the club within to finish 
 their potations. Men, women, and children, huck 
 sters, pedlers, ballad-singers and beggars were 
 collected together as at a fair, only on a smaller 
 scale gazing, sauntering, squalling, spending 
 their money like fools, and exercising their seve 
 ral vocations. A couple of ballad-singers par 
 ticularly attracted my notice, as we have no such 
 people at home. A man and woman sang to 
 gether and appeared to be in partnership. The 
 man began the verse and tune, and the woman 
 joined him at the second or third word of the first 
 line ; but they both sang the air, and the character 
 istic of then* voices being rather strength than 
 sweetness, they made more noise than melody. 
 The ballads which they sang they also sold. 
 The man had a basket full of them on his arm, 
 and when any one of his audience was particularly 
 pleased with that which they were performing, he 
 
32 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 or she put twopence into his hand and received 
 the favorite ballad in return. Just as the sun was 
 sinking behind the hills, the first dance was car 
 ried down, and we walked back to our supper. 
 The next day we observed a notice of the whole 
 matter in the Shrewsbury newspaper. After in 
 forming the public that the Pulverbatch Club cele 
 brated its anniversary on the preceding day, par 
 took of a bountiful repast and danced on the vil 
 lage green, it was added that " the beauty and 
 rank of the neighborhood retired at an early 
 hour." Now there were some pretty faces 
 among us, no doubt, but it would have puzzled 
 the king s herald at arms to have found out any 
 rank higher than that of squire, a title which is in 
 variably given by the country people to Mr. F. 
 
 Since my residence in the country I have been 
 delighted with nothing more than the rich appear 
 ance of the hedges. They are now in their full 
 glory the honeysuckle climbs the highest 
 bushes, clustering around them with a profusion of 
 its sweet-scented flowers and filling the air with 
 fragrance the wild-rose, red and white, arches its 
 graceful wreaths over the road, while lower down 
 the gorgeous foxglove rears its tall spire of bright 
 red hoods, the daisy peeps up from the grass, 
 and the lovely harebell hangs its modest head of 
 the most delicate blue. Jogging peaceably along 
 
JOURNAL. 
 
 33 
 
 on a sober veteran of a horse, who, on account of 
 his great age rather than any remarkable military 
 capacities, has received the name of Blucher, my 
 attention is kept constantly awake, by the unceas 
 ing variety of vegetable beauty that lines the 
 sides of every lane and highway through which 
 chance or old Blucher may direct me. 
 
 July 11. Another expedition was planned to 
 day, for the purpose of visiting the seats of Lord 
 
 and Edward , Esq. The weather was 
 
 hot, but not excessively so, and being an American, 
 it was to me no cause of complaint, though the rest 
 of the party suffered from it. We passed through 
 Shrewsbury, and stopped a few moments to see 
 a column erected in honor of Lord Hill, which 
 stands at a short distance from the town. It is a 
 noble pillar, of the Doric order, and bears a statue 
 of his Lordship on its summit. The height of the 
 whole I should think was about one hundred and 
 twenty feet, but I have no means of accurate in 
 formation. On one of the sides of the base is an 
 English inscription, and on the opposite side a Latin 
 one. On another is a list of eighteen battles in 
 which Lord, then Sir John Hill, had fought and 
 signalized himself, ending with the memorable 
 battle of Waterloo, and on the side opposite to 
 this is a door opening to the interior of the col 
 umn and upon a staircase which winds to its top. 
 
34 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 I was too feeble, however, to think of ascending it. 
 After a ride of another hour we crossed the Severn 
 on a handsome stone bridge, and entered the vil 
 lage of Atcham, in which is the princely mansion 
 
 of Lord . 
 
 The mansion is modern and in the Grecian style. 
 The furniture is splendid, and for the most part 
 in very good taste. The paintings fill the rooms 
 pretty well, and among them are some fine ones. 
 I liked, as well as any of them, the picture of a 
 fellow in the act of catching a fly with one hand 
 which had settled on the back of his other his 
 whole soul seemed bound up in his occupation ; 
 and the earnestness of his face, together with the 
 insignificant object which called it forth, formed a 
 happy and ludicrous contrast. The house-maid, 
 who acted as our guide, told us that it was by 
 Hubens. This might be true and it might not, as 
 the name of Rubens was the only one which she 
 had got by heart, and was bestowed by her on 
 nearly all the paintings in the house. Her igno 
 rance and pertness were laughable enough. One 
 old thing, she said, was the exact representation 
 of the stable in which our Saviour was born, taken 
 at the time and on the spot by Rubens. This in 
 formation was delivered with the utmost gravity, 
 and a confidence from which there was no appeal. 
 Having entered a beautiful little room, the ceiling 
 
JOURNAL. 35 
 
 and wainscoting of which were painted in water- 
 colors and gilt, we took the liberty of sitting down, 
 as we saw that the bottoms of the chairs w r ere all 
 covered ; but we had scarcely done so when our 
 directress told us, that " indeed she was very sorry, 
 but his lordship permitted no one to sit down on 
 those chairs, not even his own company or rela 
 tions, for the chair-bottoms were embroidered by 
 his lordship s great-grandmother, and therefore his 
 lordship set great store by them ; and that the 
 room was kept only for show." Upon this admo 
 nition \ve rose, and having traversed the remaining 
 apartments returned to the village inn, where we 
 dined. After dinner we set out for Condover, 
 
 the village in which is the seat of Mr. . It is 
 
 a fine old mansion of red freestone, shaded by the 
 lofty and venerable trees of the park, and within 
 a hundred yards of the old village church. The 
 sun was going down ; the impressive silence of 
 evening was broken only by the sharp twitter of 
 the swallows, as they wheeled in troops over our 
 heads, or sought their nests, with which they had 
 lined the eaves of the house from one end to the 
 other ; and the house itself, with its antique win- 
 dows and peaked roofs, seemed to enjoy the tran 
 quillity of the scene over which it reigned, and 
 looked so quiet, so solemn, and so grand, that I 
 could not help expressing how far preferable it 
 
36 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 was, as the residence of an English gentleman, to 
 the more elegant and regular Grecian structure 
 which we had visited before. The inside of the 
 mansion corresponds to its external appearance 
 the rooms are filled with excellent old pictures, 
 in which this house is richer than any I have yet 
 seen. The house-keeper was, as usual, ignorant 
 of the painters names, but under one picture of 
 the Flemish school, which I thought particularly 
 fine, was written, on a bit of gilt wood laid loose 
 on the frame, the name of Dietrich, and under 
 another that of Rembrandt. In the dining-room 
 is a large painting called the Hubbub in the Mar 
 ket, and it is a hubbub indeed ; the marketers 
 are fighting, the live animals are scampering, the 
 dead ones lie scattered about in the dirt, and the 
 birds are taking advantage of the confusion by 
 flying away. It is extremely well done, but I 
 could not learn the name of the master. We did 
 not get back to Wrentnall till ten o clock at night, 
 and I was so wearied that I did not leave my bed 
 till ten o clock the next morning. 
 
 July 19. It was hard to quit a place where I 
 had been so happy, and it was melancholy to 
 part with friends to whom I had grown so strongly 
 attached, but the time came when it was neces 
 sary for me to renew my journey towards London, 
 and for my friends to retrace theirs to Liverpool. 
 
JOURNAL. 37 
 
 They brought me as far as Shrewsbury, and there 
 we parted. It was the first time since my de 
 parture from America that I felt myself alone 
 all alone and a dismal feeling it was. But I 
 rallied my spirits as well as I could, and walked 
 out to see such parts of the town as I had not 
 before visited. There is a noble prison here, 
 with a good statue of the great Howard over the 
 gateway ; but it is not opened to visiters, and a 
 residence within its walls could not have been 
 agreeable to me. There are two beautiful stone 
 spires in the town, one of them, the loftiest, be 
 longing to St. Mary s church. This church is 
 large and in good repair, and contains some an 
 cient tombs. The carved work over the nave is 
 as fresh as when first put up, and very beautiful. 
 Near the door, and on the outside of the church, is 
 a plain tablet, commemorating an exploit and con 
 sequent death of one Cadman, who some years 
 ago attempted to fly or slide down on a rope 
 from the summit of this steeple to the opposite 
 bank of the Severn. The rope broke before he 
 had descended half way, and he was precipitated 
 to the ground. It is said that the same madcap 
 had made an application to a certain prelate to 
 fly from the tower of his cathedral, and that the 
 dignitary returned for answer that he might fly to 
 the church whenever he pleased, but that he 
 
38 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 should never give any one a permission to fly 
 from it. 
 
 July 20. At eight o clock this morning I took 
 my seat in the coach that was to convey me to 
 Birmingham. One person only was in the inside, 
 who appeared to be good-natured, though some 
 what sleepy : this, however, he presently account 
 ed for by saying that he had been travelling all 
 night. While we were riding along on a part of 
 the road near the market-town of Shiffral, I all at 
 once was surprised at seeing a beautiful nosegay 
 come into the stage and fix itself before my eyes. 
 On looking out of the window I perceived a 
 little girl who held this nosegay tied to the end of 
 a long stick, and, running by the side of the coach, 
 was thus endeavoring to earn a half-penny. I 
 thought it a pretty contrivance ; and, taking the 
 flowers from off the stick, I threw her the expected 
 piece of copper. Not satisfied, however, with hav 
 ing disposed of one bunch, she immediately clapt 
 on another, and ran round to the other side of the 
 carriage in order to tempt my companion ; but 
 seeing that his eyelids were closed, and that sleep 
 had put him out of the reach of temptation, she 
 took the liberty of rousing his olfactory sensi 
 bilities by thrusting the nosegay full in his face. 
 He started up, and looked so comical that I could 
 not help bursting into a loud laugh. Not imme- 
 
JOURNAL. 39 
 
 diately comprehending the nature of the assault, 
 nor why there was a large nosegay before him, 
 the most whimsical surprise was depicted on his 
 features ; while the ripe and mealy farina of a huge 
 red lily had imparted a bright tint to the ends of 
 his nose and chin by being so rudely brought into 
 contact with them. With the greatest good-nature, 
 however, he joined in. my laugh ; and having first 
 punished the girl for her impudence by making 
 her run some hundred yards, he bought her 
 nosegay. Passing a cottage, soon after, a dozen 
 young urchins sallied out from it, brandishing 
 their rival commodities, but we were already sup 
 plied, and sent them away. The road now be 
 came lined with coal-works, and continued to 
 present the same dark and weary aspect till we 
 entered Birmingham. It was one unvaried pic 
 ture of large chimneys, and clattering steam- 
 engines, and piles of earth, and blocks of coal, 
 and jaded horses, and lean, smutty, ragged forms 
 of men, women and children. 
 
 On arriving at Birmingham, however, I by no 
 means thought it so smoky and dismal a place 
 as I had been led to expect from the accounts 
 which have been given of it. The situation of 
 the town is high and its air is healthy, and it has 
 its open squares and its broad and handsome 
 streets. You indeed often pass the tall chimney 
 
40 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of some furnace or manufactory, which is belching 
 forth its columns of smoke and flame, and you see 
 that the houses in its immediate vicinity are stained 
 quite black and covered with soot ; but you do 
 not see this in the better parts of the town, and you 
 might choose for yourself a hundred situations 
 in which you would never be exposed to the least 
 annoyance from this cause. I really believe that, 
 owing to their advantage of living upon an eleva 
 ted site, the inhabitants of Birmingham experi 
 ence no more inconvenience from smoke and soot 
 than the inhabitants of Liverpool, and not so 
 much as those of the vast metropolis. I was 
 kindly received here by a gentleman with whom 
 I had become acquainted in Liverpool, the Rev. 
 
 S. W. B , one of the ministers of the Old 
 
 Meeting so called because the congregation of 
 which Dr. Priestley was the minister was formerly 
 a part of it. Both the Old and the New Meeting 
 are now professedly Unitarian in their religious 
 sentiments and worship. 
 
 July 21. In company with my friend, I visited 
 whatever was most interesting to a stranger. 
 There are two subscription libraries here ; but 
 they are smaller than those at Liverpool, and 
 prove that the literary tendencies of the place are 
 not very strong. Crossing the market-place, I 
 was shown, in its centre, a bronze statue of Nelson, 
 
JOURNAL. 41 
 
 by Westmacott. It is much more simple in its 
 design than that in the Liverpool Exchange ; 
 its style is chaste, and its effect pleasing. We 
 then stepped into the show rooms of Thomason 
 & Co. to see the metallic copy, which they have 
 lately finished, of the famous antique vase which 
 was purchased in Italy by Sir William Hamilton, 
 for his kinsman, the earl of Warwick, and thence 
 called the Warwick vase. After traversing a 
 suite of rooms, splendidly dressed out with cut 
 glass, statues, antiques, jewels, medals, pictures, 
 and an endless variety of articles, for the purchase 
 of the wealthy, we arrived at a small apartment, 
 the sanctum sanctorum, appropriated solely to the 
 reception and exhibition of this copy, and fitted up 
 expressly for the purpose ; and, indeed, it deserves 
 a place of its own, in which it may be gazed at 
 and admired. It is of the most beautiful form 
 and proportions, and of a gigantic size, being 
 twenty-one feet in circumference, and five feet 
 ten inches in height. Mr. Thomason took the 
 utmost pains to obtain a correct resemblance of 
 the original, from impressions in wax, and at last 
 succeeded, to the minutest line. The body of the 
 vase is composed of a different colored metal from 
 that in which its decorations are cast, consisting 
 of a panther s skin, vine leaves, and other emblems 
 of Bacchus; and thus they are thrown into the 
 
42 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 boldest possible relief. The whole was cast in 
 separate pieces, and seven years were employed 
 in the work. In different parts of the room are 
 plaster casts of antique statues ; attendants and 
 ministers, as it were, on the supreme object of 
 attraction ; and in the corners nearest the door, 
 are two female figures, offering medals of the 
 vase, one of which I purchased. Having written 
 our names in an Album which is kept here, we 
 went away, and, as I had walked quite enough 
 for the day, I kept myself within doors for the 
 remainder of it. 
 
 July 22. The greater number of the manu 
 factories of this place are carried on without 
 smoke and din, in small and retired workshops, 
 standing back from the street ; and you are ad 
 vertised of their existence only by seeing on the 
 doors of the dwelling-houses, in front, such notices 
 as these "The manufactory bell," or "Manu 
 factory down the yard." In these situations are 
 the works of the wire-drawer, the jeweller, the 
 plater, &c., which stand in no need whatever of 
 laboring steam engines and immense furnaces. I 
 gained admittance to several of these manufac 
 tories, and was much pleased and edified by the 
 simple means with which the workmen formed 
 and finished their various wares. Among the 
 rest I saw a pin-manufactory, and watched the 
 
JOURNAL. 43 
 
 curious process by which those useful little servants 
 are fashioned, from the wire-drawing to the stick 
 ing them on their papers, through all the inter 
 mediate stages of cutting the wire, sharpening 
 the ends, making the heads, putting them on, 
 and giving the whole a coat of silver. I will not, 
 however, enter into a detailed description of the 
 work ; suffice it to say, that though I may never 
 make pins, I know very well how pins are made. 
 The inhabitants of Birmingham have one comfort, 
 which, as far as I know, they enjoy alone. Just 
 a little way out of the town, there is a large lot 
 of land, belonging, I believe, or at least a part of 
 it, to the free-school of Edward VI. This lot is 
 divided into a number of small gardens, which are 
 severed by hedges, and planted with various trees, 
 bushes, and vegetables. Narrow lanes afford 
 access to each of them, and each has a gate, with 
 lock and key. These gardens are let out to those 
 who can afford to hire them ; and the rent is 
 sufficiently moderate, to come within the means 
 of almost any member of the middle classes. 
 Early in the summer mornings, the housekeepers, 
 who have taken gardens, send out their servants, 
 or go themselves, to bring fruits and salads for 
 dinner, and can thus always have them fresh and 
 at their pleasure. I myself accompanied a friend 
 in his morning visit to his garden, and we soon 
 
44 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 filled the little basket, which he carried on his arm, 
 with the choicest fruits of the season. 
 
 July 23. I was introduced yesterday to the Rev. 
 James Yates, one of the ministers of the New Meet 
 ing, and one who, by his " Vindication of Unitarian- 
 ism," in reply to Mr. Wardlaw, has proved himself 
 worthy of succeeding to the pulpit of the learned 
 and virtuous, though persecuted Dr. Priestley. He 
 is quite youthful in his appearance, has a habit of 
 withdrawing his eyes from you and casting them 
 on the ground, and is rather reserved and silent in 
 conversation. He invited me to breakfast with 
 him this morning : I went, and after our repast, he 
 took me with him, it being Sunday, to church. 
 The only monumental tablet in the meeting-house 
 is one to the memory of Dr. Priestley. It is a plain 
 marble slab inserted in the wall, bearing an excel 
 lent inscription, which I was told came from the 
 pen of Dr. Parr. At the bottom of the tablet is 
 a medallion with a head of Dr. Priestley. 
 
 July 24. At three o clock to-day I took the stage 
 coach to Warwick. The dress and appearance of 
 my sole companion, inside, bespoke him a clergy 
 man of the Establishment ; and so he turned out 
 to be. He was very affable and communicative, 
 and appeared to be possessed of liberal feelings 
 and an enlightened mind. He pointed out to me 
 the house of Dr. Priestley, or rather a house which 
 
JOURNAL. 45 
 
 stood on the same site with that which was demol 
 ished by the Birmingham mob. He was in Bir 
 mingham at the time of this outrage, and spoke of 
 it as an abominable and disgraceful event, but tried 
 to excuse what cannot be excused. He said that 
 the active participators in the riot were but few in 
 number ; and that he could only attribute their not 
 being checked and dispersed sooner than they 
 were, to a stupor which seized the magistrates, 
 and which often will seize upon the energies of 
 the best disposed. There were faults to be par 
 doned, he added, on both sides ; and he had no 
 doubt but that the high existing state of political 
 excitement and the exultation which was mani 
 fested by Dr. Priestley and his friends, at the 
 successes of the French Revolution, were, more 
 than his religious principles, the cause of that 
 odium which produced such lamentable results. 
 He had always entertained the highest esteem and 
 respect for the character and talents o Dr. P., 
 and was on the footing of intimacy with him, 
 although they had been engaged in a theological 
 controversy. He was much younger than the 
 Doctor, when he ventured to write against him, 
 and, though there were many things in his pieces 
 which only youth could excuse, he thought that 
 the Doctor handled him much too roughly. He 
 told me that, going to see Dr. Priestley one day, 
 
46 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 he was shown into his library: the table was 
 covered with open folios and the desk with quires 
 of manuscript, but the Doctor was not there. He 
 opened a door which led from the library and 
 beheld the object of his visit, with an apron tied 
 round his waist, covered with smoke and perspi 
 ration, and surrounded by alembics, blowpipes, 
 and all the apparatus of the laboratory. " Bless 
 me," exclaimed Mr. B., " how is it, Doctor, that, 
 with all your study in your library, and all your 
 philosophical investigations here, you can find 
 time to write as you do against us orthodox ? " 
 " O, " said the Doctor, " I set apart an hour in 
 the morning and an hour in the evening, just to 
 teaze you a little." 
 
 Arrived in the evening at Warwick, I was 
 hospitably welcomed to the house of a gentleman 
 to whom I brought a letter. I could not go to 
 bed, however, till I had indulged myself with a 
 sight of .the far-famed castle. I went alone ; and 
 taking my stand on the arched bridge which is 
 flung over the Avon, and leaning over its parapet, 
 I feasted my eyes with the view of those noble 
 towers, which, rising on the solid rock, and swell 
 ing into the air in massy grandeur, unite all the 
 venerable features and romantic associations of 
 other days, with all the firmness and freshness of 
 yesterday which, once exposed to the fury of 
 
JOURNAL. 47 
 
 war, and ever to the inroads of time, have escaped 
 unharmed from the seige and the battle, and have 
 forced the insatiable destroyer to give back, de 
 feated and defied. The ivy adheres to the walls, 
 and fringes the round towers, and yet not a stone 
 is displaced, and the whole outline is perfect. 
 This is owing, indeed, in a great measure, to 
 the care with which the possessors of the castle have 
 kept it in repair ; for without the means of human 
 preservation, it could not have stood thus long 
 entirely uninjured. Between the new bridge on 
 which I stood and the castle, are the ruined arches 
 of an ancient bridge, which, hung with ivy and 
 crossing the stream in interrupted fragments, 
 contributes greatly to the interest of the scene. 
 A majestic swan was enjoying his evening sail 
 upon the river, slowly floating from cove to cove ; 
 the swallows, who love the resort of these old 
 piles, were hovering around the castle turrets ; 
 and all was still and peaceful. I would that I 
 had been a painter. 
 
 July 25. After breakfast, this morning, a 
 nephew of the gentleman at whose house I staid 
 accompanied me to the castle. We knocked 
 at the gate, which was immediately opened 
 by the porter, dressed in a blue livery, faced 
 with red ; and, having written our names in 
 a book which he kept in his lodge, we walked 
 
48 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 up toward the mansion. The approach to the 
 castle is as it ought to be a striking entrance 
 to a noble dwelling. It is a road sunk in the 
 solid rock to the depth of ten or twelve feet, 
 which, with a bold sweep, winds its way to the 
 castle gate. You tread upon the solid rock, and 
 you have the solid rock on your right hand and 
 on your left, while you are shaded above by trees 
 and shrubs, whose twisted roots and trailing fibres, 
 together with the closely-plaited ivy, form a fanci 
 ful tapestry on each side of you ; and it is not till 
 you take the last turn that you see the castle and 
 its frowning towers. This passage is not ancient, 
 but was cut by the last earl of Warwick. As we 
 passed under the arched gateway, into the court 
 yard, we saw the barbed points of the portcullis 
 suspended over us, and observed several doors 
 and nooks which all had their uses when the castle 
 was the abode of feudal strength and resistance, 
 as well as of baronial splendor. The court-yard is 
 a spacious area inclosed by the several buildings 
 of the castle, and in form a square. We rang the 
 bell at the principal door, on the left side of the 
 court, and a servant appearing, ushered us into the 
 great hall. Here we w r ere presented with the 
 granite monuments and features of feudal times. 
 The wainscoting of oak is covered with pieces 
 of ancient armor helmet and shield, breast- 
 
JOURNAL. 49 
 
 piece and back-piece, sword and lance, and what 
 ever else contributed to form the knight s com 
 plete equipment, are displayed to the best advan 
 tage, and kept in perfect order. Over the doors 
 are the stag s branching antlers, and on one side 
 of the hall is the huge fireplace, which once was 
 heaped with blazing logs from the forest. Noth 
 ing was wanting but a long table in the midst 
 loaded with plenty and surrounded by roaring 
 vassals. From this hall you see, through the 
 arched door-ways, the whole suite of apartments 
 which belong to this portion of the castle, forming 
 an extended and beautiful vista ; and from its 
 windows you have the lovely prospect of the 
 Avon, the ruined bridge, the park on the opposite 
 side of the river, and the rich country beyond it. 
 We were hurried, as usual, through the remaining 
 show-rooms of the castle ; but there was this con 
 solation, that the servant knew by whom most of 
 the pictures were painted. A fine Charles L, on 
 horseback, by Vandyck, hung at the end of a long 
 gallery ; but the painting which struck me most 
 was a full-length of Ignatius Loyola, by Rubens. 
 It made so vivid an impression on my mind that 
 after I left the castle it w r as the only picture which 
 I remembered distinctly, and I can see it now as 
 clearly almost as if it were before me. Its colors 
 are laid on in the most glowing manner of R ubens s 
 5 
 
50 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 glowing style ; the strongly-marked face is raised 
 toward a burst of light above, and the fore-short 
 ening of the extended hand is astonishing it 
 seems to be stretched forth from the canvass. In 
 one of the rooms we were made to remark a bowl, 
 of nearly a foot in diameter and six inches deep, 
 worked out from a solid and beautifully trans 
 parent crystal. 
 
 On leaving this part of the castle, and giving 
 the attendant her fee, we were delivered over to 
 the care of the gardener. By him we were led 
 through a small gate in the castle walls to a neat 
 green-house, built for the reception and shelter of 
 the magnificent Warwick vase, which, before it 
 was placed here, was improperly made to stand 
 in the open air ; an exposure which, as might be 
 supposed, was of no great benefit to it. This vase 
 is the original, from which that of Thomason has 
 been so accurately copied. It is of white marble ; 
 and, when its great age and the delicacy of its 
 ornaments are considered, its high state of pre 
 servation is remarkable. From this precious relic 
 of antiquity, we followed our guide across a close- 
 shaven lawn, whose surface was here and there 
 interrupted by clumps of the cedar of Lebanon, 
 to the banks of the river. Going up to a certain 
 spot, the old man pushed away with his hands a 
 cluster of ivy leaves, and pointed to a small and 
 
JOURNAL. 51 
 
 unadorned plate of copper, let into the rock, 
 which bore a Latin inscription, to the memory of 
 a son of Lord Bagot, an amiable young man, 
 who was drowned in the Avon opposite to where 
 we were standing. We then turned back, and 
 began to ascend a steep hill ; not, however, till 
 we had stopped awhile at a little mossy nook, 
 
 " Where water, clear as diamond spark, 
 In a stone basin fell," 
 
 and had refreshed ourselves with the pure and 
 grateful liquid, which oozed from the solid foun 
 dation of the castle and furnished the supply of 
 all its inhabitants. The ascent of the hill was 
 made easy to us by means of a path, which wound 
 round it. On its summit stood the watch-tower, 
 which commands, as of course it should, the whole 
 country round it for miles. We followed the 
 spiral staircase, till it brought us quite out on to 
 the leads of the tower, and, on our return, took a 
 peep into the room below, a snug little place, 
 just big enough for the watchman to sit in com 
 fortably, and cook his chicken at the fire, if he 
 ever was so lucky as to get the one or the other. 
 There was, certainly, a fireplace in the room, 
 however, and I think that, with the comforts afore 
 said, I could have passed a winter s night or two 
 here much to my liking. 
 
52 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Descending from the watch-tower into the court 
 yard, we parted with our guide, after the usual 
 compliment, and were put into the hands of 
 another, who was to conduct us to the top of one 
 of the main towers. Of these there are three or 
 four, which rise at intervals from the mass of build 
 ings, and are joined together by the walls or dif 
 ferent offices of the castle. There were several 
 stories in the one which we ascended, each of 
 them divided into one large room and two or three 
 smaller ones. These rooms were wholly without 
 furniture, and very bare and desolate ; and the 
 deep windows and narrow loop-holes, through 
 which a besieging enemy was annoyed in times 
 of danger, plainly intimated what were the scenes 
 and who were the men that once were familiar to 
 this deserted strong-hold. A rich and extensive 
 prospect presented itself on our gaining the roof 
 of the tower, and rewarded us for the trouble of 
 ascending. After resting here a short time we 
 came down, and having seen everything that was 
 shown within the bounds of the castle, we returned 
 to the porter s lodge. But he also had his curiosi 
 ties to show. He took us into his little room, and 
 pointed us to twenty or thirty morsels of antiquity, 
 which lined its walls, as the undoubted property 
 of the renowned Guy, Earl of Warwick. Here 
 was his shirt of chain armor, his helmet and his 
 
JOURNAL. 53 
 
 swords; there was his tremendous tilting spear, 
 and a walking staff of equal dimensions with that 
 which Polypheme carried before him ; and here, 
 again, was a rib of the dun cow which was slain 
 by Guy in single combat. To crown all, the 
 centre of the room was occupied by Guy s por 
 ridge-pot, of the capacity of a hogshead, and his 
 flesh-hook, as big as a pitchfork. Our friend the 
 porter asked us " whether we would hear the 
 sound of the porridge-pot ; " and, on our assenting, 
 he drew the flesh-hook slowly and slightly across 
 its rim two or three times without making much 
 noise, but at last with so much force that the harsh 
 braying of the kettle made us start, and obliged 
 us to hold our ears. What mummery ! to be 
 playing such tricks as these under the walls of 
 Warwick castle ! The several pieces of armor 
 were no doubt interesting antiquities, and even 
 the porridge-pot might very probably have been 
 used by a cook of the dark ages ; but after we had 
 been contemplating the genuine productions of 
 Rubens, Vandyck and Guido, in the grand saloons 
 which had given birth to barons and peers, and 
 entertainment to kings and queens, to be shown a 
 bone of a sea-horse for the rib of Guy s dun cow, 
 and dismissed with a serenade upon his porridge- 
 pot it was too bad. 
 
 July 26. Taking an early dinner, I rode over 
 
54 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 with my young companion to visit the ruins of 
 Kenilworth castle. The ride is a very pleasant 
 one ; but our apprehensions of a severe thunder 
 shower, which were excited by a black and threat 
 ening sky, prevented our enjoying it so much as 
 we should have done. After sprinkling us with a 
 few drops, however, from his urn, the spirit of 
 the storm passed on and left us to our pleasure. 
 "We stopped at the house of a gentleman in Kenil 
 worth, whom I had seen at Birmingham, and who 
 had obligingly invited me to call upon him, as he 
 had heard me express a design of visiting the cas 
 tle. He walked with us to the ruins, which lie 
 about a quarter of a mile from the more populous 
 part of the village, and by his local information 
 greatly contributed to the gratification which we 
 received from the sight of these imposing remains 
 of former grandeur. The buildings of the castle 
 may be divided into two principal parts : the most 
 ancient part, commonly called Csesar s tower,, 
 built by Geoffry de Clinton, about the year 1120 ; 
 and the part which goes under the name of 
 Leicester s buildings, erected by Robert Dudley, 
 earl of Leicester, the favorite of Queen Elizabeth, 
 in the year 1571. Although there is such a differ 
 ence in the dates of their erection, both of these 
 divisions form one grand mass of ruins j and> 
 indeed, that portion which is by centuries the 
 
JOURNAL. 00 
 
 oldest, appears to be the strongest and least 
 injured. Beside these principal portions, how 
 ever, there are several towers that went to form 
 the entire castle ; one of which is called King 
 Henry s lodgings, from its having been the par 
 ticular residence of Henry III., during the time 
 that the castle belonged to the crown. The shape 
 of these towers and buildings is square; unlike 
 those of Warwick, several of which are circular. 
 The roofs have all fallen in ; the oaken timbers 
 which separated the different stories have all rotted 
 away all save one, which I saw far above me, 
 crossing from wall to wall, and that was almost 
 eaten through in the midst, and one more storm 
 would throw it to the ground. The vegetation 
 which clothes these ruins is astonishingly luxuriant. 
 I took notice of more than one stem of ivy, which 
 would have measured a foot in its diameter, and 
 of more than one tree, of the common size, which 
 flourished on the top of a ruined wall at the height 
 of one hundred feet from the earth. As we entered 
 Caesar s tower, we disturbed its only inhabitant 
 a large white owl: we raised our heads at the shriek 
 which it gave, and saw it fly across the open top to 
 the opposite wall in search of a thicker shade of ivy. 
 Time has made sad havoc here, but it would 
 be doing him injustice to charge him with being 
 the only ravager. In the time of the Common- 
 
56 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 wealth, Cromwell made a present of the castle 
 to some of his officers, who wantonly tore down 
 its walls and committed more injury than the 
 more sparing hand of time would have done for 
 ages to come. The only building belonging to 
 the castle which has escaped the general deso 
 lation, is the great gate-house, which was built by 
 Leicester. It is quadrangular, with round towers 
 at its four corners, and is now the habitation of a 
 farmer. In one of the rooms there is a curious 
 marble chimney-piece, surmounted by rich oak 
 carving, which was taken from the principal ruins, 
 and preserved here. The marble is sculptured in 
 a most costly manner, and bears, in different places, 
 Leicester s initials, his motto, and his arms. It is 
 to be hoped that this gate-house will at least be kept 
 in repair, and not suffered soon to participate in the 
 fate of the palace to which it led. 
 
 The circumstance which has given its greatest ce 
 lebrity to Kenil worth castle, is its having been the 
 scene of the grand entertainment which the earl of 
 Leicester gave to Queen Elizabeth, "for the space 
 of seventeen days, with excessive cost, and a variety 
 of delightful shows." This entertainment was as 
 splendid as money and feasting and dancing and 
 revelry could make it, and was described by Gas- 
 coigne, a court poet of those days, "in a special 
 discourse therefore then printed, and entitled, The 
 
JOURNAL. 57 
 
 Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth Castle. What 
 a change has been wrought here in a few short 
 years ! Before we took leave of this interesting 
 spot, we went to a certain place, opposite the 
 ruins, where I was told there was an echo which 
 repeated three or four times. But we either did 
 not strike upon the precise spot, or the state of the 
 atmosphere was unfavorable, for we could get but 
 a single response. That single one, however, 
 was so distinct and exact, that I, who had never 
 heard such a one before, was quite astonished. 
 A long sentence was copied throughout, and a 
 cough, or a halloo, was returned to the ears of the 
 speaker precisely as it came from his lips. I asked 
 of the old towers, " Where are Elizabeth and 
 Leicester now ? " They answered, word for word 
 and tone for tone, " Where are Elizabeth and 
 Leicester now ? " Where, indeed ! where is the 
 capricious queen, and her haughty favorite, and 
 where are all the " Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth 
 Castle ? " I have heard the hooting of a solitary 
 owl, and I have seen weeds on the hearth, and ivy 
 in the chambers ; but they say nothing of royalty 
 and revelling, or only tell me that they are gone. 
 July 27. Beauchamp chapel, in St. Mary s 
 church, is much celebrated for its beauty, as well 
 as for the tomb of its founder, Sir Richard Beau- 
 champ. The style of the chapel is the latest or 
 
58 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 florid Gothic. The carving of the niches, the 
 roof, and the pendant capitals, is most exquisitely 
 delicate, and profusely decorated with gilding, 
 which looks as fresh as if it had been put on but 
 yesterday. Tradition informed us, through the 
 mouth of the sexton s helpmate, that, in the niches 
 or shrines, there formerly stood images of solid 
 gold, which were taken from their pedestals by 
 some of Cromwell s soldiers, who left in exchange 
 their helmets ; and. it was certainly manifest 
 that the rusty helmets were here, and that the 
 gold images were not. The tomb of Sir Richard 
 Beauchamp is of marble ; and round its sides are 
 placed, in separate niches, small figures of men 
 and women in monastic habits, and executed in 
 copper gilt. Recumbent on the tomb is the effigy 
 of the noble knight. The hands are raised, but 
 not quite joined ; the head is finely done, and 
 possesses interesting features ; the whole figure 
 is of hollow brass. Above it is a brass frame, 
 which formerly supported a velvet pall. This 
 tomb is one of the most beautiful and perfect 
 monumental antiquities in England. The tomb 
 of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, and his 
 countess Lettice, is likewise in this chapel. It is 
 of Italian marble and workmanship ; its appear 
 ance is magnificent, but clumsy and tasteless. At 
 three o clock in the afternoon, I bade good-by 
 
JOURNAL. 59 
 
 to my friends at Warwick, and took the coach to 
 Stratford-upon-Avon. 
 
 It was certainly with no common emotions that 
 I entered the village which gave birth and burial 
 to the greatest poetical genius the world ever saw ; 
 and my first object, after I had bestowed my 
 luggage at the inn, was to visit the ancient dwell 
 ing under whose roof the bard of nature was born. 
 Its outward appearance is the same with that of 
 many old houses which I had already seen in 
 England ; the timber frame-work being exposed 
 to the eye, and the interstices filled in with brick 
 or mud, and faced with mortar, white- washed. 
 The first thing which is shown to you is the fire 
 place, sunk so deep into the wall, that it accommo 
 dates seats on its sides, in the style of a fireplace 
 in an American country inn. On one of the 
 sides a chair is pointed out, as the one in which 
 Shakspeare sat when the buck was roasting 
 which he stole from Sir Thomas Lucy s park ; 
 and you are soon called upon to reverence such a 
 chaotic collection of rattle-traps which are heaped 
 together on a bed in the front chamber, that, 
 though considerably amused, your high-raised 
 feelings and poetical associations are almost 
 entirely put to flight. The personage who intro 
 duces you to all these varieties, and who takes a 
 lease of the house for the purpose of showing it to 
 
bU MISCELLANIES. 
 
 strangers, is a garrulous, red-faced, slovenly old 
 woman, with false hair, and a dirty cap, by the 
 name of Mary Hornby. " This, sir," said she, 
 " is Shakspeare s lantern, and that is his inkstand, 
 and this is the pin-cushion which Queen Elizabeth 
 gave him, and this," added she, taking up a 
 tremendously long, black, and rusty old rapier, 
 " is his sword, which the prince regent told me 
 was a real Toledo blade he knew by some 
 marks upon the handle and he offered fifty 
 pounds for it, but it couldn t be sold." In 
 her catalogue of curiosities, you may be sure, that 
 boxes made of "Shakspeare s mulberry tree" 
 are not forgotten, of which she has a handkerchief 
 full, at a shilling apiece ; and when this stock is 
 sold, she will doubtless find means to get another 
 as ample. 
 
 Within a few years, an Album has been kept 
 here, in which I observed the names of Lord 
 Byron, and other living poets, the Prince of 
 Wales, Prince Leopold, the Duke of Wellington, 
 &c., as well as of several of my American 
 acquaintances. The walls and ceiling, also, of 
 this chamber, are so closely covered with sig 
 natures and rhymes, that it is next to impossible 
 to squeeze in another letter, without jostling a 
 poet or a prince. Mrs. Hornby, it seems, claims 
 a relationship with the bard of Avon, and must 
 
JOURNAL. 61 
 
 needs be an authoress too ! She showed me a 
 printed comedy and tragedy of which she was 
 the writer, and wished me to become a purchaser ; 
 but the nonsense of the things was so dull that I 
 declined. I bought, however, a collection of some 
 of the poetry which had been written here, and 
 which she had compiled and published under the 
 title of " Extemporal Verses written at the Birth 
 place of Shakspeare, at Stratford-upon-Avon, by 
 Persons of Genius," &c. Most of these extern 
 poral verses reflect no great credit upon Mrs. 
 Hornby s taste in selection, for they are as poor as 
 possible ; but one or two are worth copying. 
 These lines are among the best : 
 
 Ah, Shakspeare ! when we read the votive scrawls 
 With which well-meaning folks deface these walls, 
 
 And while in vain we seek some lucky hit 
 Amidst the lines whose nonsense, nonsense smothers, 
 
 We find, unlike thy Falstaffin his wit, 
 Thou art not here the cause oficit in others. 
 
 The following appear to have been written by 
 some one who came here with his wife, whose 
 name was Catherine : 
 
 Shakspeare, another Kate behold, 
 Who neither is nor was a scold, 
 
 A hetter Kate than thine ; 
 I wot Petruchio, if on earth, 
 Would give her up, with all her worth, 
 
 To be possess d of mine. 
 
 6 
 
62 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Another visiter, who signs W. Dimond, with the 
 date June 15, 1819, thus quizzes Mrs. Hornby 
 and her pretensions : 
 
 The Hebrew seer, by God s own coursers driven, 
 
 Fleet as the winds, in fiery car to heaven, 
 
 Heard, as he soar d, a kneeling kinsman s prayer, 
 
 And dropt his mantle to enfold his heir. 
 
 The relique caught, bade wondering ages trace 
 
 A prophet s spirit in a prophet s race ! 
 
 So Avon s Bard, from Avon s banks removed, 
 
 Bequeathed his laurel to the soil he loved, 
 
 And here his native shades yet floats along, 
 
 In living " woodnotes wild," a Shakspeare s song. 
 
 That harp which owned a William s proud command, 
 
 Strikes now, with gentler sound, in Mary s hand. 
 
 This worthy descendant of Shakspeare, on 
 finding out by her Album that I came from 
 America, told me that a number of American 
 gentlemen had subscribed for her last tragedy, 
 and she wished, when I returned, that I would 
 inform them it was published, and request them to 
 send her word how she could forward their copies. 
 
 From the roof under which Shakspeare first 
 drew the breath of life, I went to that which 
 covers his bones from the birthplace, to the 
 burial-place. He is interred in the chancel, or 
 eastern end of the village church. There are a 
 great many curious old monuments and tablets in 
 different parts of the church, but I could not heed 
 them now, and passed on to that one which 
 
JOURNAL. 63 
 
 caught my eye as soon as I came within sight of 
 it, and which I knew, from the bust upon it, to be 
 Shakspeare s. The figure is placed in a niche, 
 between two pillars, about five or six feet from 
 the ground ; the form is represented as low as the 
 middle ; one hand holds a pen, the other rests 
 upon a scroll, supported by a cushion. The head 
 bears a general resemblance to the portraits that 
 are given of him, and is by many supposed to be 
 the best and most authentic likeness extant. It 
 was originally colored after life, but was painted 
 over with a dingy white by the self-assumed 
 authority of Malone. In the Album which is kept 
 here, this work of the commentator has been thus 
 severely commented upon : 
 
 Stranger, to whom this monument is shown, 
 Invoke the poet s curse upon Malone ; 
 Whose meddling zeal his barbarous taste betrays, 
 And daubs his tombstone as he mars his plays ! 
 
 A colored bust of marble certainly has, in the 
 abstract, a most, ungracious effect, and no one 
 would think of coloring a statue of Canova s or 
 Chantry s ; but as everything which concerns 
 Shakspeare is interesting and sacred, and as we 
 wish to see his effigy as near like himself as the 
 art of that period could make it, it is a pity that 
 Mr. Malone s order should ever have been 
 
64 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 obeyed. The original color of the eyes was a 
 light hazel, that of the hair and beard, auburn. 
 
 Opposite the monument, and at a short distance 
 from the wall, is the poet s grave. It is marked 
 by a plain flat stone, even with the pavement ; 
 and I may here observe, that the pavement of an 
 English church is, in general, almost entirely com 
 posed of grave-stones. On that of Shakspeare 
 there is the following inscription, supposed to 
 have been written by himself: 
 
 Good friend, for Jesvs sake forbeare, 
 To digg the dvst encloased heare ; 
 Blest be y e man y* spares thes stones, 
 And cvrst be he yt moves my bones. 
 
 No one has dared a curse of Shakspeare s in 
 voking his bones are unmoved, his dust has 
 never been disturbed. The church in itself, is 
 very well worthy a half hour s attention. It has 
 a tall and handsome spire ; it is larger than the 
 generality of village churches ; many of its parts 
 are curious, and its whole effect is pleasing. Be 
 hind the chancel flows the river Avon, over which 
 a plank of moderate length might form a bridge. 
 
 July 28. My ride this morning was a delightful 
 one. The country between Stratford and Wood 
 stock is under high cultivation, and beautifully 
 diversified with handsome seats, snug villages, 
 
JOURNAL. 65 
 
 and picturesque churches. At Woodstock I left 
 the stage-coach. This village is celebrated for its 
 leather gloves, which are the best in England, and 
 for its neighborhood to Blenheim palace, which, 
 as is well known, was presented by the British 
 nation to the great duke of Marlborough. It is, 
 besides, one of the prettiest towns that I have yet 
 seen. Almost every other house is a glove-shop ; 
 in the windows of which there is an attractive dis 
 play of gloves, waistcoats, purses, work-bags and 
 other articles, all of leather, and very beautiful. 
 As I lingered for a moment before one of these 
 windows, the young woman who tended the shop 
 came to the door and invited me in, and by a skil 
 ful recommendation of her wares, prevailed on 
 me to spend twice as much money as I could well 
 afford. 
 
 Just out of the town is the entrance gate of 
 Blenheim. The porter, dressed in a full scarlet 
 livery, came out, on learning that I wished to see 
 the palace, and conducted me into the grounds. 
 Here I was instructed to stop and observe the dif 
 ferent views, and it was indeed an enchanting 
 spectacle which presented itself before me. On 
 my right was a fine piece of water, crossed at 
 some distance by a stone bridge of one arch, whose 
 span was one hundred and one feet, and built, as 
 the porter said, after the model of the Rialto at 
 6* 
 
66 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Venice. Farther on was a monumental pillar 
 erected to the first duke ; before me was a glimpse 
 of the palace, and on all sides grand clumps of 
 oaks, disposed to the best advantage for the pros 
 pect. The visiter may, if he pleases, walk or ride 
 round the park, but, as I designed to be in Oxford 
 before night, I could not spare the time. The road 
 from the park gate winds up to the gate of the 
 palace. Here another porter was in attendance 
 to lead me to the door of the great hall, which 
 you reach by a flight of stone steps ; and in this 
 hall was a man in a powdered wig and black suit, 
 with a wand in his hand for the purpose of point 
 ing out the several paintings, statues, &c., who, 
 after requesting me to put my name in a book 
 which is kept here, began to drag me through the 
 apartments with the utmost celerity. He described 
 the pictures, one after another, so rapidly, that by 
 the time I had hastily glanced over the first one in a 
 room, he had finished the history of half a dozen. 
 I can only remember, therefore, that I saw a col 
 lection of pictures, which was worthy being the gift 
 of a nation to its favorite, and that this collection 
 was particularly rich in the productions of Rubens. 
 Yet there was one, which, among all the rest, at 
 tracted and riveted my attention, and on which I 
 continued to gaze and gaze, while my clock-work 
 conductor was describing pictures to himself in 
 
JOURNAL. 67 
 
 another part of the house. It was one of those 
 beautiful things in the world which we congratu 
 late ourselves on having seen, which we lay by in 
 the choice places of our memory, to help make up 
 its pleasures and enrich its stores, to which we 
 love to return, on which we delight to dwell, and 
 which ever brings a most precious and holy feel 
 ing in its company. It was a Madonna, by Carlo 
 Dolce. Sweet, indeed, was the imagination which 
 pictured to itself so sweet a creation, and sweet 
 was the touch of that pencil which could transfer 
 it to the canvass, and show it to the world. The 
 virgin s face was more than beautiful, it was hea 
 venly ; and there was no need of the circle of 
 stars over her head, to prove that the painter wor 
 shipped her. The fingers were most delicately 
 rounded and tapered, the moulding of the hand 
 was perfect, and the raised eyes had a humid light 
 in them which I had never observed in any pic 
 ture before. It was such a form, in short, as we 
 never expect to see on earth, and such as is only 
 brought by fancy in her most propitious dreams 
 and to her most favored votaries. 
 
 Beside this picture, there were also one or two 
 others which I remembered from the mass, though 
 less distinctly. In the great drawing-room there 
 was a Charles I. on horseback, with Sir Thomas 
 Morton on foot, supporting his helmet, by Van- 
 
68 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 dyck ; the same subject that I have already no 
 ticed as having seen at Warwick castle. The 
 horse, however, in the Blenheim picture is a much 
 more magnificent creature than the other, and is 
 said, in fact, to be the finest horse ever painted. 
 In the grand cabinet is a head of Rubens, by him 
 self, which is a masterpiece of portrait painting. 
 Several rooms are hung with Gobelin tapestry, 
 representing the military achievements of the first 
 duke, and representing them so well that not only 
 are the figures in each scene well conceived and 
 executed, but even the expression of countenance 
 is preserved as in a painting. The library is 
 truly splendid. It is one hundred and eighty-three 
 feet long and thirty-one feet wide ; and its pillars, 
 arches, &c. ? are of marble, and richly carved. A 
 statue of Queen Anne in her royal robes, by Rys- 
 bach, stands at the top of the hall ; and in other 
 situations there are many fine statues and busts, 
 both modern and antique. Among them is a bust 
 of Alexander the Great, from the ruins of Hercu- 
 laneum. ...... 
 
 I hired a gig at the inn to carry me to Oxford, 
 the distance of which city from Woodstock is but 
 eight miles. 
 
 OXFORD. A place of palaces, and pinnacles, 
 and spires ; a city of delight and glory ! where 
 learning wears the diadem and sceptre, and is 
 
JOURNAL. 69 
 
 clothed in purple and furred robes, and is lodged 
 in royal houses ; where her walk is through fretted 
 aisles, and beneath gilded domes ; where her 
 contemplations are among the effigies of the wise 
 and mighty w r ho sleep, and where her seat is with 
 the noblest in the realm. It is really quite elevat 
 ing to visit this city, and I think no one, who has 
 any taste or respect for literature or antiquity, can 
 pass through the High street of Oxford without 
 emotion ; without having his soul filled with ven 
 eration and pleasure, at the view of the long- 
 extended lines of colleges and halls, which were 
 raised by the munificence of kings, and prelates, 
 and great men, and which have nursed so many 
 of the choicest spirits of so many ages. Two or 
 three times did I walk up and down this noble 
 street, absorbed in the crowding thoughts and as 
 sociations with which the place is connected in 
 the mind of every votary of learning, though he 
 be the humblest, and enjoying, in reality, a scene 
 which my imagination had often busied itself in 
 painting and varying. The buildings of the uni 
 versity are dispersed in the city without any order 
 of arrangement, though the great body of them 
 are situated on each side of High street, either 
 directly upon or very near it. The shops, dwell 
 ing-houses and churches, which are mixed with 
 the colleges in this street, are some of them ele- 
 
70 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 gant, all of them handsome ; and it is terminated 
 on the left, toward London, by the beautifully 
 proportioned tower of Magdalen College, which 
 alone might be a sufficient boast for any city. 
 The stone of which the university buildings are 
 chiefly constructed is of a sombre gray color, and 
 peels off in flakes on its external surface ; not so, 
 however, as to cause essential injury to the struct 
 ure, except in its parts of nicer workmanship. 
 Evening approached, and I deferred viewing the 
 interior of the colleges till the next morning. 
 
 July 29. I had grown so impatient, on various 
 accounts, to be in London, that I resolved, very 
 unwisely, I am afraid, to see as much of the uni 
 versity as I could this morning, and to leave Ox 
 ford in the afternoon ; trusting that on some future 
 day I should be able to revisit it, and satisfy my 
 curiosity more thoroughly. Taking with me one 
 of the men who serve as guides to the university, 
 I went first to All Souls College, the entrance to 
 which is from High street. The buildings of this 
 college are disposed into two quadrangles, the old 
 and the new, the latter of which is considerably the 
 largest. Leading me through the old and into the 
 new square, my guide summoned the porter ; for 
 it is the office of the guides merely to put stran 
 gers into the best way of seeing things, and not 
 actually to show the rooms ; this part of the busi- 
 
JOURNAL. 
 
 ness belonging to the porter or other servant of 
 the several colleges. A respectable looking old 
 gentleman in black came out from one of the 
 doors, with a bunch of keys in his hand, and con 
 ducted us first into the hall or dining-room of 
 the society. Here were shown to me many fine 
 portraits of distinguished members of the college ; 
 and a bust, by Roubilliac, of Archbishop Chichele, 
 the founder. We then ascended a flight of steps 
 and entered the library, which is one of the hand 
 somest in Oxford. The room is one hundred and 
 ninety-eight feet in length, and about thirty in 
 breadth, and, besides its painted windows, is de 
 corated with a large number of bronze busts of 
 distinguished fellows of the college, among which 
 I noticed those of Sir Christopher Wren, Arch 
 bishop Sheldon, Jeremy Taylor, and Dr. Syden- 
 ham. Descending from the library, we crossed 
 the court and came next to the chapel, which is 
 much admired for its beauty and simplicity. At 
 the western end, as you enter, is a most glorious 
 statue of Sir William Blackstone, by Bacon. He 
 is sitting in a chair, dressed in his judicial robes, 
 resting one hand upon a volume of his Commen 
 taries, and holding the Magna Charta in the other. 
 The face is full of the profoundest thought, and in 
 the position of the figure and the conduct of the 
 
72 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 drapery, there is the utmost grace, correctness and 
 dignity. 
 
 This part of the chapel is called the ante- 
 chapel, and is divided from the other by a hand 
 some screen, the work of Sir Christopher Wren ; 
 passing under which, you walk into the inner 
 chapel, where service is performed. Over the 
 altar, at the eastern end, is one of the best pic 
 tures, as it is said, of Raffaello Mengs. The 
 subject is the appearance of Jesus, after his resur 
 rection, to Mary Magdalene. " Touch me not," 
 says our Savior, " for I am not yet ascended to 
 my Father." The sorrow of Mary at this pro 
 hibition, mingled at the same time with her joy at 
 seeing him again, is well conceived and admi 
 rably expressed. 
 
 From All Souls we went to New College, 
 which was founded by the celebrated William 
 of Wykeham, in the year 1380. The gardens 
 belonging to it are rendered interesting by being 
 in part surrounded by the old city wall : from 
 them there is also the best view of the college. 
 Nothing calls for the particular attention of the 
 visiter in any of the public rooms excepting the 
 chapel, and that is the most beautiful in the uni 
 versity. His spirit must be of no enviable char 
 acter which does not bo\v itself on entering its 
 walls, and acknowledge that the place is holy. 
 
JOURNAL. 73 
 
 It is not spacious and lofty, for that were incon 
 sistent with the purpose which it serves; but 
 every part is in its due place and proportion ; 
 there is no superfluity of ornament, and that 
 which exists is of exquisite beauty ; nothing 
 offends the eye or the taste, but everything unites 
 in disposing the mind to profound worship and 
 religious meditation. Five tall and richly-painted 
 Gothic windows rise on each side of the chapel, 
 and admit a solemn twilight, dyed with their own 
 deep coloring. Depicted on these are the images 
 of saints a ad apostles, with their appropriate em 
 blems, and of the size of life. The painting is 
 modern, but in the best style of the art. Imme 
 diately over the communion-table are five subjects 
 from Scripture, executed in alto-relievo, and with 
 a surprising delicacy of workmanship, by West- 
 macott ; and above these are four rows of splen 
 did Gothic niches, occupying entirely the remain 
 der of the eastern end. At the west end is a 
 magnificent window, the painting of which is 
 pronounced to be one of the best specimens, if 
 not the very first, of modern window-painting in 
 England. The lower part is taken up with em 
 blematic figures of what are called the four car 
 dinal and three Christian virtues: Temperance, 
 Fortitude, Justice, and Prudence ; and Faith, 
 Hope, and Charity. On the upper part is painted 
 
74 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the Nativity. The light of the picture is made 
 to stream from the child upon the different groups 
 who are hastening to pay their homage to the 
 new-born Savior. Among the most distant of 
 these are the portraits of Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 who designed, and Jervais, who executed, the 
 subject. A great curiosity in this chapel is the 
 crosier of William of Wykeham. It is of silver, 
 gilt, and seven feet long ; highly adorned with 
 gothic open-work, and containing within the crook 
 a kneeling image of the munificent bishop. 
 
 Our next visit was to the theatre, a fine edifice 
 built by Sir Christopher Wren, at the expense of 
 Archbishop Sheldon, and on the plan of the thea 
 tre of Marcellus, at Rome. It is used for public 
 exhibitions, and is capable of containing three 
 thousand persons. On days of ceremony, when 
 the students and officers appear in full dress, and 
 ladies witness the performances from the galleries, 
 the scene is said to be extremely splendid and 
 striking. But on the day when the allied sove 
 reigns of England, Russia, and Prussia, with 
 Prince Metternich, Blucher, &c., visited the uni 
 versity and were presented with degrees in this 
 theatre, the show must have been, as I remember it 
 was described to be in the prints of the day, from 
 which the American papers borrowed the account, 
 of unusual pomp and brilliancy. On raised seats 
 
JOURNAL. 75 
 
 in the northern or semicircular part of the building, 
 sat the Prince Regent, with the other monarchs, 
 the one on his right hand, and the other on his left \ 
 on a space below was the chair of the Chancellor, 
 Lord Grenville, and beside him the Duchess of 
 Oldenburg. Princes, noblemen, masters of arts 
 and distinguished men, filled the spacious area. 
 Students took their places in the upper galleries ; 
 all in their respective robes, or in court dresses ; 
 while between these, in the lower galleries, like a 
 sparkling zone of grace and beauty, were the fair 
 est in the land. This was in the year 1814. The 
 chairs, covered with velvet and ornamented with 
 gold, on which the three sovereigns sat, are still 
 kept here, and shown to strangers. 
 
 Here I dismissed my guide, having first inquired 
 of him the way to the house of the Rev. Thomas 
 Gaisford, Regius professor of Greek, to whom I 
 had a letter. As it was the time of vacation, all 
 the students and most of the officers of the uni 
 versity were away, but this gentleman was one of 
 the few who remained in Oxford, and I fortunately 
 found him at home. Having learnt my intention 
 of leaving the city so soon, he politely offered to 
 show me the Bodleian library, and any of its treas 
 ures which I might particularly desire to see. I 
 was pretty well fatigued already, by my morning s 
 labors, but this was a temptation which I could 
 
76 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 not resist ; and the professor, putting on his gown 
 and square cap, without which insignia no member 
 of the university appears abroad, led the way to the 
 grand magazine of books. The original library 
 consisted of two parallel rooms, joined together 
 by a third leading from the centre of each, the 
 whole forming a connected set of apartments in 
 the form of the letter H. Part of the books are 
 ranged along the walls, and part are disposed in 
 recesses or alcoves. These rooms contain not, 
 however, by any means, the full treasures of the 
 existing library. They have long since been filled, 
 and the rest of the books take their places in a 
 number of smaller apartments within the same 
 walls. One of these apartments is entirely occu 
 pied by a collection of topographical works, said 
 to be the most complete in the kingdom ; the 
 greater part, if not the whole, of which were left 
 to the library by the antiquarian, Gough. As I 
 had expressed a wish to see some of their earliest 
 manuscripts, Professor G. handed me, among oth 
 ers, the famous Codex Laudianus, containing the 
 Acts of the Apostles, a limited edition of which, 
 approaching half way to a facsimile, was pub 
 lished in the last century. It is in very good pre 
 servation, and bids fair to last some centuries 
 longer. Some very richly illuminated books and 
 manuscripts were also shown to me. Among these 
 
JOURNAL. 77 
 
 there was a folio, on each page of which were six 
 or eight highly-finished pictures, surrounded by a 
 bright border of gold. 
 
 In the same building with the library is the pic 
 ture gallery. Here are portraits of founders and 
 benefactors, poets, scholars and kings ; a fine 
 statue of William, Earl of Pembroke, in bronze, 
 copies of Raphael s cartoons, &c. Among other 
 things, a portrait burnt on wood with a poker by 
 Dr. Griffith, master of University College, is wor 
 thy of notice, both on account of the singular me 
 thod of execution, and the real merit of the piece, 
 which you would take, at first sight, to be painted 
 with some dark and uniform color. 
 
 As I had engaged my place in the stage-coach, 
 it was now time for me to be gone ; so I snatched 
 a hasty meal at the inn, bade farewell to Oxford, 
 and long before the sun had touched the western 
 hills, had arrived at Henley-upon-Thames. 
 
 This town is prettily situated upon the river, 
 which lends it its name to distinguish it from an 
 other Henley, in Warwickshire. There is nothing 
 here to arrest a stranger s notice. Before it grew 
 dark, I walked about a mile along the banks of 
 the river, opposite the town, and found the cool 
 ness and quiet very refreshing after my dusty ride. 
 A small boat here and there upon the stream, held 
 a patient little party of fishers, and now and then 
 
 7* 
 
78 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 I met a few of the inhabitants enjoying their even 
 ing promenade, as well as myself. The walk 
 would be a delightful one were it lined with trees, 
 but it wants shade sadly. 
 
 July 30. This afternoon I seated myself in the 
 coach which was to take me to London. Leaving 
 Henley, we passed through a corner of Berkshire 
 to the village of Maidenhead, a little beyond 
 which I had a good view, on my right, of the no 
 ble towers of Windsor s royal castle, which I 
 should have known at the first sight, if it was only 
 for the resemblance between them and their hum 
 ble representatives on the outside wrappers of 
 Windsor soap. We rode next through a small 
 piece of Buckinghamshire into Middlesex, and 
 soon came to the famous Hounslow Heath, which 
 is beginning to be built upon, and with its loneli 
 ness is losing its terrifying celebrity. The paved 
 streets over which we were now jolted with little 
 intermission, the long lines of shops and houses, 
 and the rattling of innumerable carts, coaches and 
 carriages, indicated our approach to the vast me 
 tropolis. Indeed, the thickly-built villages melt 
 one into the other with scarce any perceptible 
 separation ; and although you are not said to be in 
 London till you have passed the corner of Hyde 
 Park, it is, in reality, London for some miles on 
 the outside of this nominal boundary. The vil- 
 
JOUKNAL. 79 
 
 lages still retain their names ; but they may be re 
 garded rather as so many quarters of the great city 
 than as distinct and independent portions of terri 
 tory. The immense sea of population continually 
 increasing by a thousand streams of tribute, and 
 advancing wave upon wave in every direction, 
 spreads itself wide and more wide over the land, 
 and objects which once were high above its utmost 
 tide, are now in the very midst of its waters. It 
 is a curious fact, that Northumberland house, near 
 Charing Cross, which, at the present time, is in 
 the centre of London, was described, and that not 
 very long ago, as being situated in the village of 
 Charing ; and that the Earl of Burlington, on be 
 ing asked why he built his house in Piccadilly, so 
 far out of town, replied, " because I was deter 
 mined to have no building beyond me." 
 
 The coach carried us to the Belle Savage Inn, 
 with the name of which I had long been acquaint 
 ed ; though at the time when I was lazily reading 
 in some English magazine an inquiry into the 
 origin of this appellation, I little thought that I 
 ever should have slept in the house which bears 
 it. And here terminates my journey from Liver 
 pool to London a distance of two hundred and 
 five miles. 
 
 July 31. In the morning I walked as far as 
 St. Paul s, and there, taking a hackney-coach, I 
 
80 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 proceeded to deliver some of my letters ; the num 
 ber of this first carriage in which I rode in Lon 
 don, was somewhere between 1400 and 1500. Be 
 fore dinner time I had taken lodgings at Dick s 
 coffee-house, once the resort of Addison and his 
 knot of wits. It is now much frequented by my 
 countrymen, though still the inhabitants of the 
 Temple, to whom this house is a near neighbor, and 
 several distinguished literati, occasionally dine here. 
 August l. As I was now in London, I went, 
 of course, to see the London sights. My state of 
 health would not allow of my climbing to the top 
 of the monument, or to the dome of St. Paul s, 
 and I therefore contented myself with those ob 
 jects which were more within my reach. My 
 first visit was, through the introduction of a friend, 
 to a collection of pictures in Pall Mall, belong 
 ing to Mr. Angerstein, a wealthy merchant. It 
 is a choice, though not a very large one. It boasts 
 of five lovely Claudes, and the series of Hogarth s 
 Marriage a la Mode ; besides some good portraits 
 of Sir Joshua Reynolds, a Rape of the Sabines, 
 by Rubens, and several other pictures by the first 
 masters. Hogarth struck me more forcibly, how 
 ever, than anything else here ; both because this 
 was the first time I had ever seen a painting by 
 him, and because he is in himself and in his way, 
 so inimitably fine. His coloring is said to be very 
 
JOURNAL. 81 
 
 poor. It may be so I am not connoisseur 
 enough to tell whether it is or not ; but I certainly 
 never so fully appreciated the power and the satire 
 of Hogarth, from any of the numerous engrav 
 ings which I have seen of his works, as I did from 
 these paintings. This was partly, no doubt, be 
 cause in the picture the details are more fully 
 brought out, and sooner perceived and understood, 
 than they are in the engravings, and it is from these 
 details that we gather a great part of the story, 
 and are made to feel the whole weight of the 
 satire. No painter has ever approached Ho 
 garth s excellence in the truth, the wit, and the 
 multiplicity of these subordinate, though powerful 
 components of his subjects. His scenes are al 
 ways extremely well stocked, and yet there is not 
 a bit of china without a purpose, nor is a single fly 
 introduced unfurnished with his errand. How 
 plainly does the cobweb over the poor s box tell 
 us that it had long been empty, and that what 
 ever might be the virtues of the Sleeping Congre 
 gation, charity, like watchfulness, was not among 
 the number. 
 
 Leaving Mr. Angerstein s, I finished my morn 
 ing in the Gallery of the British Institution, which 
 is a few steps farther up Pall Mall, and on the 
 opposite side of the way. This institution is un 
 der the patronage of the king, and is supported 
 
82 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 by the subscriptions of a long list of nobility and 
 wealthy men. Its object is to diffuse a love of the 
 arts, and furnish means of improvement to artists, 
 by annual exhibitions of pictures of interest and 
 excellence, which are gratuitously loaned for the 
 season from private collections. The exhibition 
 of the present year consisted of a noble assemblage 
 of portraits, illustrative of British history and bio 
 graphy. Three spacious apartments, connected 
 by arched entrances, were filled with the likenesses 
 of the greatest, the wisest, and the loveliest of 
 Britain s sons and daughters. Here were kings 
 and queens, ladies and lords, philosophers and 
 jesters, warriors and bishops, statesmen, orators, 
 poets and painters. The whole number of por 
 traits was one hundred and eighty-three ; and more 
 days should have been given to studying them 
 than I could devote hours ; for I found that the 
 number and variety of the objects, together with 
 their peculiar interest, wearied me as much as the 
 most fatiguing exercise. Among the paintings in 
 the north room was a portrait of William Pitt, by 
 Hoppner. " O, there is Pitt," said a Cambridge 
 professor, (Professor Smythe,) on coming into the 
 room where a portrait of him was hanging, 
 " there is Pitt, in all the sarcastic sublimity of his 
 soul." This pithy description of the minister s 
 character of countenance is as just as it is terse, 
 
JOURNAL. 83 
 
 You can never mistake a likeness of Pitt. There 
 is always a settled and irrepressible sneer upon it, 
 an habitual expression of superiority, the look of 
 a man, who, conscious of his mighty powers, had 
 accustomed himself to consider all other men as 
 his inferiors, and who cared not if his features an 
 nounced what his heart believed ; and thus intel 
 lectual command and the proudest confidence of 
 ability are written in every line of them. His char 
 acter is still estimated here by party feeling. The 
 dissenters, the whigs, and the opposition in gen 
 eral, look upon him as a man who sacrificed every 
 thing to ambition, who nearly ruined the country 
 by his measures, and who, by the influence of his 
 political principles, still lives and acts in the meas 
 ures of a hated administration ; while the other 
 party are warm advocates of the excellence of all 
 his plans, and unbounded in their worship of the 
 " pilot who weathered the storm." 
 
 The first in order among the portraits in the 
 middle room, was that of Anthony Ashley Cooper, 
 Earl of Shaftesbury, by Sir Godfrey Kneller, be 
 longing to the present Earl of Shaftesbury. The 
 talents and attainments of this nobleman were 
 most extraordinary. Charles II. said of him, that 
 " he knew more law than all his judges, and more 
 divinity than all his bishops." The same monarch 
 once addressed him thus ; " I believe, Shaftesbury, 
 
84 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 thou art the wickedest dog in England." " May 
 it please your majesty," returned the lord chan 
 cellor, " of a subject, I believe I am." 
 
 August 3. A stranger has no need, after all, 
 to run about this city after shows ; for it is all a 
 show ; every street is full of objects of curiosity, 
 and every step is arrested by something or other, 
 which, to the inhabitant of a different country es 
 pecially, is novel and amusing. Week after week 
 might be spent very pleasantly, in examining 
 the shop-windows alone. In these, the different 
 tradesmen put forth all their taste, and endeavor 
 so to arrange their commodities as to attract the 
 eyes, and tempt the entrance, of passengers. Here 
 the draper unrolls his richest patterns, and festoons 
 his glossy silks in the most fanciful dispositions ; 
 and there the jeweller displays his shining store of 
 plate and jewels, watches, rings, musical-boxes, 
 and other toys for grown up children ; while far 
 ther on is a vast collection of dolls, rocking-horses, 
 baby-houses, merry-andrews, pewter soldiers, &c., 
 for children who are not grown up. In this 
 window, a tinman, anxious to prove the wonder 
 ful power of his newly-invented roasting-machine, 
 has put it in the most conspicuous situation, 
 with a wooden fowl in it, twirling before a painted 
 fire, from morning till night ; and in that, an 
 equally ambitious manufacturer of cork legs has 
 
JOURNAL. 85 
 
 exhibited one with a black silk stocking and highly 
 polished shoe, as a notice to all who may unfortu 
 nately be in want of that important member. For 
 those whose literary researches terminate with the 
 titles of books, there is reading enough in the open 
 air for a twelvemonth ; and those who like to look 
 at prints, but do not like very well to pay for 
 them, may be gratified at the windows of the 
 printseller. 
 
 There are many other circumstances to interest 
 one in traversing the streets. You meet at every 
 corner with names which various reading has 
 familiarized to you, almost from the time of your 
 being able to read at aft : the Strand, High Hoi- 
 born, Temple Bar, Newgate, Smithfield, St. Giles, 
 Grub street, Rag-fair, Covent Garden, Russell 
 Square, Grosvenor Square, &c., are seen, with all 
 their various associations about them, and give rise 
 to endless recollections of history, poetry and fic 
 tion, and men, manners and scenes, both in high 
 life and low. Then there are the beggars, who, 
 every body knows, carry on as regular and sys 
 tematic a trade as the fishmonger or grocer. The 
 various cries, too, have their interest, and none 
 the less from their being utterly unintelligible, ex 
 cept to the initiated. Among all that I have 
 heard, I have not yet been able to understand one 
 without looking into the cart, barrow or basket in 
 s 
 
86 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 which the crier s commodity was carried ; and 
 yet there is a peculiar tone and mark about each 
 of them which is perfectly comprehended by ser 
 vants and other purchasers. Again, there are the 
 street musicians, ballad singers and showmen, to 
 attract your ears and eyes, and call for your half 
 pence. 
 
 As I was going, this afternoon, through Lincoln s 
 Inn Fields, I came upon a crowd who were gath 
 ered round an exhibitor of that important person 
 age, Punch and his associates. A wooden stage 
 or box, about three feet square, was elevated 
 against a wall, at the distance of eight feet from 
 the ground ; and curtains hanging from it and 
 drawn close, concealed the man who played the 
 puppets, and carried on their conversations for 
 them. The figures came forward on the front of 
 the box, enacted a variety of ludicrous gestures, 
 chattered nonsense together, pummelled each 
 other, and then made their exits. There were 
 seldom more than two on the stage at the same 
 time, and Punch generally made one of them, be 
 ing by far the most conspicuous character in the 
 company. I left the group while he and Old Nick 
 were engaged in a terrible and doubtful battle. 
 
 August 5. I breakfasted this morning with the 
 champion and chief of living Unitarians, the Rev. 
 Thomas Belsham ; a round, sensible, good- 
 
JOURNAL. 87 
 
 natured head, a short person, and very corpulent ; 
 kind and affable in his manners, interesting and 
 communicative in his conversation, and devoid of 
 all arrogance and affectation in his address. He 
 inquired particularly about our common friends 
 in America, and spoke with affectionate remem 
 brance of my lamented predecessor, Mr. Thacher. 
 I observed with pleasure, on the walls of the room, 
 beside the portraits of most of the distinguished 
 Unitarians, those of several of our own great men ; 
 and this leads me to remark that a day or two ago 
 I saw, at a shop-window in High Holborn. plaster 
 busts of Washington, Hamilton, and one other 
 who certainly has, in our late war with England, 
 evinced great military talent, General Jackson. I 
 thought at the time that it was singular that his 
 likeness should have travelled to London so soon, 
 considering the tardy justice which is here paid to 
 the goodness or greatness of anything American, 
 and the little anxiety that is felt concerning not 
 only the faces, but the characters, achievements, or 
 even the names, of those whom we have delighted 
 to honor, and who will one day take their pjace 
 and rank on the page of history with the proudest 
 who have figured there before them. 
 
 August 6. I dined with Mr. Belsham, and heard 
 him preach both parts of the day. His sermons 
 were by far the best that I have yet heard in Eng- 
 
88 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 land ; full of thought, and calculated to set one s 
 thoughts to work. He used no gesture whatever ; 
 his hands hung unemployed by his side, or were 
 only employed to turn the leaves of his manuscript. 
 The interior of the chapel is neat and simple, and 
 under the same roof with the minister s house ; 
 there being a communication between them by a 
 door, an excellent accommodation to the preacher 
 in hot, cold, or bad weather of any kind. The 
 premises in Essex street are the same which were 
 taken and improved by Mr. B. s predecessor, the 
 Rev. Theophilus Lindsey. The congregation was 
 tolerably numerous in the morning, notwithstand 
 ing the rain ; but very thin in the afternoon. This 
 was, I understood, the usual course of alternation : 
 the house being well filled, and often crowded, in 
 the first service, and almost deserted in the second. 
 On my leaving him, Mr. B. presented me with a 
 copy of his second edition of the life of Lindsey. 
 August 8. Among a number of shows which, 
 as it afterwards proved, I most unfortunately and 
 unwisely w r earied myself in visiting to-day, the 
 principal were the menagerie in Exeter Change, 
 and Miss Linwood s exhibition of needle-work, in 
 Leicester Square. The collection of wild animals 
 at Exeter Change is the largest and best I ever 
 saw. It is distributed into three rooms ; two 
 large and the other small, beside a separate one 
 
JOURNAL. 
 
 89 
 
 for an elephant. In the lower room were three 
 lions ; one of which an artist was engaged in tak 
 ing a model of, in clay ; in the den of another a 
 dog was living on the best terms possible with his 
 terrible friend ; and while I was in the apartment, 
 the third set up such a tremendous roar, that 
 though I knew he was perfectly well secured by 
 stout substantial bars of wrought iron, I must con 
 fess to a little inward trepidation ; and I thought 
 afterwards that if, as it is said, all the beasts of the 
 forest quake when they but hear their monarch s 
 voice, I could not blame them for it. In the small 
 room there was a boa-constrictor, about as large 
 round as one s arm, but how long I could not tell ; 
 for he had coiled himself up in many a curious 
 fold, and thus he lay in quite a sluggish state, upon 
 a blanket, and unconfined by any cage or enclos 
 ure whatever. This certainly looked like dan 
 ger ; but the boy who attended said there was 
 none to be feared. I suppose its transportation 
 and the entire change of all its habits had subdued 
 it, and deprived it of all activity and ferocity. 
 
 Miss Linwood s exhibition was highly gratify 
 ing to me. Her magic needle has imitated with 
 force and truth the best productions of the paint 
 er s art ; and that not only in the forms and colors 
 of inanimate nature, of trees and rocks and run 
 ning waters, but in the hues and the expressions 
 
 8* 
 
90 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of the human countenance also. A flight of steps 
 conducted me into a spacious hall, one side of 
 which was hung with these beautiful pieces of 
 needlework, while the other was furnished with 
 sofas, on which the visiter might examine them at 
 his ease. Reclining here, the delusion was per 
 fect ; I could hardly persuade myself that I was 
 not looking at real paintings, although the gallery 
 was not more than thirty feet in breadth ; and it 
 was not till I had approached almost near enough 
 to touch the work, that I perceived the worsted 
 threads winding their mazes through it, and by 
 their delicate gradation and fitness of shade ren 
 dering it the wonder that it was. This gallery 
 was chiefly filled with landscapes, rural subjects, 
 and still life, from Ruysdael, Westall, Wilson, 
 Morland, Haughton, &c. On the left there was 
 an entrance into a narrow and gloomy passage, 
 called the gothic room. 
 
 I had groped so far along this passage without 
 meeting with a single object, or catching one ray 
 of light, that I began to think I had mistaken my 
 way ; when, just as I was going to retrace my 
 steps, I was suddenly arrested by the view of a 
 dreary cell, in which were several figures as large 
 as life, and so well executed that they had, for the 
 first unprepared moment, the effect of life itself. 
 The subject was the prison scene of Hubert and 
 
JOURNAL. 91 
 
 Arthur, from Northcote. The poor prince is on 
 his knees : 
 
 O ! save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out 
 Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 
 
 The light is introduced into the cell from above ; 
 the piece of needlework itself forms one side of 
 the apartment, while partitions of wood or canvass 
 are painted in imitation of stones to make up the 
 others. You then pass on to a series of these 
 small apartments ; each of them fitted up in har 
 mony with the picture it contains, and well fur 
 nished with light ; while you look in upon them 
 yourself from the passage, which is kept entirely 
 dark. One of these represents a cottage, into the 
 half open casement of which you peep and see 
 some rosy-cheeked children by a blazing fire ; 
 another is formed into the interior of a rocky den, 
 on the floor of which are two or three lions and 
 a lioness reposing ; the first of these after Gains 
 borough, and the other from Stubbs. The dispo 
 sition of this part of her collection does as much 
 credit to the inventive, as the execution does to 
 the imitative, powers of Miss Linwood. There is 
 still another small room containing copies of Carlo 
 Maratti s Nativity, Carlo Dolci s Salvator Mundi, 
 Raphael s Madonna della Seggiola, and the Dead 
 Christ of Ludovico Carracci. 
 
92 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 On the night of this day I was unexpectedly 
 and sadly convinced that I had relied too much on 
 my strength, and greatly injured myself by a too 
 unguarded indulgence of my curiosity. I was 
 attacked, about eleven o clock, with a return of 
 hemoptysis, which confined me to my bed, 
 brought the physician once more to my chamber, 
 deranged my plans of travelling, and inspired me 
 with the most desponding views of the future. By 
 the good blessing of God, however, I became 
 strong enough in the course of a week to be 
 moved, in a coach, to the house of a most kind 
 friend and countryman, and in a few days after to 
 take short walks abroad. One of these walks was 
 to the painting room of Sir Thomas Lawrence, 
 who lives but a few doors from us. The apart 
 ment was filled with this master s portraits, in 
 different states of progress. Among them, a fine 
 one of the duke of Wellington appeared to be 
 finished. The horse in the picture I thought 
 a most noble animal. I was charmed, too, with 
 his portraits of children ; they looked so fresh, and 
 innocent, and happy, and beautiful so truly like 
 children. And what lovely pictures were those, 
 in which the child was grouped with its angel 
 mother dancing on her knee, or peeping over 
 her shoulder ; and how different from those com 
 mon family pieces, in which the parent is intro- 
 
JOURNAL. 93 
 
 duced, sitting as bolt upright as if she had been 
 soaked in starch, and the child staring at you with 
 its round, lack-lustre eyes, and holding a posy 
 which seems to be just cut out from a rag of old- 
 fashioned room paper ! The portrait of our coun 
 tryman, West, the late president of the academy, 
 was here. 
 
 September 4. It had been my decided and 
 cherished purpose, before I was taken ill, to pro 
 ceed from London to the Continent, and pass the 
 coming winter in Italy. I am at present, how 
 ever, obviously not in a situation to contend with 
 the fatigues and anxieties of such a journey ; and 
 my physician and friends strongly advise my re 
 maining in England. The southern coast of De 
 vonshire is represented as enjoying an exceedingly 
 mild climate, and as being, on that account, a fa 
 vorite resort of invalids during the winter months ; 
 and I have, from these considerations, determined 
 on making some spot in that part of the country 
 my residence, till the warm suns of spring shall 
 return, and bring to me, if it so please Heaven, 
 renewed vigor and activity. It is my intention to 
 leave the metropolis next Friday. 
 
 September 8. This being the day fixed upon 
 for the commencement of my journey into Devon 
 shire, I started at four o clock in the afternoon, in 
 one of the western coaches, which was to put me 
 
94 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 down at Bagshot, twenty-six miles from London. 
 It was dark when we passed Bagshot heath, and 
 nine o clock in the evening when we entered the 
 village. 
 
 September 9. The inn to which I was carried 
 was not what is called the first inn in the place, 
 but for that very reason, perhaps, was the best, or 
 the best for me. Your first inns are very well for 
 your first folks, who travel in their own carriages ; 
 but for unattended, noiseless mortals, like myself, 
 they are not so comfortable, in this country, as 
 those of the second class. In the former, we are 
 not of sufficient consideration to demand a ready 
 service of our wants, or a proper deference to our 
 wishes ; while in the latter we are as good as the 
 best of their customers, and therefore served as 
 well as the best. At least, I have found it so 
 hitherto ; and I never was better attended in any 
 public house, than I was in this little inn at Bag- 
 shot. 
 
 September 10. I took a walk, after breakfast 
 this morning, to look about me. Bagshot is a 
 small village, but a very neat one. It is entirely 
 surrounded by extensive heaths ; and, excepting 
 in the immediate vicinity of the town, there is 
 scarcely a tree to be seen as far as the eye can 
 reach. The pretty little heath-flower, with which 
 these tracts are covered, is now just beginning to 
 
JOURNAL. 95 
 
 fade, but still retains much of its beauty. At ten 
 o clock the Southampton coach passed through the 
 village, and I took my seat in it for Winchester, 
 where I arrived at four in the afternoon. 
 
 This city is very ancient, and was once a place 
 of great importance ; so much so, that till the 
 reign of Henry III. it was, rather than London, 
 the capital of England. Here Egbert was crowned 
 in the year 827, and Edward the Confessor, in 
 1042 ; here Ethel wolf and his son, the great Al 
 fred, were educated ; here Henry IV. was mar 
 ried to Joan of Brittany, and Mary to Philip of 
 Spain ; and here, for some time after the Conquest, 
 the mint and treasury were established, and the 
 archives of the kingdom were preserved. The 
 famous Doomsday Book is, from this circum 
 stance, also called the Rotulus Wintoniensis. It 
 is no longer the seat of royalty ; and, in point of 
 magnitude, it has fallen so far below its former 
 rival that it would, if joined to it, hardly make a 
 perceptible addition to its giant size. 
 
 Still, it is a place of much interest to the strang 
 er, and retains many memorials of its former mag 
 nificence. The principal of these is the cathedral. 
 After dinner, I paid it a visit. It is a massive, 
 venerable old pile, and realized all my expecta 
 tions of gothic grandeur. It is built, as all the 
 ecclesiastical structures of those times were built, 
 
96 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in the form of a cross. From the centre, or, to 
 speak more scientifically, from the junction of the 
 nave and transepts, rises the tower ; in form, a 
 square, and but a very little elevated above the 
 body of the building. Its appearance, however, 
 is very substantial and imposing ; and it is, to 
 gether with the transepts, the most ancient portion 
 of the structure ; these parts being all that remain 
 of the cathedral, erected by Bishop Walkelin, be 
 tween the years 1079 and 1093, in which last year 
 it was finished. By the way, I have improved so 
 much, since I first entered, a raw and inexperi 
 enced American, the arched door-way of Chester 
 cathedral, that I have become quite an adept, and 
 have eight or ten of the most common terms of 
 gothic architecture at my finger ends. Being 
 able, therefore, to call things, more generally, by 
 their right names, I shall go on to say, that I en 
 tered Winchester cathedral by the principal door, 
 which is always at the west end. I was then in 
 the nave, or great western aisle, on the right and 
 left of which ran the two side aisles ; the separa 
 tion between the nave and these lesser aisles being 
 made by the clustered pillars which support the 
 roof. 
 
 Under the fifth arch of the south aisle, is the 
 tomb of the munificent William of Wykeham, 
 bishop of this see, under whose auspices the west 
 
JOURNAL. 97 
 
 end of the cathedral, as it now stands, was re- 
 erected. The tomb is enclosed by a small chapel 
 or chantry ; and on it reclines the marble figure 
 of the bishop in full dress, with mitre, crosier, 
 ring, cope, tunic, and all the other adornments of a 
 dignitary of the Roman church. The face is well 
 done, and is evidently a likeness. Bishops Mor- 
 ley and Hoadley, with others, have likewise mon 
 uments in this part of the cathedral. Nearly 
 opposite Wykeham s chapel, on the north side, is 
 a most curious baptismal font of black marble, and 
 of unsearchable antiquity, carved with rude fig 
 ures, which are supposed to represent a popish 
 legend of St. Nicholas. 
 
 The nave is terminated by an ornamented par 
 tition of stone, called the screen ; through which 
 a door opens into the choir, or part appropriated 
 to public worship. Here begins the east end of 
 the cathedral, which is divided from the west by 
 the north and south transepts ; and thus is com 
 pleted the great cross. The altar is at the eastern 
 extremity of the choir, and the space around it is 
 called the chancel. In the choir of this cathedral, 
 placed on the top of its side walls, are six mortu 
 ary chests containing the remains of many of the 
 Saxon sovereigns, Kinegils, Egbert, Ethelwolf, 
 Edred, Canute, Queen Emma, &c. Under the 
 pavement is the grave of William Rufus, the last 
 
 9 
 
98 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 English king who was buried here. Near the 
 choir, though not communicating with it, are sev 
 eral small chapels, one of which is dedicated to 
 the Virgin Mary ; and others, like that already 
 described, are built for the tombs of different bish 
 ops. 
 
 I have now, in my progress through Winches 
 ter cathedral, given, though to be sure in a con 
 fused way, the names and situations of the princi 
 pal of those interior parts, which are common to 
 all cathedrals. These are the nave, with its side 
 aisles ; the transepts ; and the choir, separated from 
 the nave by its screen, and including the chancel. 
 The chapel of the virgin, or the lady chapel, as it 
 is called, is also, I believe, a universal appendage, 
 and is situated immediately behind the choir, 
 forming the extreme east end of the church. 
 But other chapels are varied at will ; and are 
 either built under the common roof, or project 
 from the grand structure, and have a roof of their 
 own. The position of the tower or spire is also a 
 matter depending on the taste of the architect ; 
 and sometimes a cathedral has but one, and, again, 
 another will have two or more rising from different 
 parts of the building. 
 
 September 10. Within a few paces of my inn, 
 is the market cross ; one of the few which yet re 
 main in England. It is a light little structure, 
 
JOURNAL. 99 
 
 consisting of gothic niches and arches elaborately 
 carved, rising one over the other, and tapering 
 toward the summit, which is crowned by a small 
 cross. In one of the niches is an image of a 
 saint. 
 
 After breakfast, I walked to Winchester school 
 or college ; another monument of Wykeham s 
 munificence. It was intended, by its founder, as 
 a preparatory seminary for New College, Oxford, 
 and supports seventy scholars, beside the masters. 
 These are on the foundation. There are many 
 others educated here, but at their own expense, 
 who are called gentlemen commoners. The li 
 brary is valuable, though not large. On a desk 
 i here lay a large folio of vellum, in which were 
 handsomely entered the names of every donor. 
 The chapel is beautiful. The cloisters, or cov 
 ered walks, are in perfect preservation, and their 
 walls are lined with the monumental tablets of 
 those members of the institution w r ho lie buried 
 beneath their pavement. The students wear a 
 gown of black cloth over their other dress, of the 
 same cut and fashion, no doubt, as was worn in 
 the days of the good William of Wykeham ; and 
 it is very becoming. In the refectory, a few of 
 the lads, who had not finished their breakfast, 
 were yet lingering ; and I observed that they ate, 
 not off of plates, but square, flat bits of oaken 
 
100 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 board, called trenchers ; to keep up the old cus 
 toms, as my guide said. They have another cus 
 tom, which, though not so old, is much prettier, 
 that of joining their young voices together, just 
 before they go home for the vacation, to sing the 
 sweet song of Dulce Domum. Dulce Domuni I 
 He must have had music in his soul, who first sug 
 gested this touching observance. Sweet Home ? 
 O ! there is melody and magic in the very sound, 
 It was yet early when I left the college ; and, 
 as it was Sunday, I went directly to the cathedral, 
 that I might hear the morning service. It had 
 just commenced ; and I stood some minutes in 
 the nave, listening to the solemn chant which is 
 sued from the choir, and filled the lofty arches of 
 the cathedral with its swelling harmony. As a 
 stranger, I was led by the sexton to a seat of 
 honor, one of the prebendary s stalls, richly carved, 
 and well accommodated with velvet cushions. The 
 whole service is sung. Even the longer prayers 
 were read by the officiating clergyman in a meas 
 ured tone ; and the responses are chanted by the 
 choristers, an order which is maintained in every 
 cathedral. They are dressed in white robes, and 
 ranged on each side of the choir. The treble 
 parts are sustained by boys. I was delighted with 
 their music, and particularly with the voices of the 
 younger choristers, one of whom sung like an an- 
 
JOURNAL. 101 
 
 gel. The chant of the response to the command 
 ments, in the communion service, " Lord, have 
 mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this 
 law," was highly affecting and expressive. The 
 sermon, however, was delivered in so low a key 
 that I could catch but very little of it ; and what 
 I heard was not calculated to make me deplore 
 the loss of the rest. 
 
 I was dissatisfied with my inn, and made up 
 my mind to stay here no longer, but move on to 
 Salisbury. There was no coach between these 
 two places ; which, considering their size and im 
 portance, I thought very strange ; but so it was, 
 and I must either take a post-chaise, or proceed 
 by the route of Southampton. But Salisbury has 
 a cathedral, and Southampton has not, and this 
 was quite enough to determine me ; and at noon 
 I was on the road. We passed through the west 
 gate in leaving Winchester ; the only one of its 
 ancient gates remaining. From the north side of 
 it extends a considerable fragment of the old city 
 wall, built of flint stones, which abound in the 
 chalky soil of this part of the country. At Stock- 
 bridge we changed horses, and at four in the after 
 noon, arrived at Salisbury. 
 
 It is curious to mark how different my recep 
 tion is at the inns, now that I travel in a post- 
 chaise, from that which I obtained as a passenger 
 9* 
 
102 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in the stage-coach. Then, I was treated with 
 civility, to be sure ; a servant came to open the 
 door, and offer his arm to assist me in getting out, 
 and if I ordered my baggage to be taken in, it was 
 done ; but after that I was left pretty much to 
 myself, and went away with as little observance 
 as attended my coming. But now, the chaise no 
 sooner stops before an inn door, than, instead of 
 one servant, out run two or three, and perhaps 
 even the landlady herself deigns to make her ap 
 pearance ; the steps are unfolded with as much 
 rattling as possible ; an elbow is presented on each 
 side, and I am helped down with as much care 
 and tenderness as if I had the gout or rheuma 
 tism ; my trunks are shouldered, and I am asked 
 whether they shall be carried in ; my looks and 
 motions are watched, and my least word attended 
 to ; the bell is an,sw r ered in a trice ; the table is 
 laid and the dishes are brought in with as much 
 formality as at a city feast ; and when I leave the 
 house, (provided I leave it in a post-chaise,) an 
 other company of servants are collected to bestow 
 the baggage, and to open the door ; while the 
 landlord, who hardly ever shows his face to the 
 stage-coach passenger, stands without, " a booing 
 and booing," as if he never meant to assume an 
 erect posture again. 
 
 All this is very well, arid very flattering to one s 
 
JOURNAL. 103 
 
 self-importance ; but there are reasons for it, of 
 course ; and they are not so pleasant. In the first 
 place, the owners of the post-chaises are the inn 
 keepers, and they make great profits by them ; 
 for they charge eighteen pence per mile for their 
 use ; and when to this you add the tolls and the 
 half-crown which is to be given as the customary 
 fee to the post-boy, at the end of every eight or 
 nine miles, travelling in this way becomes a seri 
 ous thing to a moderate income. Then, in the 
 second place, as you have already paid so much, 
 you are thought to be able to pay more, and there 
 fore are expected to call for wine, which, to an in 
 valid, who must not drink it, or to one who does not 
 want or cannot afford it, is very vexatious ; and 
 the servants look for a better fee than they do 
 from a traveller by the stage ; and this is another 
 reason for their reverence and activity. These 
 considerations will not apply to those who have 
 no need to be very strict economists, and who can 
 see a pound note disappear at every change of 
 horses with perfect indifference. To such trav 
 ellers, English posting must be the pleasantest 
 way of making a journey which could be possibly 
 found or mentioned. If two or three persons take 
 a chaise, also, the division of expense will render 
 it light to each individual ; as the charge is not 
 more for three than it is for one. But we will 
 
104 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 leave this matter, for we are in Salisbury, and 
 must go and see the cathedral. 
 
 The cathedral is remarkable for its lofty and 
 elegant spire, its ornamental buttresses, and by its 
 being of a more uniform architecture than any 
 other ancient cathedral in England. The win 
 dows, pillars, arches and decorations, all corre 
 spond with each other, and offer none of that dis 
 crepancy of style, and incongruity of ornament, 
 which are so obvious in the other remaining build 
 ings of this kind. The reason of this is that the 
 whole body of the edifice stands now as it wa^ 
 first erected ; with the exception of the spire, 
 which was added about a century after ; but 
 which, while it is a most exquisite structure in it 
 self, is by no means ill adapted to the rest of the 
 cathedral. Before the present see of Salisbury, 
 or New Sarum, was settled here, it had been suc 
 cessively removed from Sherborn and Wilson to 
 Old Sarum, where Hermann, the eleventh bishop, 
 began a cathedral, and Osmund, his successor, 
 finished it, toward the close of the eleventh cen 
 tury. On account of the bitter and incessant 
 quarrels between the clergy and the castellans, or 
 soldiers of the castle, Bishop Richard Poore, or 
 Pauper, made the final remove in the beginning 
 of the thirteenth century, and in the year 1220, laid 
 the foundation of the present church. This proved 
 
JOURNAL. 105 
 
 the death-blow to the city of Old Sarum, for it 
 gradually declined, and is now nothing but a heap 
 of rubbish. Poore was translated to Durham, and 
 the cathedral was not finished till the year 1258, 
 when it was dedicated by ^Egidius de Bridport 
 to the Virgin Mary, a noble company being pre 
 sent, among whom was king Henry III. himself. 
 Though so old, this church is not marked by 
 any appearance of decay. It looks beautifully 
 fresh and sound ; and its spire springs up to 
 heaven with a grace, lightness and symmetry, 
 which are quite enchanting. Beside the princi 
 pal transept there is another smaller one farther 
 toward the east, making a double cross of the 
 structure. The interior of this church does not at 
 all disappoint the expectations excited by its ex 
 ternal appearance. The nave is grand and sim 
 ple, and the pillars are unusually delicate. The 
 two painted windows of the choir, one above the 
 other, give a remarkably rich effect to that por 
 tion of the church. One of these represents the 
 resurrection, the other the elevation of the brazen 
 serpent in the wilderness. Both are modern, and 
 the latter is much admired. Among the monu 
 ments in various parts of the building, are those 
 of Bishop Poore, the founder ; Bishop Davenant, 
 who was sent by James I. to the synod of Dort ; 
 Bishop Ward, the mathematician ; and a 
 
106 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 some one by Bacon, to the memory of Harris, the 
 author of "Hermes," &c., who was a native of 
 Salisbury.. The extreme length of this cathedral 
 is four hundred and seventy-three feet. It is not 
 so long as Winchester cathedral, which is five 
 hundred and fifty-four feet, and the longest in the 
 kingdom. The spire, however, of Salisbury is 
 four hundred feet high, being considerably higher 
 than St. Paul s, London, which is about three 
 hundred and forty feet. 
 
 September 1 1 . Stonehenge lies about eight miles 
 from Salisbury, and it would have been a pity and 
 a shame if I had left Salisbury without, seeing so 
 remarkable an object. So, this morning, I jumped 
 into a post-chaise for the purpose. Our course 
 was to the north-west, and soon brought us on to 
 a wide, chalky, desert tract, called Salisbury Plain. 
 The day was hot, and the atmosphere clear j and 
 from one of the undulating eminences which alone 
 diversify this barren waste, I could plainly distin 
 guish, at the distance of five miles, what I knew 
 to be Stonehenge. The appearance was like a 
 number of small, black dots, or like a flock of 
 sheep, when they are at the distance of half a mile, 
 or so, from the spectator. I then lost sight of it ; 
 but from another rising in the ground, which the 
 post-boy said was three miles from it, I caught it 
 again. It was now so distinct that I could plainly 
 
JOURNAL. 107 
 
 discern the form and position of the several stones 
 which compose it ; and yet I must acknowledge 
 a secret feeling of disappointment ; but it was all 
 my own fault ; I either had forgotten, or did not 
 correctly know, their true size, and foolishly ex 
 pected, I believe, to find each particular stone 
 as tall as a church tower. I soon reasoned my 
 self, however, into a proper mood, and disappoint 
 ment then gave place to continually increasing 
 admiration. For the remainder of the three miles 
 we kept it in full view still growing and grow 
 ing, as we gained upon it ; till, at last, we quitted 
 the beaten road, and, driving over the short dry 
 turf, stopped immediately beneath it. 
 
 So many of the stones have fallen that the whole 
 seems at first sight to be a confused assemblage 
 of enormous masses of rock ; but after a while 
 you discover three concentric circles of upright 
 stones, and in the centre a single one, lying em 
 bedded in the ground, which is called the altar. 
 The most remarkable of these circles is the inte 
 rior one, composed of huge blocks, about twenty 
 feet high, seven feet wide, and three feet thick, 
 every two of which formerly supported a third of 
 nearly the same size, which has been called the 
 impost, and which is rudely fastened to its two 
 supporting pillars by a ball and socket-joint. The 
 three together have received the appellation of 
 
108 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 trilithon. In this circle there are only two of these 
 trilithons remaining entire. The second circle is 
 composed of stones which are no more than seven 
 feet high, and are separate pillars. But in the 
 outer circle they rise to the height of fourteen feet, 
 and are again formed into trilithons, several of 
 which are standing and perfect. 
 
 There have been many theories stated with re 
 spect to the purpose and origin of this monument, 
 a number of which are collected together, and 
 printed at Salisbury, in a small pamphlet. The 
 two most prevalent are, the one that it is a military 
 trophy of the ancient Britons, and the other that 
 it is a Druidical temple. But the truth is, that 
 there is no authentic history relating to it ; and it 
 is next to an impossibility that anything certain 
 should ever be ascertained of its design or its erec 
 tion. But there it stands, the gloomy monarch of 
 this lonely plain ; the hoary relic of an age that 
 has no chronicle ; the mighty work of nameless 
 men ; the scene and the witness of events that 
 have long since gone down to oblivion ; there 
 it stands, and there it has stood, while centuries of 
 suns have poured their fiercest beams upon it, and 
 winter after winter has brought the driving snow, 
 and the pelting rain, and the sweeping wind, to 
 help time on to its destruction ; and there it will 
 stand, a wonder and a monument, when our his 
 tories, like its own, are forgotten. 
 
JOURNAL. 109 
 
 At the distance of fifty or sixty yards to the 
 north-east of the main structure, and leaning to 
 wards it, is a large, single stone, sixteen feet high, 
 called the Friar s Heel. This name is connected 
 with the popular and traditional account of the 
 erection of Stonehenge ; not the most learned or 
 probable, perhaps, but certainly the most amusing. 
 It seems, according to this account, that the stones 
 which now compose Stonehenge were once the 
 property of an old woman in Ireland, and grew 
 in her back yard. The famous necromancer, 
 Merlin, having set his heart on possessing them, 
 mentioned the affair to the devil, who promised 
 to obtain them for him. For this purpose, assum 
 ing which he did without the least difficulty the 
 appearance of a gentleman, he visited the old wo 
 man, and pouring a bag of money on her table, 
 told her that he would give her as many of the 
 pieces for the stones in her ground, as she could 
 reckon while he was taking them away. Think 
 ing it impossible for one person to manage them 
 in almost any given time, she closed with his pro 
 posal immediately, and began forthwith to count 
 the money ; but she had no sooner laid her hand 
 on the first coin, than the old one cried out, 
 " Hold ! for your stones are gone ! " The old 
 woman ran to the window, and looking out into 
 her back yard, found that it was really so her 
 
 10 
 
110 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 stones were gone. The arch enemy had, in the 
 twinkling of an eye, taken them all down, tied 
 them together, and was now flying away with 
 them. 
 
 As he was crossing the river Avon, at Bulford, 
 the string which bound the stones became loose, 
 and one of them dropped into the stream, where 
 it still may be seen ; with the rest, however, he 
 arrived safe on Salisbury Plain, where, in obedi 
 ence to Merlin s instructions, he began to set them 
 up again. The work, in the hands of such a 
 builder, went on swimmingly, and the devil was 
 so well pleased with it, that as he was placing the 
 last stone, he declared, with an intention, no 
 doubt, of teazing the restless curiosity of mankind, 
 that no one should ever know where the pile came 
 from, or how it came there. In this part of the 
 business he was disappointed ; for a friar, who 
 had been concealed about the work, loudly replied, 
 " That is more than thou canst tell, Old Nick." 
 This put the devil in such a rage, that pulling up 
 the nearest stone by the roots, he threw it at the 
 friar, with the design of crushing him ; but the 
 friar was too nimble for him ; the stone only 
 struck his heel, and thus he gave it its present 
 name, and escaped to let the world know who was 
 the architect of Stonehenge. 
 
 They who still persist in giving no credit to the 
 
JOURNAL. Ill 
 
 friar s information, have been exceedingly puzzled 
 in endeavoring to account for the elevation of such 
 huge columns, in an age which must have been so 
 rude and ignorant. The solution given by Row 
 land, has the merit of ingenuity, although it can 
 not be determined that the method suggested by 
 him was that employed by the real builders. I 
 give it in his own words : " The powers of the 
 lever, and of the inclined plane, being some of the 
 first things understood by mankind, in the use of 
 building, it may be well conceived that our first 
 ancestors made use of them ; and we may imagine 
 that, in order to erect such a prodigious monu 
 ment as Stonehenge, they chose, where they found, 
 or made, where such were not fit to their hands, 
 small agg-eres or mounts of firm and solid earth 
 for an inclined plane, flatted and levelled at top ; 
 up the sloping sides of which, with great wooden 
 levers upon fixed fulciments, and with balances at 
 the end of them, to receive into them proportional 
 weights and counterpoises, and with hands enough 
 to guide and manage the engines, they that way, 
 by little and little, heaved and rolled up those 
 stones they intended to erect on the top of the 
 hillock ; where, laying them along, they dug holes 
 in the earth at the end of every stone intended for 
 column or supporter, the depth of which holes 
 was equal to the length of the stones, and then, 
 
112 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 which was easily done, let slip the stones into 
 these holes, straight on end ; which stones so sunk 
 and well closed about with earth, and the tops of 
 them level with the top of the mount on which 
 the other flat stones lay, it was only placing those 
 incumbent flat stones upon the tops of the sup 
 porters, duly bound and fastened, and taking away 
 the earth from between them almost to the bottom 
 of the supporters, and there then appeared what 
 we now call Stonehenge." 
 
 Concerning the origin and derivation of the 
 name Stonehenge, there is as much diversity of 
 opinion as upon any other circumstance relating 
 to it. Tnigo Jones says, " This antiquity, because 
 the architraves are set upon the heads of the up 
 right stones, and hang, as it were, in the air, is 
 generally known by the name of Stone-Henge" 
 "The true Saxon name," says Gibson, in Cam- 
 den s Britannia, / seems to be Stonhengist, from 
 the memorable slaughter which Hengist, the Sax 
 on, here made of the Britons. If this etymology 
 may be allowed, that which received derivation 
 from the hanging of stones, may be as far from 
 the truth as that of the vulgar Stone-edge, from 
 stones set on edge." An anonymous writer, about 
 the year 1660, who calls his piece, " A Fool s Bolt 
 soon shot at Stonage," appears to me to be gravely 
 quizzing the antiquaries and etymologists ; if he 
 
JOURNAL. 113 
 
 is not, he is himself the most ridiculous of the 
 whole fraternity. He pretends to have discovered 
 everything concerning this pile, the when, the 
 how, the why, and the wherefore, and divides his 
 article into twelve particulars, the second of which 
 relates to the contested derivation. Hear it : " 2. 
 My second particular is that a bloody battle was 
 fought near Stonage. For the very name, Ston- 
 age, signifies Stone-battle; the last syllable, age, 
 coming from the Greek u/wy, a furious battle, &c. ; 
 so that all that have built their opinion of this 
 monument on any other foundation than a bloody 
 battle, have built Stonages in the air." But enough 
 of this. 
 
 After having viewed the monument itself, the 
 attention is attracted by the numerous barrows, 
 or sepulchral mounds, by which it is surrounded. 
 Several of these have been opened, and have been 
 found to contain cinerary urns, metal and glass 
 beads, weapons of brass and iron, cups, trinkets, 
 &c. As companions to Stonehenge, these bar 
 rows add much to the effect of the scene, and 
 heighten the feelings of contemplative solemnity 
 which are awakened in the bosom of the beholder. 
 There is nothing modern near the place for miles : 
 here is the vast and venerable monument, and 
 scattered here and there about it are the primitive 
 graves of men, who were doubtless familiar with 
 
 10* 
 
114 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 its mysteries, but whose knowledge sleeps with 
 them, as soundly as they do. 
 
 In returning to Salisbury, I took a different road 
 from that which brought me to Stonehenge, and 
 at the end of two miles came to the village of 
 Amesbury. While the postilion stopped here to 
 refresh himself and his horses, I walked out, and 
 passing a small, but old and picturesque church, 
 entered the grounds of Amesbury house, a man 
 sion belonging to Lord D. The building was 
 designed by Inigo Jones, and is a handsome-look 
 ing house, but fast going to decay ; as the present 
 possessor has not inhabited it for years. The 
 walls are defaced, the windows boarded up, and 
 the glass broken. The grounds are as desolate 
 as the dwelling ; the banks of the Avon, which 
 winds through them, are overgrown with long 
 grass and bushes, and its stream is choked with 
 mud and reeds ; a bridge, with a summer-house 
 in the Chinese fashion built upon it, is made almost 
 impassable by its own ruins ; the park is strown 
 with dead leaves and withered branches ; the dial- 
 stone is overturned ; and there is not even 
 
 " One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 
 To mark where a garden had been." 
 
 Feelings more deeply sad and sorrowful are, per 
 haps, inspired by scenes like this, than by the re- 
 
JOURNAL. 115 
 
 mains of a more distant age ; decay is premature, 
 and ruin has come before its time ; the traces of 
 desolation are marked upon familiar things, and 
 the effects of many years have overtaken the work 
 manship of yesterday. 
 
 On returning to the inn, I found the chaise wait 
 ing for me. The sun was now very powerful ; 
 and its rays, reflected from the chalky road, were 
 rendered doubly burning. Neither was there any 
 thing in the scenery to refresh the spirits, and cool 
 the blood. The harvest was over, and the fields 
 were all dry stubble ; not a cottage was to be 
 seen, nor any living thing, excepting a shepherd 
 whom we met, with his coat stripped off and 
 thrown over his shoulder, covered with dust and 
 sweat, and driving a flock of panting sheep over 
 the heated downs. 
 
 Within two miles of Salisbury, and at a short 
 distance from the road, are the ruins of Old Sa- 
 rum. The only dwelling near it is a humble pot 
 house, at which we stopped. A path through its 
 little garden leads out upon the ruins. They are 
 very inconsiderable an irregular mound of earth, 
 enclosing a space of two thousand feet in diame 
 ter, and a yard or two of crumbling stone wall ; 
 and yet this place sends two members to parlia 
 ment ; that is, the proprietor of the land sends 
 them. Home Tooke was once returned from 
 
116 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 this thoroughly rotten borough. Two lads were 
 ploughing immediately under the ramparts. In 
 performing this labor, ancient coins are often 
 picked up about the ruins ; and the landlady 
 showed me a small box full of them, a few of 
 which I purchased. 
 
 September 12. I left Salisbury in a post-chaise, 
 and continued to gaze on the cathedral spire till 
 it was out of sight ; dined at Blandford, and ar 
 rived in the afternoon at Dorchester, the county 
 town of Dorsetshire. This place presents a fine 
 view on the approach to it, but contains nothing 
 to employ curiosity. 
 
 September. 13. The stage-coach came by at 
 noon, and its inside was full. This was a disap 
 pointment ; but the day was fine, and I deter 
 mined to try the outside ; so I placed myself 011 
 the seat which is raised over the hind wheels, and 
 we soon left Dorchester in the distance. I found 
 my situation a very pleasant one, as it commanded 
 views of the country from which any inside seat 
 would have entirely excluded me, and gave me 
 also the full refreshment of the passing breeze. I 
 observed, as I likewise had in my yesterday s 
 drive, many remains of Roman encampments, on 
 both sides of the road. Their appearance is very 
 much like that of our American fortifications of 
 the revolutionary war, which we so often see 
 
JOURNAL. 117 
 
 crowning the green summit of a hill. Stopping 
 only to change horses, we rode on through Brid- 
 port, Charmouth, Axminster, Honiton, and, a lit 
 tle after dark, entered Exeter, the county town of 
 Devonshire, fifty-two miles from Dorchester, and 
 one hundred and seventy-two from London. And 
 here I shall remain a few weeks, in order to make 
 the proper inquiries before I fix upon a place for 
 my winter s residence. 
 
 September 14. I slept, last night, at the New 
 London Inn, and took lodgings, this morning, in 
 Southernhay Place, one of the handsomest and 
 most pleasant parts of the city. For a neatly-fur 
 nished parlor and a bed-room, together with the 
 use of a servant, &c., I pay a guinea and a half 
 per week. My meals are sent me from a neigh 
 boring cook-shop. This method of separating 
 bed and board, though very uncommon in our own 
 country, is by far the most customary in this. In 
 all large towns, the traveller will see notices of 
 "apartments to be let," or "lodgings," in the 
 windows of those houses in which he can be ac 
 commodated ; and the price for these is regulated 
 according to their situation, furniture, &c. An 
 additional charge is made for the use of bed and 
 table linen, and servants, as families often take 
 their own with them. You also pay separately 
 for coal and candles. Then you are either sup- 
 
118 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 plied with your meals from a cook-shop, or you 
 buy your own tea, sugar, bread, beef, mutton, &c., 
 like a regular housekeeper, and your landlady will 
 cook for you. In this way you certainly have 
 your eating hours, as well as the quantity and 
 kind of your food very much at your own com 
 mand ; but, for myself, I so much dislike the 
 trouble of saying, from day to day, what I shall 
 eat and what I shall drink, and what shall be 
 roasted, and what shall be boiled, that I prefer 
 living in a boarding-house, where that trouble is 
 taken off my hands. I think so, at least, from the 
 experience of one day ; but use may reconcile me 
 to the labor of providing for myself. 
 
 I have been to see the cathedral, and it is a very 
 fine one. Its transepts are formed by two grand 
 square towers, which rise to the height of one hun 
 dred and forty feet, and are the oldest parts of 
 the building, having been erected, as is supposed, 
 by William Warlewert, the third bishop of Exe 
 ter, between the years 1112 and 1128. The ma 
 terial is a gray stone, darkened by age ; and the 
 effect of the whole structure is solemn and impos 
 ing. Its west front is a gorgeous specimen of 
 ancient ornament, consisting of a facade of sculp 
 tured niches, rising above each other in three 
 rows, and filled with statues of kings, saints, bish 
 ops and angels. Beside the chapel of the virgin, 
 
JOURNAL. 119 
 
 there are a great many others, erected by different 
 bishops of this see. There are also several inter 
 esting monuments in the cathedral, both ancient 
 and modern ; the most beautiful of the latter of 
 which is one to the memory of General Simeol, 
 executed by Flaxman, and put up in 1815. 
 
 September 15. At the end of Castle street, in 
 the northern part of the city, is all that remains of 
 Rougemont castle, once the residence of the West- 
 Saxon kings, and afterwards of the dukes of Ex 
 eter. The gateway alone is standing, exceed 
 ingly simple in its architecture, but forming, with 
 the assistance of rich bunches of ivy, a very pic 
 turesque ruin. It is enclosed, together with a 
 large portion of the old city wall, in the grounds 
 of a gentleman of this city. Shakspeare repre 
 sents Richard III. as having been deceived by the 
 resemblance of the name of this castle to that of 
 his dreaded enemy. The king says : 
 
 When I was last at Exeter, 
 
 The mayor, in curtesie, showed me the castle, 
 And call d it Rougemont, at which name I started, 
 Because a bard of Ireland told me once 
 I should not live long after I saw Richmond. 
 
 In passing through High street, the principal 
 street of this town, I was disagreeably incom 
 moded by the crowds through which I was obliged 
 to elbow and force my way. It was one of the 
 
120 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 market days ; and, as there is no regular market 
 place, excepting for fish, in all Exeter, the country 
 people and hucksters had planted, as usual, them 
 selves and their commodities along the side of the 
 street ; and here, in by far the most public and 
 frequented part of a city containing twenty thou 
 sand inhabitants, butchers and vegetable sellers, 
 fruit women, earthern-ware pedlers, servant-maids, 
 servant-men, and purchasers of all descriptions, 
 were buying and selling, pushing and squeezing, 
 and compelling the uninterested passenger either 
 to quit one of the side-walks altogether, or to make 
 his way through them as well as he could. This 
 is certainly a grievous nuisance, and some efforts 
 have been made to remove it, but without success ; 
 one party of the towns-people wanting the market 
 place in their quarter of the city, and another insist 
 ing that it should be built in theirs, while a third 
 is interested in opposing all change in the present 
 system ; and thus High street continues, and will 
 probably long continue, to be blockaded, on every 
 Tuesday and Friday in every week in the year. 
 These are the established market days ; for the 
 rest of the week, the street is clear. 
 
 EXETER, England, September 22, 1820. 
 
 To Miss E C . 
 
 It did exceedinglie please me, my rite worthie 
 and verie deare frende, to behold, (whenne I came 
 
JOURNAL. 121 
 
 ynto the grete citie of London,) an epistole by 
 thine own hande indyted. Trewlie it is a most 
 pleasaunt thynge to gett good tydynges from onre 
 own beluvid home, and from those wliome we dyd 
 ye most hive thereinne, and to reade ye thoughts 
 and meditacions in their pure mindes passinge, 
 albeit we are separated from them by a farre skie 
 and a wide waterre. Rite alwaye and often thus, 
 my frende ; giv me alle that whiche is goinge 
 abroade in our towne, or w r orkynge inwardlie in 
 thine owne sotile, and truste me, I shall be more 
 interested therewithe thanne with alle ye subiectes 
 whiche passe before mine eies, in the lande where- 
 inne I am sojourninge. For tho, in sadde truthe, 
 my father s lande be of a grete dystaunce from me 
 atte ye present, yitt in ye geographie of my affec 
 tions it is not so ; for there it is layde downe as 
 being ever ye nearest to my hearte. 
 
 In some smalle degree to answerr your good- 
 nesse, and withalle to certifie that my luve of 
 countrie is unfained, I have for sume tyme past 
 resolved to treasure up in minde such thynges in 
 this lande, as I shulde deeme good to be intro- 
 dewced as impruvements ynto mine own ; and, 
 moreover, to advertize thee of such impruvements 
 ye first of alle, therebye poweringe out atte thy 
 feet, (as it were,) ye prime fruictes of my poore 
 observacion. And I dyd thynke (fonde maiine,) 
 11 
 
122 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 that I schulde finde, amydde alle ye maturities of 
 ye olde worlde, enow of happie customes and in- 
 vencions, wherewyth to make wyse ye greennesse 
 of ye new. But in goode soothe, my frende, I 
 have heretofore made one onlie observacion of 
 soverain weight and moment, ye which I will 
 speedilie delyverre. It is as touchynge ye affaire 
 of ladies wearinge pockyttes. It doth, in deede, 
 gladde me, that I can, in this matterre, cawse 
 benefytte, (it being alwaie understoode that heed 
 is given to my sayinges,) to whatte I may nomi 
 nate ye faire part of my countrie, and not of mine 
 own countrie alone, but of every countrie belowe 
 ye swete face of heaven. That they are faire in 
 face and forme is past alle dowbtynge or gaynsay- 
 inge ; that they are most faire in minde, I can 
 poinct to all my ladie frendes most fullie to pruve ; 
 and alle voyageures of creditte do testifye that in 
 whatsoever land they may be tarryinge, they have 
 continuallie found the dysposicions, and ye chari 
 ties, and ye sympathies of womanne, most faire, 
 most kynde, most beautyfulle. "But whatte is alle 
 this, (you may say) to their pockyttes ? " Not 
 much, I do allowe ; and I will, forth wyth, hie me 
 back to my subiecte. 
 
 I had not been manie houres in this realme of 
 Englande, whanne it was my chance to see a ladie 
 drawe forth a kerchief not from out her yndys- 
 
JOURNAL. 123 
 
 pennsabil but her pockytte ! ay, her pockytte, 
 a pockytte fastened to her syde, and covered 
 with her cloathes, as in former daies ! Good 
 lack ! thought I, faire dame, you seem in this 
 matterre to entertaine a marvellous affectcion for 
 ye mannerres of thy grandame ; I wot if ye yonge 
 ladies in my towne schulde see thee do this thynge, 
 they would hardlie refraine from laughynge aloude. 
 Nathelesse, before that I had tarried in that place 
 manie daies, I did see that everie one and alle of 
 ye ladies, bothe yonge and eld, riche and poore, 
 dyd beare with them pockyttes in ye stedde of 
 yndyspennsabils ; or, if I may be granted ye con- 
 ceipt, their pockyttes were their yndyspennsabils. 
 In a smalle periode, this usaige of theirs appeared 
 to me not onlie tolerabil, but delectabil ; a usaige 
 to be chosen, and with favore accepted by ye 
 ladies of my owne towne. . 
 
 Ye vantaige holden by pockyttes above yndys 
 pennsabils (with falsitie so yclept,) I will make 
 try alle breeflie to sett forthe. Primarilie, it is man- 
 ifeste that pockyttes are of more securitie ; they 
 are not so easie to lose, or to be rapt awaie by 
 theeves. And, secondlie, pockyttes are of more 
 conveniencie ; they abide faste by their possessour, 
 and will not be forgottyn and left at home. Now, 
 whanne ye yndyspennsabil is forgottyn and left 
 at home by anie one ladie. how is that ladie for- 
 
124 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 lorne ? how is she to swoone or fainte in a seemlie 
 mannerre withouten her lyttle bottyl of essencies ? 
 how schall she drynke her cuppe of tea withouten 
 her kerchief on her lappe ? and withouten her fanne 
 for to hold before her face, how schall we know 
 that she doth blushe ? Thirdlie, pockyttes are of 
 more economie, inasmuch as they calle not for so 
 costlie materielles as do yndyspennsabils. But I 
 have said enow in commendacion of pockyttes. 
 Unto alle this ye ladies will make answerre that a 
 pockytte doeth harme to ye comelinesse of forme. 
 I say, in no wise ; and that I never made cogni 
 zance of a pockytte which dyd do hurte to faire 
 Englische ladie s symmetric. I pray thee, my 
 frende, take heede to this matterre, and firstlie put 
 thee on a pockytte thyselfe, and then cawse ye la 
 dies of Boston, and in specialle of my parishe, to 
 followe thy ensample ; so that atte my returnynge, 
 whanne that I beholde them shed tears of glad- 
 nesse, I may likewise see them put their handes 
 ynto their pockyttes for a kerchief to wipe ye 
 same. 
 
 For myselfe, I remaine in Englande ye com- 
 ynge winterre and ye springe, to ye which I am 
 induced by cawses thou wilt have learned ere this. 
 I go soon to some towne on ye coaste of Devon, 
 of which Exeter, as thou knowest, is the chiefest 
 citie. My benison } and the blessinge of ye Holie 
 
JOURNAL. 125 
 
 One be upon thee and upon thy sisterres deare. 
 Rite soone to hym that remaineth till deth, and 
 will be, he trusteth, after deth, thy trewe frende. 
 F. W. P. GREENWOOD. 
 
 September 17. I attended morning service at 
 the cathedral, introduced as before at Winchester, 
 to the stall of a dignitary. The choir is extremely 
 beautiful ; and I must confess that though the fine 
 chanting, and the solemnity of the service, pre 
 vented me from wandering till it was completed, 
 I paid more earnest and reverential attention to 
 the grand eastern window, with its mullions, and 
 tracery, and old painted glass, the masterly groin 
 ing of the roof, the bishop s throne of time-stained 
 oak, lightly rising in gothic open work, till it al 
 most touched the ceiling, and the rich carved work 
 in oak and stone, which was lavished all around 
 me, than I did to the sleepy discourse and drowsy 
 tones of the old gentleman who was handling some 
 subject or other in the pulpit, I know not what, as 
 well as he knew how. Between the works of 
 men of different countries, different ages, and dif 
 ferent persuasions, there is a difference as wide ; 
 but men themselves are still the same. In the 
 splendid arches, and with the affecting service of 
 the cathedral, there is not a whit more of genuine 
 piety and elevation of thought than there is be 
 ll* 
 
126 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 neath the plain roof and with the plainer service 
 of the meeting-house or the convention. Go not, 
 therefore, into one of these glorious edifices with 
 the expectation of joining in the worship of the 
 Almighty, with those whose hearts are melted and 
 whose minds are exalted by every sublime asso 
 ciation and aid in the performance of their holiest 
 duty ; for you will still meet with the indifferent, 
 the trifling, the vain, the worthless and the worldly ; 
 and as the fat monk and the trim baron muttered 
 and kneeled there in days long gone, so you will 
 find the dull priest and the dandy gentleman, 
 preaching, and praying, and chanting there still. 
 
 September 24. There is a respectable congre 
 gation of Unitarian Dissenters in Exeter. On the 
 list of their ministers are the distinguished names 
 of Towgood, Kenrick and Carpenter. I attended 
 service at their meeting-house to-day. 
 
 September 26. Another visit to the cathedral, 
 where I did a very foolish thing ; ascended the 
 north tower, notwithstanding every step of the 
 spiral stone staircase made my heart beat faster 
 and faster. I hope, however, to escape this time 
 with impunity. The great bell which is hung at 
 the top of this tower, weighs twelve thousand five 
 hundred pounds. From the leads I was gratified 
 with a fine prospect ; the city spread out beneath 
 me, the winding river, the seats and villages, Ex- 
 mouth with its shipping, situated, as its name im- 
 
JOURNAL. 127 
 
 plies, at the mouth of the Exe ; and, beyond it, the 
 expanse of the British channel. After descend 
 ing, I went to the chapter-house, which is now 
 undergoing repairs. The chapter-house is an ap 
 pendage, I believe, to every cathedral ; connected 
 with, though separate from it, and is used for the 
 meetings of the dean and chapter. This one is of 
 an octagonal form, and is ornamented within by 
 some curious bass-reliefs. 
 
 October 4. I hear so many contradictory ac 
 counts with respect to the relative superiority of 
 the several places of winter resort on the south 
 coast of Devon, that I am led to suspect that there 
 is not much real difference between them, and 
 have determined to visit them in succession. Be 
 tween the hours of eleven and twelve, this morn 
 ing, I set out in a post-chaise for Sidmouth, and 
 after an uninteresting ride of fifteen miles, arrived 
 there at about two o clock. The waves of the 
 channel were rolling most majestically upon the 
 clean gravelly beach, and I delighted once more 
 to breathe the salt air. Sidmouth is a small town, 
 protected by high hills on every side but the south ; 
 in which quarter it is quite open and exposed to 
 the sea, as the channel, from its width here, may 
 properly be called. The Sid, a mere rivulet, emp 
 ties, by the side of the eastern or Salcombe hill, 
 its scanty tribute to the main, and gives its name 
 
128 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 to the village. The Peak Hill and the High Peak 
 on the west, cut through in the midst, and present 
 ing their perpendicular fronts to the sea, and the 
 long range of bold and lofty cliffs, stretching in a 
 crescent-like direction, twelve miles to the east, 
 together with the blue and misty fragments of more 
 distant land, present to the view as noble a piece 
 of coast scenery as I have ever seen. My place 
 of residence is as romantic as heart could wish ; a 
 little cottage ornee, of one story, covered with ivy 
 and roses, and perched on a low cliff which over 
 hangs the sea, at the foot of Peak Hill. It is ten 
 anted by a drawing-master, who boards and lodges 
 me for two guineas per week. 
 
 October 8. There is one church at Sidmouth, 
 and two meeting-houses ; one of them belonging 
 to a congregation of Unitarian Dissenters, and the 
 other to a society of Methodists. The Unitarian 
 place of worship is simple and humble enough ; 
 quite primitive literally a cottage with white 
 washed walls and a thatched roof, overgrown with 
 moss. I attended divine service here to-day. 
 
 SIDMOUTH, Devon, October 20, 1820. 
 MY DEAR PARENTS, 
 
 It is probable that you will receive this letter 
 by the same vessel which takes one addressed to 
 
 Mr. , and intended for the eyes of the parish. 
 
 I beg you not to be alarmed by anything which I 
 
JOURNAL. 129 
 
 have stated in it, but to rest assured that, although 
 rnv hopes are not very strong with respect to be 
 ing able to preach again, at least within several 
 years, should I live so long, I am yet in better 
 health than when I sailed from Boston. I had 
 the pleasure of receiving a letter from you, my 
 dear mother, dated August 14, and numbered 4, a 
 few days ago. I was much affected at the solici 
 tude you express respecting my health and com 
 fort, and much concerned that your fears should 
 be excited to such a degree by Mrs. F. s account 
 of my weakness, and my own relation of head 
 aches, &c. ; for if your apprehensions were so 
 great on hearing that my voyage had not been 
 productive of the expected benefit, w r hat must they 
 have been when you learned that I had again been 
 attacked with bleeding at the lungs ? Indeed, I 
 should not be surprised to see my dear father in 
 Devonshire this winter, after what he has said 
 about " crossing the herring pond, to look me 
 up." But though it would give me inexpressible 
 delight to see him, I sincerely hope he will not 
 come ; because by crossing this same pond he 
 will leave a large and a young family on the other 
 side of it, who very much need his presence and 
 care, and require his assistance and superintend 
 ence much more than I do. Think if any acci 
 dent should happen to him too his health and 
 
130 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 life are infinitely more important to the family than 
 mine are. Besides, I give you my word that the 
 moment I find myself growing weaker I will re 
 turn to Boston, and to my friends ; for however 
 kind the friends are whom I have made abroad, 
 there are no friends like the friends of home, and 
 I dread the idea of a long fit of illness away from 
 that home, as much as you can deprecate it your 
 selves. I do not say this because I fear the want 
 of attention and comfort, but because no one can 
 feel more sensibly than I do, the absence of that 
 sympathy which can alone be rendered by those 
 with whom God, and nature, and long habits of 
 intercourse and familiarity, have connected us ; 
 which can only be found, I repeat it, at home. So, 
 father, if you have nothing very urgent to call you 
 across the herring-pond but your fears for me, I 
 beseech you to remain in Boston ; and when I 
 come back you shall read my journal through and 
 through, which will be almost as good as being 
 here yourself. 
 
 One more word to you, mother. Never, I beg 
 you, make another apology for your letters. First, 
 because you cannot possibly write a single word 
 which it will not delight me to read ; secondly, be 
 cause you ought not to apologize to your son ; and, 
 thirdly, because the space which an apology occu 
 pies might be filled, I speak under correction. 
 
JOURNAL. 131 
 
 with more interesting matter. The apology in 
 your last letter, for instance, took up nearly a 
 page ; and in this page you might have informed 
 
 me how felt about entering college, and 
 
 whether he has entered, and have told me of your 
 residence at Waltham, of which I should have 
 been entirely ignorant, had I not been told of it 
 by Mrs. P. The children, too, should be stirred 
 up to their duty. Neither of them has written 
 
 excepting , and she only once. It is very 
 
 singular that a little girl, whose name I could 
 mention, could write a farce in two acts, and not 
 be able to write one line to her absent brother. 
 Your expressions of gratitude to Mr. and Mrs. 
 F. are no more than their just due ; indeed, no 
 thanks can discharge the debt I owe them ; and 
 this is equally true with regard to Mr. and Mrs. 
 F. B. You speak of advice which father has fa 
 vored me with ; but I have received only one let 
 ter from him. 
 
 Since I wrote you last, I have made a journey 
 of one hundred and seventy-two miles from Lon 
 don to Exeter, and of fifteen from Exeter to Sid- 
 mouth, where I now am. Neither of them at all 
 fatigued me ; and I have been much gratified by 
 the interesting objects which I had the opportu 
 nity of seeing in the first. At Winchester, I heard 
 the cathedral service chanted, as I happened to 
 
132 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 be there on a Sunday. Every cathedral maintains 
 a certain number of choristers, who are dressed in 
 white robes when they perform service ; they are 
 all males ; the treble and counter are sung by 
 young boys. The separate prayers are read in a 
 sing-song kind of a tone by one of the officiating 
 priests, and the responses of the litany, &c., are 
 sung by the choristers. The effect of this is very 
 fine. I made an excursion, when at Salisbury, of 
 ten miles, to see the famous druidical monument 
 of Stonehenge, of which you have, no doubt, 
 heard. At Exeter I used often to hear the cathe 
 dral service, which is there accompanied by one 
 of the best organs in England. One of its pipes 
 is fifteen inches in diameter. I have not yet been 
 enabled to judge if what they say of the Devon 
 shire climate is true, because it is so early. There 
 has been a great deal of wind and rain here at 
 Sidmouth lately ; and though the autumn has been 
 very pleasant, it is not so fine as our own autumns 
 generally are. I have no doubt, however, that 
 the winter will be much milder than I could ex 
 pect in America. I have not marked this letter 
 private ; there is a great deal that is personal, but 
 you are at liberty to show it or not, as you please. 
 Remember me to those whom I at all times and 
 in all places remember, particularly my good par 
 ishioners. Let Dr. J. know that I am very pru- 
 
JOURNAL. 133 
 
 dent and temperate. Heaven bless the children. 
 
 I have written to them all, excepting , who 
 
 shall soon have a long letter. 
 
 Your most affectionate son, 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 October 25. The second month of autumn is 
 now nearly gone ; the leaves are putting on their 
 russet ; the birds are losing their song ; the sea rolls 
 heavier ; the wind blows keener ; and the grate 
 must be heaped higher with coals. We have had 
 two or three storms of wind since my arrival, but 
 on the whole it has been a pleasant October. I 
 think, however, that it must yield to that month 
 in our own country. Its air has but little of the 
 bracing, bounding inspiration which is breathed in 
 the gales of ours ; and in the charm which it gives 
 to natural scenery it cannot stand in the compari 
 son. Here the scanty woods are clothed in one 
 prevailing tint of yellowish brown ; while our lux 
 uriant and primeval forests are dyed with the 
 richest, the brightest, and most varied hues of na 
 ture s pencil. 
 
 Our cottage overlooks the beach, and I have 
 been surprised to find that, cold as it is, the ladies 
 have not yet given up bathing ; every morning I 
 see from my window, while I am dressing, several 
 of them braving the element ; but not a single 
 12 
 
134 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 man. The way in which they bathe is as follows : 
 the lady enters one of the bathing machines which 
 stand along the beach little wooden houses upon 
 high wheels and it is moved down to the wa 
 ter s edge. After undressing, she puts on a long 
 loose gown, and descends from the machine, by a 
 step-ladder, upon the sand. There she is met by 
 a couple of old fishermen s wives, called guides, 
 each of whom takes an arm, and, turning her back 
 to the water, wait for the next wave. It comes 
 dashing on ; and, just as it curls and breaks on 
 the shore, they plunge her backward, and she is 
 completely overwhelmed. This is repeated as 
 often as desired, and the lady then returns to the 
 machine and dresses. 
 
 November 30. I have now staid here a month 
 longer than I had at first intended, and have made 
 up my mind to remain till after Christmas. The 
 weather has been quite as mild, to say the least, 
 as I expected to find it. I have kept through the 
 month a regular thermometrical journal ; setting 
 down the degree of the instrument at nine in the 
 morning, at noon, and at ten at night. The result 
 has been as follows. The lowest degree shown 
 in the morning was 35, on the 16th of the month ; 
 and the highest was 54, on the 8th. The lowest 
 at noon was 40, on the 14th, 18th, and 29th of the 
 month ; and the highest was 58, on the 3d. The 
 
JOURNAL. 135 
 
 lowest at night was 35, on the 15th and 18th of 
 the month ; and the highest was 53, on the 5th, 
 6th, and 7th. The change of temperature through 
 out the day, from nine in the morning to ten at 
 night, has not often been more than six or eight 
 degrees, though on some days it has been from 
 twelve to eighteen degrees, but never twenty. 
 The weather has been unusually good ; we have 
 had some rain and fog, to be sure, but it has never 
 been either rainy or foggy throughout one whole 
 day. Several plants continue to flower in the gar 
 dens, and the trees have but just resigned all their 
 honors. I fear that weather like this cannot last 
 much longer. 
 
 December 14. It has lasted thus far, however, 
 pretty much the same ; not quite so much sun, 
 perhaps, and a little more rain. The heavens 
 have been bright and blue to-day, from morn to 
 even ; and I improved the opportunity of paying 
 a visit to Bicton, the seat of Lord Rolle, near the 
 village of Otterton, and between three and four 
 miles from Sidmouth. I went on horseback, or 
 rather on the back of a shuffling pony, who was 
 just high enough to keep my feet from the mud. 
 " It was, indeed, a very sorry hack ; " and so have 
 been all the hired horses which I have crossed in 
 England ; they are not to be compared with ours : 
 and I suppose the fact may be accounted for thus ; 
 
136 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in this country there are so many gentlemen who 
 have horses of their own, that it is no great object 
 with those who let out horses, that they should be 
 good ones ; the demand would not pay the pur 
 chase and the keeping ; but with us, there are so 
 many who are in continual want of a saddle-horse, 
 either for exercise, business or pleasure, and who 
 like to bestride a fine looking animal, though they 
 do not wish or cannot afford to keep one, that it 
 becomes the interest of those who serve their want 
 to serve them well, and mount them on really val 
 uable and goodly steeds. The hackney-coaches, 
 too, of Liverpool and London, and the poor beasts 
 that draw them, would not be tolerated in Boston ; 
 and the reason of the difference is the same. 
 
 But to return to my pony and my excursion. 
 Otterton is, like most of the Devonshire villages 
 which I have seen, a long street of mud cottages, 
 thatched and whitewashed. And let not the men 
 tion of mud walls necessarily convey the idea of 
 meanness and misery ; for, when properly con 
 structed and freshly whitewashed, they look very 
 neat and durable ; just as a Virginia log-house, 
 though bearing a most unpromising name, may, 
 notwithstanding, be a very comfortable mansion. 
 Over the Otter, a stream which runs through the 
 village, and gives it a name, is a pretty stone 
 bridge of three arches, which are old enough to 
 
JOURNAL. 137 
 
 be fringed with ivy. Not far beyond the bridge, 
 four roads meet ; and an ancient stone cross, 
 mounted on a square brick pillar of more modern 
 date, is the picturesque guide to the traveller. 
 Under the cross and on each of the four sides of 
 the pillar is carved a text from scripture, two of 
 which I remember : " Make me to go in the paths 
 of thy commandments, for therein is my desire ; " 
 the other, " Her ways are ways of pleasantness, 
 and all her paths are peace." While these point 
 out the heavenly road, inscriptions below direct 
 the reader on his earthly journey. 
 
 My way was to the right ; and I soon came to 
 a neat little church, most beautifully situated on 
 the road-side, within the park, and overhung by 
 its tall trees. I tied my pony to the gate of a cot 
 tage opposite, and entered the grounds of Lord 
 Rolle by the foot-path, which led to the romantic 
 church of Bicton, and thence to the porter s lodge. 
 Part of the park is laid out in the old fashion, with 
 strait gravel walks, artificial basins of water, and 
 tinkling cascades ; but the rest has assumed the 
 features of modem landscape gardening. Having 
 knocked at the door of the house, a recent and 
 plain structure of brick, two powdered servants 
 answered the summons, " Can I be permitted to 
 see the house ? " with " It has not been shown, 
 sir, since her ladyship s death ; " and so I had 
 
 12* 
 
138 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 nothing to do but admire the bridge, the canal, 
 and the old oaks, remount my pony, and return 
 to Sidmouth. 
 
 SIDMOUTH, Devon, December 4, 1820. 
 MY DEAR PARENTS, 
 
 Having written you so lately, I have nothing to 
 say about my situation, the climate, and other 
 matters, which would be interesting to our friends ; 
 and have, therefore, marked this letter private, as 
 I am going to talk about things which are merely 
 between ourselves. In the first place, I must tell 
 you I want to see home most terribly ; especially 
 when the east wind blows, as it will sometimes 
 even here, and my spirits are at low- water mark. 
 A thousand circumstances are perpetually bring 
 ing me in mind of you, and almost making me 
 repent that I ever left you. Every time I put on 
 a blister, or change the dressings, I think how 
 nicely you used to do it for me, mother ; every 
 time the cloth is removed after dinner, and I am 
 left to amuse or occupy myself as I can, I think 
 how glad I used to feel to see you come in to let 
 me beat you at chess, father ; and every time I 
 see a chubby, rosy-cheeked child, I am reminded 
 of the brothers and sisters I love so dearly. These 
 recollections are sometimes almost too much for 
 me, now that I am locked up and made a prisoner 
 of by winter, and have little variety to arrest my 
 
JOURNAL. 139 
 
 attention, and keep me from musing on my pri 
 vations. I might move about, to be sure, as the 
 climate is mild enough here to permit of travelling 
 on almost any day ; but travelling is expensive ; 
 and, beside that, when I have once settled down 
 in a place and am comfortable in it, I do not like 
 the trouble and chances of changing. But when 
 spring comes, and the roads are dry, and the sun 
 is warm, and the birds are singing, and my mind 
 has recovered its wonted tone, I shall travel fa 
 mously, and enjoy myself, and nearly forget you ; 
 don t you think I shall ? Well, perhaps not, but, 
 at any rate, I shall feel stronger, and not be so 
 home-sick. 
 
 My situation here, excepting its unavoidable 
 monotony, is as favorable as it wellnigh can be. 
 I have lived, since the 4th of October, in a pretty 
 little cottage, with a sensible, good-natured young 
 man, who is a drawing-master ; and thus you see I 
 am hardly ever obliged to be entirely alone. At my 
 suggestion, and for my convenience, he has lately 
 ordered a study leaf to be put up in the parlor, 
 like that in my study, you know ; and this, also, 
 reminds me strongly of home. It reminds me, 
 
 too, that it would be well for to have one at 
 
 college, on which he should do all his writing, and 
 a great part of his studying. I believe there used 
 to be one in No. l, Stoughton, when I knew it ; 
 
140 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 but it may have been taken down. If there is 
 none there now, I wish you would suggest the 
 
 thing to , and urge it. I know it is of vast 
 
 use, especially to those who are rather weakly and 
 tall, as he is. I could not do without one ; the con 
 tinual stooping of the body over a low table is of 
 great injury to the chest, and the vital parts which 
 it encloses ; and I am, by this time, too well ac 
 quainted with the obstinate nature of diseases of 
 those organs, not to deprecate habits which, I am 
 
 sure, are likely to occasion them. should 
 
 be also advised and exhorted to take constant ex 
 ercise. It were even better that he should be 
 screiued, as they call it, now and then, in the reci 
 tation-room, than that his health should be put in 
 jeopardy. I am certain, however, that there is 
 time both to exercise enough, and to study enough. 
 You ask me, mother, in one of your late letters, 
 whether you shall take copies of your future ones, 
 as you are afraid that you repeat yourself. I an 
 swer, by no means give yourself that trouble. You 
 have not repeated yourself, as I see ; and if you 
 had or should, what would be the harm ? I am 
 delighted to see anything from you, and love to 
 read it all, both old, if there is any old, and new. 
 You must be conscious, beside, that the time it 
 would take to copy one letter, might be better 
 employed in writing another. Do tell the child- 
 
JOURNAL. 141 
 
 ren to write more ; and not to write such formal 
 epistles, but to give me an account of two or three 
 days, or a week, in as easy and off-hand a style 
 as possible, and tell me of every little occurrence 
 that happens in the allotted time ; no matter how 
 clumsy they think their expressions are ; practice 
 
 will polish them. I have lectured already, 
 
 on this point ; but I could not help mentioning it 
 again. You have my hearty thanks, my dear fa 
 ther, for your letters ; and I hope you will con 
 tinue them. 
 
 Christmas is drawing nigh ; and I shall not fail 
 to send my thoughts, on that day, to the family- 
 table, that they may witness your solemn incision 
 of the Cheshire cheese ; though, as I am no great 
 of an astronomer or mathematician, I may be two 
 or three hours out of the way in my calculation of 
 the dinner time. That will be of no consequence, 
 however, as my mind s eye will most assuredly 
 see the operation, without paying much heed to 
 the clock. 
 
 I shall leave Sidmouth on the first of next month, 
 and go to Dawlish, another small town on this 
 coast, about a dozen miles off; where I intend to 
 remain as long as is agreeable to me, and whence 
 my next letter will most probably be dated. I 
 have just taken a pleasant walk of three miles, 
 without fatigue ; the robins, goldfinches, wagtails 
 
142 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and sparrows, are twittering about in all directions, 
 and the grass and many other things are green ; the 
 thermometer was 55 to-day at noon, in the shade. 
 I bought a thermometer at Carey s, in London, 
 on purpose to obtain an accurate idea of the tem 
 perature of Devonshire during the winter ; and I 
 set down on a piece of paper the degree at nine 
 in the morning, at noon, and at ten at night. 
 
 You see I have written you quite a family let 
 ter, and I hope it will please you. I shall write 
 to-morrow to Dr. J. ; and from him you can ob 
 tain a more particular account of my health. You 
 
 tell me, mother, that Miss would write me, 
 
 if she did not think I should feel myself obliged to 
 write in return. Pray say to her, the next time 
 you see her, that if she will only be so kind as to 
 write, it shall be as she pleases whether I write to 
 her again ; but that it would always give me the 
 greatest pleasure, both to receive letters from her 
 and to answer them. Best love to the children, 
 relatives and friends. 
 
 Your affectionate son, 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 December 25. Christmas day which in this 
 country is still celebrated with many of the old 
 observances. For some evenings past, a company 
 of little girls have been singing their carols under 
 
JOURNAL. 143 
 
 our cottage window ; and if there was but little 
 melody and less art in their performance, I have 
 often heard better music which has pleased me 
 worse. These carols are simply hymns appro 
 priate to the season, and sung to the tunes with 
 which they are commonly accompanied. The 
 greatest favorite with our little choristers was, 
 " While shepherds watch their flocks by night." 
 This is a custom which keeps its ground through 
 out England ; but there are others which are en 
 tirely forgotten and laid aside, excepting in a few 
 scattered spots and retired villages. 
 
 I witnessed, this evening, a relic of the ancient 
 Christmas gambols, in the performances of a com 
 pany of rustic actors, who still retain the name of 
 " Mummers." It was, indeed, but a relic and a 
 shadow of those masques and shows, which, in the 
 olden time, were deemed so indispensable to the 
 due and proper keeping of this holiday, but still it 
 possessed a strong hold on my imagination, from 
 the mere circumstance of its derivation. Our 
 company was composed of ten or fifteen farmers 
 boys and sons of the village tradesfolk, who, for 
 more than a month, had been conning and re 
 hearsing their parts for this important occasion. 
 As soon as the morning service was over, they 
 marched forth, clad in the most fantastic and gor 
 geous dresses of flaming silk, garnished with tin- 
 
144 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 sel and ribands, and slashed and patched with all 
 the colors of the rainbow. Following their leader 
 from house to house, they knocked at each door, 
 and asked if " they would please see the mum 
 mers?" and according as permission was given 
 or denied, they entered or moved on. 
 
 They came to our cottage about eight o clock 
 in the evening, and at my solicitation were ad 
 mitted. Our parlor was their stage, on which the 
 speakers, for the time being, performed their parts, 
 while the rest remained in the entry. The first 
 personage who presented himself was a stout fel 
 low, dressed in an old-fashioned coat, waistcoat, 
 pair of breeches, and coarse woollen stockings, 
 with a three-cornered hat on his head, and in his 
 hand a long staff with a round knob at the top, 
 and decked with flowing knots of pink riband. 
 He announced himself in about a dozen rhymes, 
 beginning with " Here comes I, old father Christ 
 mas ; " and after courting a good reception, by 
 informing us that " Old father Christmas came but 
 once a year," and telling us that we should soon see 
 some fine sport, he retired. The next performer 
 appeared in the costume of a Turk ; with a tin 
 crescent and a cock s feather in his cap, and a 
 crooked sabre in his hand, which he flourished 
 with amazing vehemence, and roared forth that 
 he was a Turkish knight, who was come to Eng- 
 
JOURNAL. 145 
 
 land to burn, kill and destroy, till there was not 
 an Englishman left in the country. He had scarce 
 finished this dreadful speech, when in stalked an 
 other, equally bold in his language and splendid 
 in his raiment, who let us know that he was St. 
 George, and that he was determined to fight with 
 the Turkish dog till he had hacked the flesh from 
 off his very bones. They then commenced a fu 
 rious dialogue of menace and vituperation, chang 
 ing sides alternately, and as they met each other, 
 striking their swords together once. Suddenly 
 the Turk drops his sword, confesses himself van 
 quished, and begs on his knees for his life, which 
 St. George generously grants him. 
 
 In this manner several couple followed upon the 
 stage ; among whom were the Duke of Welling 
 ton and Bonaparte, Lord Nelson and a French 
 man, &c. The battles all began, were carried 
 on, and concluded, alike ; always terminating, as 
 a matter of course, to the advantage of the Eng 
 lishman. The contrast between the mighty char 
 acters they assumed, together with the bloody 
 purpose of their rencounters, the awkwardness of 
 their gait, the oddity of their dress, the absurdity 
 of their rhymes, the provincialism of their speech, 
 and the calm and regular manner in which they 
 clashed their swords, were sufficiently amusing. 
 The last speaker, after hinting his expectations of 
 
 13 
 
146 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 a solid gratification for all this mummery, drew 
 from under his jacket a tin ladle, and carried it 
 round to the company for their contributions. I 
 was glad that I had seen this exhibition, and quite 
 as glad when it was over. 
 
 December 26. To-day has been the coldest of 
 the month ; the thermometer standing at 32 in 
 the morning, 31 at noon, and 32 at -night. Yes 
 terday it stood at 33, 33j and 31. Previous to 
 this, the lowest degree in the morning had been 
 35, on the 14th and 24th, and the highest 54, on 
 the 7th ; the lowest at noon 40, on the 14th, and 
 the highest 56, on the 7th ; the lowest at night 
 34, on the 24th, and the highest 53, on the loth. 
 There has been a little rain and mist, and much 
 fine weather ; almost as much as in November. 
 The change of temperature in the course of the 
 day has not been so great as in that month ; the 
 greatest having been a fall of eleven degrees from 
 the noon to the night of the 19th. Excepting this, 
 the change for the rest of the month has been 
 hardly more than two or three degrees during the 
 time of observation. It is now obviously getting 
 colder ; but as I leave Sidmouth to-morrow, I 
 shall not have the opportunity of keeping any far 
 ther account for December. 
 
 December 27. I dressed myself by candle-light 
 this morning, in order to be ready for the Exeter 
 
JOURNAL. 147 
 
 coach, which starts precisely at eight. A little be 
 fore that time the porter came for my baggage, 
 and I followed him to the inn. The coachman 
 was on his box, the steps of the coach were down, 
 I jumped in, and between ten and eleven o clock, 
 jumped out again at Exeter. 
 
 December 29. At four this afternoon, I left the 
 house of my kind friend, the Rev. Mr. Hincks, 
 and took the stage to Dawlish, another small wa 
 tering-place on the coast, about fourteen miles to 
 the south-west of Sidmouth, and twelve to the 
 south of Exeter. The sun sets at four o clock at 
 this season, and darkness had long enveloped us 
 before we stopped at the inn. I perceived, as I 
 alighted, that there was snow on the ground, 
 though hardly enough "to cover it. The cold for 
 two or three days has been, I may say, very se 
 vere ; for although the thermometer does not 
 point lower than from 25 to 28, I feel the effects 
 of the weather more disagreeably than I have at 
 home, when the mercury has stood many degrees 
 lower. It is a raw, relentless, piercing cold, which 
 finds out the marrow in one s bones, and against 
 which exercise seems to be no antidote, and fur 
 and flannel no guard. 
 
 December 30. Last night I slept at the inn. 
 This morning I chose my lodgings ; not hanging 
 over the sea, as at Sidmouth, but as far from it as 
 I could procure them. 
 
148 * MISCELLANIES. 
 
 1821. January 3. A new year has come ; but 
 no new hopes, and, thank God, no new fears, or 
 causes of fear. Notwithstanding the cold, my 
 health does not appear materially to suffer from 
 it ; and, though weak and disordered, I am yet no 
 more so than I have been for months. This is all 
 that I can promise myself ; for I cannot now ex 
 pect any essential change for the better, till the 
 sun is high and the trees are green. 
 
 January 4. It snowed all yesterday, and the 
 night before ; and to-day it lies on the ground 
 deep and drifted. The people here tell me that 
 it is quite uncommon to see so much of it. Tak 
 ing advantage of a little sunshine, I ventured out 
 on horseback with a friend. Near the sea-side, 
 we fell in with a high drift ; and my horse, all un 
 accustomed to such a thing, gave an unexpected 
 plunge, and threw me into the snow-bank. No 
 more serious consequence, however, arose from 
 this adventure, than the trouble of brushing my 
 clothes, and getting into the saddle again. 
 
 January 6. More snow yesterday ; but the cold 
 has very perceptibly abated. To-day I took a 
 long walk. Dawlish is sheltered, as Sidmouth is, 
 on every side but the south-east, by hills. That 
 part of the coast which extends along the south, 
 is lined with dark red cliffs, and diversified by sea- 
 worn caves and projecting masses of rock, which, 
 
JOURNAL. 149 
 
 from fancied resemblances, have acquired the cu 
 rious names of " The Parson and Clerk," " The 
 Bishop s Parlor," &c. On the beach there is, as 
 usual, a circulating library and billiard-room. 
 Removed from the shore, and at the western ex 
 tremity of the village, is a^pretty gothic church, 
 shaded by trees, and surrounded by pleasant gra 
 vel walks. A small stream runs through the town, 
 the banks of which have been carefully sodded, 
 and connected at different points by neat bridges. 
 On each side of this stream are built the houses of 
 the village ; most of them small and slightly con 
 structed, to answer the sudden growth of the place, 
 arising from an increased resort of visiters. 
 
 DAWLISH, Devon, January 8, 1821. 
 
 To Miss E C , 
 
 You cannot surely think, my dear friend, that I 
 could oppose your wishes on the subject of chang 
 ing your place of worship. E ven if I should resume 
 the exercise of my profession, which I much fear I 
 shall never be able to do, I should be far from de 
 siring to stand in the way of your obvious accom 
 modation and interest, though I should be sorry 
 to lose such parishioners as yourself and sisters. 
 I should be certain that I could never lose you as 
 friends ; and to console myself for not seeing you 
 on the Sunday, I should pay you one visit extra 
 ordinary during the week. Still I cannot say but 
 
 13* 
 
150 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 that your attention in speaking of this subject was 
 gratifying to me for we are all pleased with at 
 tention, and there is no use in denying it and 
 after I have said this I will add that I hope you have 
 done as some wild young lovers do, first get mar 
 ried, and then ask their parents consent ; or ask 
 their parents consent, and then get married with 
 out waiting till they have obtained it. In the same 
 way, I trust you have gratified yourself by hearing 
 Mr. Channing this winter, without staying three 
 months for an approbation which you knew I 
 could not be so unreasonable and so unkind as to 
 refuse. Mind this, however, that although I may 
 never be your minister again, I do not surrender 
 a tittle of my spiritual authority, but shall still take 
 it upon me to admonish, exhort and comfort, as 
 occasion may require, both you and your house 
 hold, as if I were in verity your pastor. 
 
 And now this matter is happily settled to the 
 satisfaction of all parties concerned, we will turn 
 us to other things. I was glad that my letter on 
 pockets met with so favorable a reception from 
 you, for, truth to tell, I sent it its ways with doubt 
 and fear ; but now that I find your taste is as 
 comprehensive as I suspected it was, I shall no 
 more tremble about exposing myself. You are 
 aware that there are some people who would not 
 have known what to make of such an epistle, 
 
JOURNAL. 151 
 
 and who would have entertained most sage doubts 
 with regard to the sanity of the writer s wits, but 
 who would have been very much entertained and 
 edified by a faithful account of the innkeepers 
 names on the roads through which I passed, and 
 the exact sums that they charged for their small 
 beer. Now I never supposed that you were so 
 sober and rational as all this, but I only feared 
 that I might have given you too large a dose of 
 nonsense at once. 
 
 I congratulate you on being so happily settled 
 
 with Mrs. , to whose amiable qualities I am not 
 
 a stranger, though I am entirely so to her person. 
 I feel more and more every day how much the en 
 joyment of my own existence depends not merely 
 on society, but on warm and proper friendship. 
 In a foreign country, I have, thank Heaven, found 
 such friendship oftener than I hoped to find it ; 
 but it is impossible to meet with it always ; you 
 cannot expect to fall in with it on the road, or ride 
 with it in the public coach, or salute it at the iqp, 
 or secure it from those on whom you have no 
 claim, or very frequently from those on whom you 
 have. And this it is which makes me look to the 
 west, and long to be again where it will be with 
 me, and about me, constantly and truly, and with 
 out interruption or change. But I must accom 
 plish my season. 
 
152 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 My health remains the same ; I do not hope for 
 much improvement till the winter has gone. Of 
 Dawlish, I shall only say, that it is a small water 
 ing-place, as Sidmouth, my last residence is, and 
 that I am situated here pretty much as I was 
 there. We are still in the Christmas holidays, 
 and everybody is frolicking except myself, to 
 whom a frolic would be one of the most serious 
 things imaginable. 
 
 Here follow some plain cautions, to wit : I. Do 
 not affix the epithet little to Boston again ; for, 
 besides its being a considerable place of itself, it 
 is more than the whole world to me. II. When 
 you seal your letters, be careful to introduce some 
 of the wax under the paper ; for your last came 
 to me in a state which was everything but open, 
 and ten miles more of land-carriage would have 
 saved me the trouble of breaking the fragment of a 
 seal which was left. III. Omit not, as you did in 
 your last, to number your letters, for several good 
 reasons which you will easily anticipate. IV. For 
 give my boldness, give my love to your sisters, 
 and others, according to your discretion, continue 
 to write to me as often as your duty, and time, 
 and feelings will permit you, and believe that as 
 true and affectionate a friend as any you have, is 
 F. W. P. GREENWOOD. 
 
JOURNAL. 153 
 
 January 8. I rode with my friend to see the 
 grounds of Newhouse, a mansion which had long 
 been the residence of the ancient family of the 
 Oxenhams, but is now, together with the grounds, 
 in a neglected and almost ruinous condition, and 
 is occupied by a farmer ; the possessor of the pro 
 perty being unfortunately deranged in intellect. 
 A tradition is preserved and believed, in this fa 
 mily, that a bird with a white breast always ap 
 pears just before the death of any of its members, 
 and flutters about the appointed victim. New- 
 house is three miles from Dawlish. There was a 
 rapid thaw yesterday, accompanied with rain ; 
 and the snow has all disappeared, excepting a few 
 patches which here and there lie sheltered under 
 the hedges, and hesitate to go. 
 
 January 15. We had resolved on an excursion 
 to Torquay ; and this morning took a post-chaise, 
 which brought us by a circuitous route of nearly 
 twenty miles, to our place of destination. We 
 had a rainy ride of it, and could, therefore, see 
 but little of the country ; enough, however, to 
 perceive that some parts of it, especially on the 
 banks of the river Teign, were beautifully roman 
 tic. It was late in the afternoon when we arrived 
 at Torquay, and I kept by the fireside till bed 
 time. 
 
 January 16. The sun is bright, and the air is 
 
154 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 balm, and Torquay is the loveliest spot 1 have yet 
 seen. Not that there is anything remarkable in 
 the town, which seems to have been more rapidly 
 and slightly built than either of the watering- 
 places which I have visited ; but in situation, na 
 ture has done for it almost everything that she 
 could. It lies on the northern side of Torbay, 
 and commands a view of nearly its whole expanse. 
 Steep, though not lofty hills, rise behind it ; while 
 the southern cape of the bay, Berry Head, bends 
 round to shut it in from the sea, and protect it 
 from its storms and winds. The villages of Peign- 
 ton and Brixham are clearly discerned on the op 
 posite shore ; at the latter of which William of 
 Orange landed on the 5th of November, 1688. The 
 coast is extremely picturesque ; being fancifully 
 broken on the south, into caves and arches, hol 
 lowed by many a storm, and dotted on the north 
 by numerous small islands of rock which rise from 
 the waves, within short distances of the shore. 
 From the peculiarity of its situation, sheltered and 
 land-locked as it is, Torquay is, without doubt, the 
 warmest spot on this part of the coast. 
 
 January 18. And I am afraid it is the wettest, 
 as well as the warmest spot. It drizzled all day 
 yesterday, and has been drizzling all day to-day. 
 Notwithstanding this, however, we took our um 
 brellas, and walked over to see Tor Abbey, a 
 
JOURNAL. 155 
 
 handsome seat belonging to George Gary, Esq., 
 but at present occupied by a son of Lord Clifford. 
 It lies a half mile only from our hotel. As its name 
 implies, it was originally an abbey belonging to 
 the Premonstratensians ; and the walls, though 
 rough-cast and modernized, are the walls of the 
 ancient structure, which was built in the reign of 
 John. Forming a right angle with the south end 
 of the front, is the old gateway, consisting of two 
 circular arches, and a chamber above them, which 
 seems now to be a hay loft. On the left of this 
 gateway, and after you have passed it, is another 
 remnant of the abbey its barn, which still serves 
 as the barn and stables to the present mansion. 
 It is a huge pile, and entirely unadorned, except 
 by the ivy which clothes it luxuriantly. 
 
 As the family were not at home, we were per 
 mitted to see the house ; but there was very little 
 to be seen. Five or six pictures by Thompson, a 
 British artist, with a few other inconsiderable ones, 
 constituted its whole treasure in that way. The 
 Cliffords, and I believe the Carys also, are Cath 
 olics. The chapel was once the refectory of the 
 abbey. It is neatly fitted up ; a lamp continually 
 burning hung from the vaulted roof, and on the 
 altar was a tall, gilt crucifix. 
 
 January 19. It drizzled still ; but there was no 
 sense in sitting by the fire doing nothing, and so 
 
156 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 we performed a short excursion which we had 
 planned the night before, to Babbicombe Bay, not 
 more than two miles, or two and a half from our 
 hotel. Our conveyance was a car, a vehicle very 
 common at the watering-places, but not at all 
 suited to my ideas of pleasure or comfort. It is 
 on .two wheels, and is drawn by one horse, and 
 so far is like a gig ; but it is hung very low and 
 near the horse ; and these circumstances give it 
 a disagreeable jerking motion. In shape it is like 
 a section of a coach ; and within is accommodated 
 with two seats, on which the passengers sit, facing 
 each other, and sideways to the horse. Its sides 
 are closed with curtains, which in summer are of 
 course drawn open ; but, as at this time it was 
 wet and cold, we were obliged to keep them 
 closed, and thus shut ourselves out from the sight 
 of everything about us. 
 
 A mile from Torquay, we came to a natural 
 cavern, called Kent s Hole, and alighted to explore 
 it, with a guide who had followed us on foot from 
 the town. It is situated about half way up a steep 
 hill, which rises from the road-side, and is thickly 
 covered with bushes and small trees. The en 
 trance is low, so that we were obliged to stoop 
 double in going in ; soon coming to a more open 
 space, however, the guide struck a light, and each 
 of us taking a bit of candle in our hands, followed 
 
JOURNAL. 157 
 
 his steps along the vault, which was very irregular 
 in its form, and intricate in its windings. I often 
 stopped a few moments, till the guide and my 
 companion were at some distance from me ; and 
 it was striking to see their figures groping among 
 the frowning projections of dripping rock, par 
 tially illumined by the feeble rays of their candles, 
 while all else was utter darkness ; and as they 
 turned their faces to seek out the proper passages, 
 the same uncertain light gave such an expression 
 to their features, that if I had met them unawares, 
 I should have taken them for any rather than hon 
 est men. Stalactites and incrustations were every 
 where formed by the continually dropping water, 
 but there were none of any grandeur or beauty ; 
 and, indeed, there was nothing in Kent s Hole, 
 that I saw, to repay us for threading its damp and 
 dismal mazes. 
 
 Seated in our car again, we were jerked and 
 jolted on for another mile, till we saw the main 
 object of our jaunt, the little bay and hamlet of 
 Babbicombe. We looked down upon it from the 
 road, as it lay all spread beneath us, and confessed 
 that we had seldom seen so sweet a valley. The 
 mouth of the bay appeared to be not more than 
 two or three hundred yards over, and the land 
 arose all around it immediately from its bosom. 
 This amphitheatre was studded with cottages, both 
 14 
 
158 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of the rich and the poor, which seemed to cling to 
 the hill-sides like so many nests of sea-fowl ; some 
 of them overhung by huge rocks which threatened 
 to crush them, and others enveloped in a shrub 
 bery of evergreen, through which we could but just 
 catch a bit of the thatched roof, a casement, or a 
 chimney-top. I do not think that there were more 
 than twenty cottages in all ; and by far the greater 
 part of these were the summer boxes of gentlemen 
 who had been attracted, and no wonder, by the 
 romantic beauties of the place. 
 
 A half mile more brought us to the village of 
 St. Mary s Church ; which we visited for the sake 
 of a marble shop, in which are exposed for sale 
 several ornaments and knick-knacks, manufactured 
 from the marble which is dug in the neighborhood, 
 and esteemed the best in Devonshire. Here we 
 saw very handsome draught or chequer-boards, 
 books, vases, &c., executed with marbles of vari 
 ous hues and veins ; and I purchased a number of 
 square polished bits, as specimens. There was 
 nothing more to be seen or done, and we returned, 
 by another road, to Torquay. 
 
 January 21. No change in the weather ; it 
 drizzles, drizzles, drizzles, as if it would never 
 have done. While my friend was gone to church, 
 I, who cannot sit in one during the cold weather, 
 took another walk to the grounds of Tor Abbey, 
 
JOURNAL. 159 
 
 
 
 and worshipped alone, beneath the long and stately 
 avenues of old limes which lead up to the mansion. 
 In a clump of elms behind the house I observed a 
 large rookery, the inhabitants of which were all 
 collected together, croaking confusedly upon the 
 highest branches. By the help of a little imagina 
 tion, one might have believed them the spirits of the 
 departed monks, assembled on the sacred day of 
 prayer, to mourn over the ruin of their sanctuary, 
 the dispersion of their order, and the extinction of 
 their name. 
 
 January 2-2. Pleasant once more ; but we had 
 fixed on this day for our return to Dawlish. On 
 the road we fell in with a party of huntsmen. 
 Some of the gentlemen were mounted on noble 
 animals, who seemed as eagerly bent on the pur 
 suit as their riders were. The hedges in this 
 country are particularly high, and it was astonish 
 ing to see how the horses cleared them ; the more 
 so, as they were covered w r ith sweat and foam, 
 and had evidently been toiling long. The hunt 
 was almost over as we came up ; and just before 
 our chaise passed a small field, the poor fox had 
 been taken there and slain. The huntsmen gath 
 ered in from all quarters, and soon formed a large 
 group, in the midst of which one of them held the 
 carcass up by the tail, and yelled over it in a man 
 ner that I can compare to nothing but the whoop 
 
160 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 i 
 
 of a North American Indian, while the dogs joined 
 in and swelled the chorus. We reached Dawlish 
 before dinner. 
 
 January 31. A ride on horseback to Teign- 
 mouth, where, I had been several times before, as 
 it is only three miles to the south of Dawlish. It 
 lies, as it is almost needless to say, at the mouth 
 of the river Teign, and is divided into East and 
 West Teignmouth. On the beach there is a fine 
 open space, for riding or walking, called the Den. 
 near which are the bathing-machines, as this town, 
 also, is a watering-place. Its Newfoundland trade 
 is considerable. A medical gentleman here told 
 me that the coldest weather in this part of the 
 country always came between Christmas and the 
 15th of January, and that the lowest point at which 
 his thermometer had stood, this winter, was 23, 
 This is all that I can say with respect to the tem 
 perature of this month, not having had a conve 
 nient place for my own instrument. I must 
 remark, however, that Dawlish is considerably 
 warmer than Teignmouth, though they are but 
 three miles apart ; and that, since the 6th of the 
 month, it has been quite mild at Dawlish, where 
 the crocus, the snowdrop, hepatica, and other 
 spring flowers, are now blowing in the gardensr 
 
 February 5. It was a bright day ; and, in a 
 car which was a much better and easier one than 
 
JOURNAL. 161 
 
 that which we had hired at Torquay, I left Daw- 
 lish for Lympston, where I intended making a 
 short stay. We drove over a long tract of barren 
 sand, called the Quarry, which stretches nearly 
 across the river Exe, and at the end of which we 
 and our car were received into a ferry-boat, and 
 landed at Exmouth. Two miles farther brought 
 us to Lympston. Here I delivered my letters to 
 the Rev. Thomas Jervis, who kindly invited me 
 to take up my abode at his house. 
 
 February 7. Lympston is a small but very 
 sweet place, on the eastern bank of the Exe ; shel 
 tered and mild. The surrounding scenery is beau 
 tiful. Looking down the river, you have a view 
 of Exmouth and the high cliffs of the channel ; 
 on the opposite bank are the villages of Star-Cross 
 and Kenton, with Powderham Castle, the seat of 
 Lord Courtenay ; while at the distance of four 
 miles up the river, is the town of Topsham ; and 
 four miles higher still, the twin towers of Exeter 
 cathedral are plainly discernible. Exmouth, 
 which I visited to-day on horseback, is the oldest 
 watering-place in Devon, though the company of 
 late has been very thin. On a high bluff at the 
 south-west end of the town there is a row of hand 
 some brick houses ; most of which were unoccu 
 pied, as the situation is very much exposed, and 
 not fit for a winter s residence. From this place, 
 
 14* 
 
162 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 which is called the Beacon, there is a fine and 
 extensive view. There is nothing else in Ex- 
 mouth, however, which seemed to me to call for a 
 moment s notice. 
 
 , LYMPSTON, Devon, February 9, 1821. 
 
 To THE REV. DR. . 
 
 I will allow, my dear friend and brother, that 
 your expectation of six letters for one is perfectly 
 reasonable, and if my situation and spirits had cor 
 responded in any tolerable degree with your sup 
 positions, I should have written in something such 
 a ratio ; but though this part of England has a 
 deserved reputation for mildness of climate, you 
 must not suppose that its air is forever balm, or 
 that its skies are always azure ; and though I have 
 held my own pretty well through the winter, you 
 must not imagine that I have been entirely free 
 from pain, or that languor and depression have 
 forborne to visit me. This is the case with regard 
 to the south of Devonshire, so far as my expe 
 rience goes : the climate is so genial, that persons 
 in health generally walk out through the winter 
 without any surtout or great coat ; the grass retains 
 a continual verdure ; vegetables of certain kinds, 
 such as the cabbage, &c., are cut fresh from the 
 ground in every month ; and sheep and cattle re 
 main in the open fields all the night long ; and 
 yet there is, and in these northern latitudes must 
 
JOURNAL. 163 
 
 necessarily be, a great deal of what you may call 
 disagreeable weather, muggy, drizzly, wet, dark, 
 uncomfortable weather ; and in such weather as 
 this, there can be, to an invalid especially, but little 
 enjoyment or elasticity of spirit. Then you must 
 consider that as the place where I am at present lies 
 nearly ten degrees to the north of Boston, the win 
 ter days must be shorter than they are even in our 
 native town ; as the summer days will be longer. 
 In the middle of December the sun rises not till 
 some minutes past eight o clock, and sets at about 
 fifty minutes past three in the afternoon. Now I 
 want nearly the whole of this day for meals and 
 exercise, and the evening for rest and reading. 
 Thus it happens, that, notwithstanding I am mas 
 ter of my whole time, I have written but very lit 
 tle, even to my parents. After all, however, I 
 will freely confess that I might and ought to have 
 written to you much oftener than I have, and am 
 ashamed of myself for my negligence. Forgive 
 me. 
 
 Your first letter has brightened many a weary 
 hour for me. It is so full of your happy vein, so 
 just like yourself, in short, that I have kept it con 
 tinually about me, and recurred to it when " my 
 soul was dark," with the same feeling of assured 
 relief as used to accompany your morning calls, 
 when you and I could communicate without hav- 
 
164 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ing recourse to the slow medium of pen, ink and 
 paper. 
 
 I am not sorry to hear that the liberals and rea 
 son ables are so earnestly driving the quill, because 
 discussion will do no harm to truth ; but you know 
 that I like the pugilistic temper as little as you do, 
 and that I am as much teazed as yourself by 
 the disposition, manifested by some, to blow the 
 trumpet in Sion so long, and loud, and bloodily, 
 that the peaceable dwellers therein shall have 
 never a moment of rest, and of accusing all who 
 will not go up to Ramoth Gilead to battle, of dis 
 affection to the true cause. We both think that it 
 is exceedingly troublesome to be perpetually cased 
 in armor ; to breakfast, dine, sup and sleep with 
 harness on the back ; and not only so, but to 
 mount the steed, set the spear in rest, and sally 
 forth to the lists, for the pleasure of breaking 
 lances or noddles with every champion who dares 
 take up the gauntlet against us. And we both 
 have an idea, that by minding our official and do 
 mestic duties in a quiet way, and teaching others, 
 as well as we can, to mind theirs -not refusing, 
 the while, to lend a hand, for exercise sake, to a 
 righteous quarrel, when we see occasion we 
 may chance to do almost as much good, and be 
 almost as good sort of folk, as if we went through 
 life with a doubled fist. 
 
JOURNAL. 165 
 
 And so you have named your second born 
 by the name of your absent friend ? Heaven 
 bless the babe, and give it health and strength, 
 virtue and wisdom its father s mind and its 
 mother s gentleness. I cannot tell you how 
 grateful I feel for this most affectionate and 
 touching compliment. I shall look on the little 
 one as almost my own ; and if I ever see home 
 again, one of my first duties shall be to come and 
 
 kiss and bless it. I hope that Mrs. will be 
 
 perfectly recovered long before my letter reaches 
 you ; this part of which I would have her consider 
 as addressed equally to herself and you ; for so 
 important a matter as naming a son could not 
 have been determined on but by a mutual council. 
 
 To bring you back to Devonshire you will 
 have probably heard that I have been to Dawlish 
 and Torquay, two small watering-places on the 
 coast. Last Monday I came here, and shall go 
 away next Tuesday. Lympston is not a water 
 ing-place, but a little village, to which a few inva 
 lids resort wholly for the sake of climate. It 
 is situated on the river Exe, about two miles from 
 its mouth ; a pleasant, retired and sheltered spot. 
 There has been so little change in my health from 
 month to month, that I have nothing at all to say- 
 on that subject, but refer you to my mother. Re 
 ceive this long epistle as some atonement for not 
 
166 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 having written before, and cherish me as your 
 loving friend. 
 
 FRANCIS W. P. GREENWOOD. 
 
 February 13. I left Lympston with regret, for 
 I had passed a happy week there. The friends 
 whose society was so pleasant to me were princi 
 pally members of a small Unitarian congregation, 
 which has been for some time established here. 
 It has lately met with the misfortune of losing its 
 minister, the Rev. John Jervis, brother of the gen 
 tleman with whom I have been residing. A car 
 brought me in time for dinner to my old quarters 
 at Sidmouth. 
 
 February 28. The last day of winter that is 
 to say, of the nominal winter, the almanac winter, 
 which every one knows is a very different thing 
 from the real winter, the season of clouds, and 
 storms, and ice, and hoar-frost. The weather in 
 this month has been very variable. From the 1st 
 to the 12th, it was mild and fine, the sky clear 
 nearly the whole time ; it then changed, and be 
 came cloudy, and gloomy, and cold. From the 
 16th to the end of the month, I observed the ther 
 mometer at noon, and found the lowest degree to 
 have been 33, on the 18th, and the highest 47, on 
 the 2ist and 28th. There has been very little rain 
 through the month. 
 
JOURNAL. 167 
 
 March 7. I took my last leave of Sidmouth 
 this morning, and came, for the third time, to Ex 
 eter, where the hospitality of my good friend, Mr. 
 Hincks, again provided me with a bed in his 
 house, and a plate at his table. 
 
 March so. I had been warned that March was 
 the worst month in the year ; and so, indeed, it 
 has turned out. The weather has been dismal ; 
 not so cold as it was at Christmas time, but more 
 insidious and pernicious. Under a bright sun and 
 a clear sky, it would make its most fatal attacks ; 
 would " smile and smile, and be a villain." I 
 have hardly been out at all. On the 14th, I was 
 visited with a severe cold, which did not leave me 
 till the 22d, and then left me disposed to be pru 
 dent. Thinking myself, however, sufficiently re 
 covered, and the season sufficiently advanced, for 
 travelling, I am going to resume my journey ings, 
 and take my departure from Devonshire to-mor 
 row morning. I have grown quite tired of re 
 maining so long inactive, and gladly set myself in 
 motion again ; like a vessel, that, after having 
 been wind-bound and becalmed, spreads her sails 
 and courts the favoring breeze, till every rag of 
 canvass swells out with exultation. And yet I 
 would leave Devon on good terms : for, on the 
 whole, I have not been disappointed in the ex 
 pectations I had formed of it. I was told that its 
 
168 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 climate was mild, and so it certainly is ; the myr 
 tle grows luxuriantly against the sides of the cot 
 tages, and remains green through the winter ; the 
 grass retains its verdure, and daisies blossom in 
 every month ; sheep and cattle are left in the open 
 fields through the coldest nights ; crocuses and 
 snowdrops begin to blow in the gardens as early 
 as the end of January. I have seen peas and 
 beans two inches high, in the open ground, on the 
 8th of February, and peaches, nectarines and ap 
 ricots in blossom on the 10th of March ; and this 
 is enough to prove that the climate of the south of 
 Devonshire is mild. It has its cold winds and its 
 storms, but how could it be otherwise in the fiftieth 
 degree of north latitude ? 
 
 I wish that I could say as much in favor of the 
 inhabitants, as I can of the climate. Not but that 
 they are a good sort of folks enough ; but they, 
 that is, the lower orders, are intolerably lazy, 
 shiftless and dirty. Now, what is the great ben 
 efit of a prevailing mild climate, when the people 
 seem as if they were determined to counteract its 
 influence by every means in their power ? What 
 is the use of spending a winter in one of these 
 sheltered spots, when you must take up your 
 abode in a house of mere lath and plaster, and 
 live with people who never shut a door behind 
 them, or close a window properly, and sit in a 
 
JOURNAL* 169 
 
 room so yawning, as it were, with cracks and 
 crevices, that it appears to be very little matter 
 whether the doors and windows are shut or open ? 
 An invalid and a stranger cannot bear this. He 
 is quite as well off, if not better, at home, in a 
 comfortable house, which, in the depth of winter, 
 enjoys the temperature of an artificial summer, 
 and among friends who are all attention and care 
 fulness. Others may be more fortunate in their 
 places of residence than I was, and may lodge in 
 tight houses, and with people who always shut 
 their doors. I hope they may. 
 
 March 31. At eight o clock precisely, I had 
 taken my seat in the stage-coach, and a minute 
 after was on my way to the north. We rode 
 through Collumpton to Wellington, the first town 
 we came to in Somersetshire, and then on to 
 Taunton. Here I had intended to stay the night ; 
 but the assizes had just commenced, the inns were 
 crowded, and the whole town was in a bustle ; 
 and, as I hate a bustle, I determined to move a 
 little farther on. While the coach and horses 
 were changed, however, I seized the opportu 
 nity of viewing the beautiful tower of St. Mary s 
 church, which is acknowledged to be one of the 
 richest and most elegant in the kingdom. I had 
 never seen one so fine. Resuming my seat, I 
 went on to Bridgewater, twelve miles farther, and 
 15 
 
170 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 there stopped. One of my fellow-passengers had 
 
 told me that Castle, the seat of Lord , 
 
 was well worth my seeing. I found that it was 
 only four miles from Bridgewater ; so, having be 
 spoke my dinner, I ordered a chaise, and was soon 
 there. 
 
 I was disappointed. The mansion stands, to 
 be sure, in a fine commanding situation, but no 
 thing can be gloomier or more prison-like than its 
 appearance. It is built in the old castle style ; 
 not only with tower and turret, gateway and court 
 yard, but with moat, draw-bridge, and portcullis. 
 Its form is a quadrangle, inclosing a spacious 
 court, in other words, a hollow square ; the ma 
 terials are unhewn and irregular stones and brick. 
 Within, there was nothing worth looking at, but 
 some Gobelin tapestry, with which many of the 
 rooms were hung. The pictures were chiefly 
 family portraits ; which, as well as everything else 
 that could suffer, were suffering greatly from the 
 long absence of the present earl, who has not been 
 here for many years ; why, I could not learn. 
 The castle was built by his father. No stables or 
 barns are to be seen ; for the whim of their con 
 triver has placed them under ground, and light is 
 admitted through iron grates, which you observe 
 here and there as you walk along. 
 
 A few paces only from the castle, is the village 
 
JOURNAL. 171 
 
 church 3 small and old ; a part of it being consid 
 erably more ancient than the rest, as is evinced 
 by the architecture of the south doorway, which 
 is a Norman arch, with a finely raised zigzag 
 moulding. The churchyard was just such a one 
 as, had it been nearer home, I should have liked 
 to have reposed in. A dark-boughed yew, which 
 must have seen more than one century, threw its 
 thick shade over nearly one half of it, and it was 
 neatly fenced in by a hedge of laurestinus and 
 other evergreen shrubs, interspersed with the ho 
 neysuckle and rose. 
 
 Having returned to Bridgewater and dined, I 
 walked for an hour about the town, which is of 
 some importance, containing about five thousand 
 inhabitants. The river Parret runs through it, 
 and is crossed by a handsome iron bridge. Ad 
 miral Robert Blake was born in this town, in 
 
 1599. 
 
 April i. The mail passed through at ten 
 o clock. I took a seat in it, and reached Glaston- 
 bury at twelve. Who has not heard of Glaston- 
 bury Abbey, whose buildings were so magnificent, 
 whose domains were so wide, whose revenues 
 were so vast, whose abbots were so princely ? 
 And who has not heard of the Glastonbury thorn, 
 which was green while other plants were bare, 
 and put forth its white blossoms on the birthday 
 
172 
 
 MISCELLANIES, 
 
 of Mary s son, to the praise of the church, and the 
 edification of believers ? As our coach turned the 
 brow of a hill, the scene of these wonders, and 
 the vestiges of all this grandeur opened at once 
 upon me, and a most impressive view it was. 
 The gray masses of ruin immediately below us, 
 together with the two church towers of the town, 
 and the antique appearance of its buildings, formed 
 one of the most striking pictures I ever beheld. 
 
 The coach stopped at the George Inn, which, 
 in the days of its power and hospitality, belonged 
 to the abbey, and was an inn for the entertain 
 ment of pilgrims. It was flanked with turrets, 
 adorned with niches and statues, and the modern 
 sign was supported by a curiously carved stone 
 pillar, which once bore the welcome promise of 
 refreshment and rest to those who came recom 
 mended, not by the length of their purses, but " by 
 their cockle hat and stafFe, and by their sandal 
 shoone." Notwithstanding these potent attrac 
 tions, however, as I had been recommended to 
 the White Hart, as the best inn in the town, I or 
 dered my baggage across the street, and took up 
 my quarters there. I soon found out by the din 
 ner that was served up, and by the manners of 
 the servants, that I was in a comfortable situation \ 
 and where I had designed to tarry for a day or 
 two, this was a great matter. The White Hart had 
 
JOURNAL. 
 
 173 
 
 another recommendation also. From its garden, 
 which was sheltered and warm, there was an ex 
 cellent view of the ruins, while through it was the 
 only passage to them ; and in it there grew a thorn 
 which was taken from the old one, and which 
 possessed the singular property of its parent, of 
 flowering at Christmas time. Of the truth of this 
 fact, in whatever way it may be accounted for, 
 there can be no manner of doubt. One of my 
 Devonshire friends, who was in Glastonbury a 
 day or two after Christmas, told me he saw this 
 thorn in full blossom ; many others have told me 
 the same ; the towns-people are annually wit 
 nesses of it, and I myself saw the tree in full leaf, 
 and covered with withered flowers, at a season 
 when other hawthorns were j ust beginning to burst 
 their buds. The original tree, which had attained 
 an extraordinary size, was torn up in Cromwell s 
 time, as a rag of popery. The one of which I 
 have been speaking, has already attained an un 
 common growth for a hawthorn, being ten or 
 twelve feet high, and as thick in the stem as a 
 man s leg. There is still a larger one near St. 
 John s church, in the neighborhood. 
 
 The Catholic legend concerning the old tree 
 
 was, that St. Joseph of Arimathea, who, they say, 
 
 was sent by the apostles to convert the Britons, 
 
 and who is considered as the founder of the reli- 
 
 15* 
 
174 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 gious community so long existing at Glastonbury, 
 having reached in his journey the summit of a hill 
 hard by, thrust his staff into the ground, and ex 
 claimed to his companions, " We are weary all." 
 The staff took root, grew, and blossomed twice in 
 the year, once at Christmas, and once at the 
 usual time ; and the hill still continues to be called 
 "Weary-all" Hill. We may gather from this 
 story, at least, that St. Joseph spoke remarkably 
 good English, considering he had but just arrived 
 in the island. Another account is, that the first of 
 these holy thorns being imported from a warm 
 country, in which the climate was three or four 
 months in advance of that of England, continued 
 from habit and affection, to blow at its former 
 early season, and yet out of respect to the country 
 which had adopted it, civilly put forth its flowers 
 once more, at the same time with its fellow thorns ; 
 and that all its young shoots and slips inherited 
 the custom ex traduce from their parent. 
 
 With regard to the ruins, they consist of three 
 principal divisions St. Joseph s chapel, the Ab 
 bey church, and the kitchen. St. Joseph s cha 
 pel forms the southern boundary of the garden of 
 my inn. It is the most ancient structure of the 
 whole, being built in the Norman style, with cir 
 cular arches, zigzag mouldings, and rich cornices. 
 A-t each angle is a small turret of elegant form, 
 
JOURNAL. 175 
 
 highly ornamented with rows of intersecting 
 arches. Passing from the garden, through the 
 rich northern doorway and the interior of the 
 chapel, we come out into a field, in the midst of 
 which are the remains of the church. The prin 
 cipal feature of this part of the ruin is formed by 
 the twin pillars of one of the arches which sup 
 ported the central tower ; they are lofty, and their 
 effect is very striking. In another field, a short 
 distance to the south, stands the abbey kitchen ; 
 not so old as the other buildings, but of great in 
 terest, from its being unique and quite entire. Its 
 form for the first twenty feet is a square, on which 
 is raised an octagonal pyramid of about thirty feet 
 more ; and the whole is crowned with a handsome 
 lantern, likewise of eight sides, and pierced with 
 holes to give passage to the steams, &c., of the 
 kitchen. The interior is one spacious vault, 
 and the whole is composed of stone. In each 
 corner is an immense fireplace ; but it is long, 
 very long, since the piled logs blazed there, and 
 the caldrons boiled, and the huge joints turned 
 round ; the merry smoke no longer curls in the 
 chimney, and the hearth-stone is cold. 
 
 The poor man who built this fire-proof kitchen, 
 was the last whose table it ever supplied. It is 
 said to have been erected by Abbot Richard 
 Whiting, soon after his election, which took place 
 
176 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in the year 1524. He was the sixtieth Abbot of 
 Glastonbury, and the last ; for it was during his 
 abbacy that the dissolution of monasteries was 
 effected by Henry VIII. It was hard for the su 
 perior of the first religious establishment in Eng 
 land to yield up honor, dignity and revenue to the 
 fell swoop of the ruthless spoiler, and it was hard 
 for a good Catholic to acknowledge the spiritual 
 supremacy of a mere temporal prince. Richard 
 Whiting refused to do either ; he was arrested 
 and tried for high treason, at Wells, and was ac 
 quitted. But that was of little consequence to the 
 rapacious and despotic Henry ; the venerable ab 
 bot was again seized, dragged Urthe highest hill 
 in the vicinity, and there hung between two of his 
 monks, on the 14th of November, 1539. The in 
 come of the abbey, which then amounted to some 
 thing over three thousand pounds per annum, was 
 sequestrated, and the buildings abandoned to neg 
 lect and ruin. Many houses have been reared 
 in the town from the spoils ; one in particular, 
 called the Abbey-house, which is lavishly deco 
 rated with coats of arms, corbel heads, &c. But 
 a stop has been put to this for some time, and the 
 ruins are well enclosed and preserved. The 
 kitchen, with the field on which it stands, is the 
 property of a Bristol wine merchant, and the other 
 remains, with the ground about them, belong to a 
 
JOURNAL. 177 
 
 farmer of Glastonbury, who turns out his cows to 
 graze among the clustered shafts and broken 
 arches. It is not, however, from brutes that they 
 have anything to fear. 
 
 A verie pithie and mournfull Ballate 
 
 Of Glassenbury Abbey, and the Abbott and Freres thereof: 
 
 Right profitable unto alle godlie soules that in these 
 
 backslidinge tymes doe nathelesse cease not 
 
 to honour Scte Joseph and our Lady. 
 
 They hangid the Abbott on Michael s hille, 
 And they seized on his church and lande ; 
 
 For so it was stoute kynge Harry s wille, 
 Whose wille there mote none withstande. 
 
 They smote on the walles of the Abbey fayre, 
 And spoyled its high roofe of stone ; 
 
 And windowe, and tower, and winding staire, 
 They pullid down one by one. 
 
 Its tenante now is the boding crowe, 
 
 In stedde of the hooded friar ; 
 On its ruinnes the ivy and walle-floure growe, 
 
 The feme and the white-blossomed briar. 
 
 Its altar the pilgrim he seeketh no more 
 
 From the lande of another sunne, 
 For Masse, and Prayer, and Confessioun are ower, 
 
 And Mattines and Vespers are done. 
 
 And the brethren, so holie, are scattered abroad, 
 
 To labour, to begge, and to die ; 
 Wilhouten a frende but their pittying Lord, 
 
 And our Ladie that sitteth on high. 
 
178 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 But laughe not, proude Harry, nor joie in thy strengthe, 
 
 For thou, too, in Ruinnes shall falle, 
 And the pitilesse Spoyler shalle finde thee at lengthe, 
 
 Despight of thy stronge pallace walle. 
 
 And ruinne to thee shalle be darknesse and shame, 
 
 Foulle wormes, crumbling bones, and coulde clay ; 
 While the Abbey, though ruinned, shalle flourishe in fame, 
 And looke fayre in the swete light of daie. 
 
 The Stranger from farre distante shoares shall come here, 
 
 Its beauteouse relickes to see, 
 And shall give to its glories a sighe and a teare, 
 
 And a curse, cruelle monarcke, to thee. 
 
 [These verses were written by Dr, Greenwood.] 
 
 As an accompaniment to the abbey ruins, and, 
 in fact, to every view for many miles about the 
 town, the beholder is presented with a prospect of 
 St. Michael s Tower, built on the very top of the 
 high and steep hill which I have before mentioned. 
 The church to which it belonged, and which was 
 dedicated to St. Michael, has fallen down. It 
 was erected in the place of a still more ancient 
 one, which was totally destroyed by an earthquake 
 in the year 1276. 
 
 The town of Glastonbury is divided into two 
 parishes, St. Benedict s and St. John s, each of 
 which has its church. Of these, St. John s is much 
 the handsomest and largest. It contains several 
 curious monuments, which were brought from 
 
JOURNAL. 179 
 
 the Abbey ; and the old sexton showed me a 
 burying cloth of red velvet richly embroidered 
 with gold, but all in tatters, which he said had 
 also belonged to that establishment, and which 
 had been preserved in the church, time out of 
 mind. <: My father died sexton of this church," 
 said the man of graves, " when he was between 
 ninety and one hundred years old, and he remem 
 bered nothing about it." On a reading-desk in 
 the chancel I observed a black letter copy of Fox s 
 Book of Martyrs, lying open, much thumbed and 
 worn. It was the custom in Queen Elizabeth s 
 reign, to place this book in churches, for the gen 
 eral reading of the parishioners, to keep them in 
 mind of the cruelties of the preceding reign, and 
 to nourish their hatred of popery ; indeed, this 
 was done by command of the queen. An inscrip 
 tion on a grave-stone in the church-yard, I thought 
 curious enough to copy. " Here lyeth y e body 
 of William, the only son of Thomas Ayres and 
 Jane his wife, who departed this life July the 14th, 
 1739, Aged 16 years. 
 
 The Abbey walls on Glaston s earth 
 I climb d for birds, and got my death ; 
 My bones I broke, my time was spent, 
 And left my friends in discontent." 
 
 After these followed the well-known and well- 
 
180 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 worn lines. " Mourn not for me my parents dear," 
 &c. 
 
 April 4. I have stayed thus long in Glaston- 
 bury, because I wished to try my hand at sketch 
 ing ; and the weather has been such that I have 
 not been able, till to-day, to remain in the open 
 air with any comfort. It proving quite rnild this 
 morning, I finished one view, and, taking the mail 
 at noon, came to Wells, five miles only from Glas- 
 tonbury. The name of this city is derived from one 
 or two springs which burst up near the bishop s 
 palace. It is pleasantly situated at the foot of the 
 Mendip Hills, and is made extremely interesting 
 to the stranger, not only by its fine cathedral, but 
 by many ancient buildings which are connected 
 with it, and several gates in excellent preservation. 
 The cathedral is certainly the most beautiful which 
 I have yet visited. I thought that the west front 
 of Exeter cathedral was as rich as it could be, but 
 
 w 
 
 it is plainness and poverty when compared to that 
 of Wells. The images of the former are confined 
 to a screen which projects from the front, and 
 does not reach to half its height ; they are, besides, 
 very black and dingy ; but those of the latter are 
 set with a prodigal hand in every part of the west 
 end ; even the buttresses are full of them, and 
 they are delightfully white and clean, although 
 their worn and jagged outline is proof of their 
 
JOURNAL. 181 
 
 great antiquity. Some of the figures surprised me 
 by their excellent workmanship, in which they 
 were far superior to any I had before seen, of the 
 same age, and in a similar situation. One female, 
 in particular, with a crown on her head, would by 
 no means have disgraced the chisel of a Chantry. 
 This figure, as well as several others which were 
 in sheltered positions, was in remarkably good 
 preservation. The west front of the cathedral is 
 flanked by two towers, each one hundred and 
 thirty feet in height ; and there is a larger one 
 over the intersection of the nave and transepts, 
 whose height is one hundred and sixty feet. I 
 contented myself with the exterior, to-day, as well 
 I might ; and, reserving the inside for another op 
 portunity, continued my walk through the town. 
 East of the cathedral stands the bishop s palace. 
 But you would take it for a feudal baron s castle. 
 The dwellings and offices are surrounded by a 
 high and massy wall, and the wall is girdled by a 
 deep and broad moat, which is still kept full of 
 water by the springs or wells which give the city 
 its name. What must those times have been 
 which could compel a Christian bishop, a teacher 
 of religion, and a shepherd of souls, to dig his 
 moat, and hang his drawbridge, and build his em 
 battled wall ? or what, perhaps, I should rather 
 say, must have been the bishop, who, in any times, 
 
 16 
 
182 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 could so far forget the nature of his office, and be 
 so ignorant of the influence and power, under al 
 most any circumstances, of a virtuous character, 
 and a mild and peaceable demeanor, as to shut 
 himself up in this way, and adopt such measures 
 as these for defence or security ? 
 
 April 5. In my yesterday s perambulations, I 
 had met, by chance, a gentleman, who, with his 
 wife, had been rny stage-companion from Exeter 
 to Bridge water. As, during our ride, I had made 
 myself known as an American, and he had him 
 self been in America, we became considerably 
 acquainted, and he now invited me out to see him, 
 telling me that he lived but a few steps from "Wo- 
 key Hole, a famous cavern about a mile and a 
 half to the north-west of Wells, where, if I had 
 the curiosity to see the place, he would be happy 
 to accompany me. I accepted his polite offer 
 with much pleasure, and between nine and ten 
 o clock this morning set off on foot, as the day 
 was fine, and the distance quite within my power 
 of accomplishment, although I never had any rea 
 son to boast, and now still less than ever, of my 
 pedestrian abilities. At the end of a small village 
 or knot of cottages, which, from its neighborhood 
 to the cavern, is called Wokey Hole, I came to 
 the house of Mr. G. ; a pretty place, retired from 
 the road, and surrounded with shrubs and trees. 
 
JOURNAL. 183 
 
 After resting an hour and eating a slice of excel 
 lent cold roast beef, we set off for Wokey Hole. 
 The approach and entrance are highly roman 
 tic. The path winds on the edge of a cliff, at 
 whose base a stream is brawling, which proceeds 
 from one of the mouths of the cavern ; and the 
 arched passage by which you enter is pierced 
 about midway up the perpendicular face of a pre 
 cipice, which is nearly a hundred feet in height. 
 Our guide, a stout country girl, furnishing each of 
 us with a lighted candle, led the way into the cave. 
 A few yards from its mouth, a great number of 
 bats were hanging from the vaulted roof; and one 
 of them, who had incautiously suspended himself 
 within our reach, we dislodged from his quarters. 
 On holding a candle near enough to singe his hair, 
 he showed his teeth and slowly unfolded his wings, 
 but only for a moment he had not yet finished 
 his winter s sleep, and was not to be roused. We 
 passed through several grand apartments, the tops 
 of which I could hardly discern with the help of 
 all our light, and whose extent was in proportion 
 to their loftiness, and came at last to one which 
 forbade our farther progress. At its extremity, 
 the stream, of which I have spoken, issued from a 
 low-browed arch, not more than two feet high in 
 its centre from the water s edge. Mr. G. told me 
 that he once brought a boat here, and, lying down 
 
184 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in it, caused himself to be pushed through this 
 opening. He soon came out into an apartment as 
 spacious as any we had seen, about which he pad 
 dled to discover, if possible, another passage, but 
 could find none ; the water appeared to rise up 
 from the bottom. This cavern is certainly worth 
 visiting. 
 
 [NOTE. The Journal ends here, somewhat abruptly. No re 
 cord, with the exception of a few slight notes, appears to have been 
 kept after this date. The following letter, it will be perceived, waa 
 written a short time after.] 
 
 BOSTON, Lincolnshire, June 29, 1821. 
 MY DEAR PARENTS, 
 
 It is curious that I should now be writing to 
 you from the town, after which our own was 
 named ; it is rather an out-of-the-way place for a 
 traveller, but as I was within thirty miles of it, I 
 thought that I might as well drop down the little 
 river Witham, on which it is situated, and take a 
 look at it, for its name s sake, or rather for the 
 sake of its namesake. But before I tell you any 
 thing about the English Boston, I will just go 
 rapidly over my route from Liverpool to this place, 
 in order to give you some idea of what and how 
 much I have seen and done, in the short space of 
 about a month. I took coach from Liverpool for 
 the north, on the 22d of May. Nothing occurred 
 worth putting into this my last letter, till I arrived 
 at Keswick, in Cumberland, about one hundred 
 
JOURNAL. 185 
 
 miles from Liverpool, on the 24th. Here, on the 
 banks of the river Greeta, near the lake of Der- 
 went Water, and at the foot of the Skiddaw, 
 which at this late season was covered with snow, 
 resides Mr. Southey. Mr. Everett had kindly 
 given me a letter of introduction to the poet, which 
 I sent with my card and a note from the inn, and 
 in a few moments Mr. S. came to invite me to 
 dinner. 
 
 I expected to see a grave-looking, gray-headed, 
 elderly man, instead of which, I saw a sprightly- 
 looking, curly-headed, middle-aged one, full of 
 grace and urbanity, and of the most affable ad 
 dress. I dined with him of course, and staid till 
 pretty late in the evening. We took tea in his 
 study, which is completely filled with fine looking 
 books, and I need not say valuable ones. I was 
 delighted with his family as well as with himself. 
 He is most happy and unexceptionable, as a do 
 mestic man. The great work on which he is now 
 engaged, is a history of the war in Spain, or as it 
 is commonly called, the Peninsular War. But he 
 is also at work upon a poem, the scene of which 
 is laid in our part of the world. I left him with 
 regret, and went back on the road about a dozen 
 miles, to see Mr. Wordsworth, to whom Mr. 
 Southey had given me an introductory letter. 
 
 Mr. W. looked much older, and more slovenly 
 16* 
 
186 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and poet-like than his brother poet, but received 
 me with quite as much kindness as I had experi 
 enced at Keswick. I stayed with him a whole 
 day and night. His poetry soon became the sub 
 ject of conversation. I told him that the first 
 piece of poetry which I remembered, and to which 
 I attributed my first love of song, was his beauti 
 ful little ballad of " We are Seven," and that my 
 mother used often to make me cry by repeating it 
 to me. This pleased him very much, and in the 
 evening he became so confidential as to read me 
 nearly the whole of a series of sonnets which he 
 is publishing. One in particular he dwelt upon, 
 because in it he alluded to his own mother, and 
 had been reminded of it, he said, by my speaking 
 of mine. I expressed a wish for a copy of it, 
 which he kindly granted ; and Mrs. Wordsworth 
 immediately went up stairs to write it off, so that 
 I might have her and her husband s work at the 
 same time. Here is the sonnet. It is called 
 
 CATECHIZING. 
 
 From little down to least in due degree, 
 Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, 
 Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 
 We stood, a trembling, earnest company ! 
 With low, soft murmurs, like a distant bee, 
 Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed, 
 And some a bold, unerring answer made : 
 How fluttered then thy anxious heart for me, 
 Beloved mother ! thou whose happy hand 
 Had bound the flowers I wore, with faithful tie ; 
 
JOURNAL. 187 
 
 Sweet flowers, at whose inaudible command 
 Her countenance, phantom-Jike, doth reappear 
 O, lost too early for the frequent tear, 
 And ill-requited by this heartfelt sigh ! 
 
 Mr. W. is as simple as a very child, and his po 
 etry is the exact transcript of his character ; you 
 cannot be an hour with him without being con 
 vinced of it. 
 
 To Edinburgh, through Carlisle, Gretna Green, 
 Glasgow and Stirling, was above one hundred 
 
 and fifty miles more. At Stirling I wrote to ; 
 
 and had fully determined to write a second letter 
 to all the children ; but I have been so much oc 
 cupied, and whirled on so rapidly from place to 
 place, that I have found it impossible. So I be 
 lieve they must be satisfied with my good and sin 
 cere intentions, and with being mentioned in this 
 letter ; which it is very likely you may not see till 
 after you see me. At Edinburgh and with Edin 
 burgh, I was quite delighted. Mrs. Grant was 
 extremely kind ; I saw her every evening. I was 
 in company, too, with many other celebrated folks 
 of this literary city. But we must leave it, for I 
 see the bottom of the page. From Edinburgh I 
 passed through Newcastle, the famous place for 
 coals, Durham, where there is a cathedral ; York, 
 where there is another, the finest in the kingdom ; 
 and then by the way of Hull to Lincoln, where 
 there is also a cathedral and many interesting an- 
 
188 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 tiquities. To-day, a steamboat brought me to 
 Boston, of which place I will only say, that it is a 
 very neat and respectable looking town, by no 
 means discrediting our own bonnie birth-place, 
 and that there is in it the finest parish church in 
 the kingdom. 
 
 July 4. I finish this letter in London, after a 
 pleasant journey through Peterborough, a cathe 
 dral town, and the far-famed Cambridge. I am 
 again comfortably seated in Mr. B. s parlor, with 
 him and his wife beside me, and have been telling 
 them immensely long stories, as travellers are apt 
 to do. They are both well. I can hardly realize 
 that I am coming home. But it is a settled thing ; 
 I am fully convinced that I am doing right. You 
 will see me, I hope, looking better than when I 
 left you, though there is a part of my animal econ 
 omy more out of order than it was then. But, on 
 the whole, I am stronger, and know better how 
 to doctor myself. My friends here tell me that I 
 am amazingly improved. So let us thank Heaven 
 for that. My first and warmest wish now is, that 
 I may find you, my dear parents, and my brothers 
 and sisters, in the very best health, and, if changed 
 at all, improved. I know that your love for me 
 will never change, and that you will meet most 
 gladly your affectionate son and brother, 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
ESSAYS. 
 
E SSAYS. 
 
 THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD. 
 
 Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
 Who is he that calls the dead ? 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 IN the beginning of the fine month of October. 
 I was travelling with a friend in one of our north 
 ern states, on a tour of recreation and pleasure. 
 We were tired of the city, its noise, its smoke, and 
 its unmeaning dissipation, and with the feelings of 
 emancipated prisoners, we had been breathing for 
 a few weeks the perfume of the vales, and the 
 elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes 
 before the sunset of a most lovely day, we entered 
 a neat little village, whose tapering spire we had 
 caught sight of at intervals an hour before, as our 
 road made an unexpected turn, or led us to the 
 
192 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 top of a hill. Having no motive to urge a further 
 progress, and being unwilling to ride in an un 
 known country after nightfall, we stopped at the 
 inn, and determined to lodge there. 
 
 Leaving my companion to arrange our accom 
 modations with the landlord, I strolled on toward 
 the meeting-house. Its situation had attracted my 
 notice. There was much more taste and beauty 
 in it than is common. It did not stand, as I have 
 seen some meeting-houses stand, in the most fre 
 quented part of the village, blockaded by wagons 
 and horses, with a court-house before it, an en 
 gine-house behind it, a store-house under it, and 
 a tavern on each side ; it stood away from all 
 these things, as it ought, and was placed on a spot 
 of gently rising ground, a short distance from the 
 main road, at the end of a green lane ; and so 
 near to a grove of oaks and walnuts, that one of 
 the foremost and largest trees brushed against the 
 pulpit window. On the left and lower down, 
 there was a fertile meadow, through which a clear 
 brook wound its course, fell over a rock, and then 
 hid itself in the thickest part of the grove. A little 
 to the right of the meeting-house was the grave 
 yard. 
 
 I never shun a grave-yard the thoughtful mel 
 ancholy which it inspires, is grateful rather than 
 disagreeable to me it gives me no pain to tread 
 
THE VILLAGE GRAVE- YARD. 193 
 
 on the green roof of that dark mansion, whose 
 chambers I must occupy so soon and I often 
 wander, from choice, to a place where there is 
 neither solitude nor society ; something human is 
 there ; but the folly, the bustle, the vanities, the 
 pretensions, the competitions, the pride of human 
 ity, are gone ; men are there, but their passions 
 are hushed, and their spirits are still ; malevolence 
 has lost its power of harming ; appetite is sated, 
 ambition lies low, and lust is cold ; anger has 
 done raving, all disputes are ended, all revelry is 
 over, the fellest animosity is deeply buried, and 
 the most dangerous sins are safely confined by the 
 thickly-piled clods of the valley ; vice is dumb and 
 powerless, and virtue is waiting in silence for the 
 trump of the archangel, and the voice of God. 
 
 I never shun a grave-yard, and I entered this. 
 There were trees growing in it, here and there, 
 though it was not regularly planted ; and I thought 
 that it looked better than if it had been. The 
 only paths were those, which had been worn by 
 the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy, as they 
 followed love and friendship to the grave ; and 
 this too was well, for I dislike a smoothly rolled 
 gravel-walk in a place like this. In a corner of 
 the ground rose a gentle knoll, the top of which 
 was covered by a clump of pines. Here my walk 
 ended ; I threw myself down on the slippery 
 17 
 
194 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 couch of withered pine leaves, which the breath 
 of many winters had shaken from the boughs 
 above ; leaned my head upon my hand, and gave 
 myself up to the feelings which the place and the 
 time excited. 
 
 The sun s edge had just touched the hazy out 
 lines of the western hills ; it was the signal for the 
 breeze to be hushed, and it was breathing like an 
 expiring infant, softly, and at distant intervals, be 
 fore it died away. The trees before me, as the 
 wind passed over them, waved to and fro, and 
 trailed their long branches across the tomb-stones, 
 with a low moaning sound, which fell upon the 
 ear like the voice of grief, and seemed to utter the 
 conscious tribute of nature s sympathy over the 
 last abode of mortal man. A low, confused hum 
 came from the village ; the brook was murmuring 
 in the wood behind me ; and, lulled by all these 
 soothing sounds, I fell asleep. 
 
 But whether my eyes closed or not, I am una 
 ble to say, for the same scene appeared to be be 
 fore them, the same trees were waving, and not a 
 green mound had changed its form. I was still 
 contemplating the same trophies of the unsparing 
 victor, the same mementos of human evanescence. 
 Some were standing upright ; others were in 
 clined to the ground ; some were sunk so deeply 
 in the earth, that their blue tops were just visible 
 
THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD. ] 95 
 
 above the long grass which surrounded them ; and 
 others were spotted or covered with the thin yel 
 low moss of the grave-yard. I was reading the 
 inscriptions on the stones, which were nearest to 
 me ; they recorded the virtues of those who slept 
 beneath them, and told the traveller that they 
 hoped for a happy rising. Ah ! said I or I 
 dreamed that I said so this is the testimony of 
 wounded hearts ; the fond belief of that affection 
 which remembers error and evil no longer ; but 
 could the grave give up its dead could they, 
 who have been brought to these cold dark houses, 
 go back again into the land of the living, and once 
 more number the days which they had spent 
 there, how differently would they then spend 
 them ; and when they came to die, how much 
 firmer would be their hope ; and when they were 
 again laid in the ground, how much more faithful 
 would be the tales, which these same stones would 
 tell over them ! The epitaph of praise would be 
 well deserved by their virtues, and the silence of 
 partiality no longer required for their sins. 
 
 I had scarcely spoken, when the ground began 
 to tremble beneath me. Its motion, hardly per 
 ceptible at first, increased every moment in vio 
 lence, and it soon heaved and struggled fearfully ; 
 while in the short quiet between shock and shock, 
 I heard such unearthly sounds, that the very "blood 
 
196 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in my heart felt cold subterraneous cries and 
 groans issued from every part of the grave-yard, 
 and these were mingled with a hollow crashing 
 noise, as if the mouldering bones were bursting 
 from their coffins. Suddenly all these sounds 
 stopped the earth on each grave was thrown 
 lip and human figures of every age, and clad in 
 the garments of death, rose from the ground and 
 stood by the side of their grave-stones. Their 
 arms were crossed upon their bosoms ; their coun 
 tenances were deadly pale, and raised to heaven. 
 The looks of the young children alone were placid 
 and unconscious ; but over the features of all the 
 rest a shadow of unutterable meaning passed and 
 repassed, as their eyes turned with terror from 
 the open graves, and strained anxiously upward. 
 Some appeared to be more calm than others, and 
 when they looked above, it was with an expres 
 sion of more confidence, though not less humility ; 
 but a convulsive shuddering was on the frames of 
 all, and on their faces that same shadow of unut 
 terable meaning. While they stood thus, I per 
 ceived that their bloodless lips began to move, and 
 though I heard no voice, I knew by the motion of 
 their lips, that the word would have been par 
 don. 
 
 But this did not continue long ; they gradually 
 became more fearless ; their features acquired 
 
THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD. 197 
 
 the appearance of security, and at last of indiffer 
 ence ; the blood came to their lips ; the shudder 
 ing ceased, and the shadow passed away. 
 
 And now the scene before me changed. The 
 tombs and grave-stones had been turned, I knew 
 not. how, into dwellings ; and the grave-yard be 
 came a village. Every now and then I caught a 
 view of the same faces and forms, which I had 
 seen before ; but other passions were traced upon 
 their faces, and their forms were no longer clad 
 in the garments of death. The silence of their 
 still prayer was succeeded by the sounds of labor, 
 and society, and merriment. Sometimes, I could 
 see them meet together with inflamed features and 
 angry words, and sometimes, I distinguished the 
 outcry of violence, the oath of passion, and the 
 blasphemy of sin. And yet there were a few who 
 would often come to the threshold of their dwell 
 ings, and lift their eyes to Heaven, and utter the 
 still prayer of pardon, while others, passing by, 
 would mock them. 
 
 I was astonished and grieved, and was just go 
 ing to express my feelings, when I perceived by 
 my side a beautiful and majestic form, taller and 
 brighter than the sons of men, and it thus ad 
 dressed me "Mortal! thou hast now seen the 
 frailty of thy race, and learned that thy thoughts 
 were vain. Even if men should be wakened from 
 
198 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 their cold sleep, and raised from the grave, the 
 world would still be full of enticement and trials ; 
 appetite would solicit and passion would burn, as 
 strongly as before ; the imperfections of their 
 nature would accompany their return, and the 
 commerce of life would soon obliterate the recol 
 lection of death. It is only when this scene of 
 things is exchanged for another, that new gifts 
 will bestow new powers, that higher objects will 
 banish low desires, that the mind will be elevated 
 by celestial converse, the soul be endued with 
 immortal vigor, and man be prepared for the 
 course of eternity." The angel then turned from 
 me, and with a voice, which I hear even now, 
 cried, " Back to your graves, ye frail ones, and 
 rise no more, till the elements are melted." Im 
 mediately a sound swept by me, like the rushing 
 wind ; the dwellings shrunk back into their origi 
 nal forms, and I was left alone in the grave-yard, 
 with nought but the silent stones and the whisper 
 ing trees around me. 
 
 The sun had long been down ; a few of the 
 largest stars were timidly beginning to shine, the 
 bats had left their lurking places, my cheek was 
 wet with the dew, and I was chilled by the breath 
 of evening. I arose and returned to the inn. 
 
ETERNITY OF GOD. 
 
 WE receive such repeated intimations of decay 
 in the world through which we are passing, de 
 cline and change and loss follow decline and 
 change and loss in such rapid succession, that we 
 can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, 
 and hear the work of desolation going on busily 
 around us. " The mountain falling cometh to 
 nought, and the rock is removed out of his place. 
 The waters wear the stones, the things which grow 
 out of the dust of the earth are washed away, and 
 the hope of man is destroyed." Conscious of our 
 own instability we look about for something to 
 rest on, but we look in vain. The heavens and 
 the earth had a beginning, and they will have an 
 end. The face of the world is changing daily and 
 hourly. All animated things grow old and die. 
 The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, 
 and the grass withers. The clouds are flying, and 
 the waters are flowing away from us. 
 
200 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 The firmest works of man, too, are gradually 
 giving way ; the ivy clings to the mouldering tower, 
 the briar hangs out from the shattered window, 
 and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed 
 stones. The founders of these perishable works 
 have shared the same fate long ago. If we look 
 back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as 
 well as the dwellings of former times, they be 
 come immediately associated in our imaginations, 
 and only make the feeling of instability stronger 
 and deeper than before. In the spacious domes, 
 which once held our fathers, the serpent hisses, 
 and the wjld bird screams. The halls, which once 
 were crowded with all that taste and science and 
 labor could procure, which resounded with melo 
 dy, and were lighted up with beauty, are buried 
 by their own ruins, mocked by their own desola 
 tion. The voice of merriment and of wailing, 
 the steps of the busy and the idle, have ceased in 
 the deserted courts, and the weeds choke the 
 entrances, and the long grass waves upon the 
 hearth-stone. The works of art, the forming hand, 
 the tombs, the very ashes they contained, are all 
 gone. 
 
 While we thus walk among the ruins of the 
 past, a sad feeling of insecurity comes over us ; 
 and that feeling is by no means diminished when 
 we arrive at home. If we turn to our friends, we 
 
ETERNITY OF GOD. 201 
 
 can hardly speak to them before they bid us fare 
 well. We see them for a few moments, and in 
 a few moments more their countenances are 
 changed, and they are sent away. It matters not 
 how near and dear they are. The ties which bind 
 us together are never too close to be parted, or too 
 strong to be broken. Tears were never known 
 to move the king of terrors, neither is it enough 
 that we are compelled to surrender one, or two, 
 or many of those we love ; for though the price 
 is so great, we buy no favor with it, and our hold 
 on those who remain is as slight as ever. The 
 shadows all elude our grasp, and follow one an 
 other down the valley. We gain no confidence, 
 then, no feeling of security, by turning to our con 
 temporaries and kindred. We know that the 
 forms which are breathing around us, are as short 
 lived and fleeting as those were, which have been 
 dust for centuries. The sensation of vanity, un 
 certainty, and ruin, is equally strong, whether we 
 muse on what has long been prostrate, or gaze on 
 what is falling now, or will fall so soon. 
 
 If everything which comes under our notice has 
 endured for so short a time, and in so short a time 
 will be no more, we cannot say that we receive 
 the least assurance by thinking on ourselves. 
 When they, on w^hose fate we have been meditat 
 ing, were engaged in the active scenes of life, as 
 
202 MISCELLANIES, 
 
 full of health and hope as we are now, what were 
 we ? We had no knowledge, no consciousness, no 
 being ; there was not a single thing in the wide uni 
 verse which knew us. And after the same interval 
 shall have elapsed, which now divides their days 
 from ours, what shall we be ? What they are 
 now. When a few more friends have left, a few 
 more hopes have been deceived, and a few more 
 changes have mocked us, " we shall be brought to 
 the grave, and shall remain in the tomb, the clods 
 of the valley shall be sweet unto us, and every 
 man shall follow us, as there are innumerable 
 before us." All power will have forsaken the 
 strongest, and the loftiest will be laid low, and 
 every eye will be -closed, and every voice hushed, 
 and every heart will have ceased its beating. And 
 when we have gone ourselves, even our memo 
 ries will not stay behind us long. A few of the 
 near and dear will bear our likeness in their bo 
 soms, till they too have arrived at the end of their 
 journey, and entered the dark dwelling of uncon 
 sciousness. In the thoughts of others we shall 
 live only till the last sound of the bell, which in 
 forms them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate 
 in their ears. A stone, perhaps, may tell some 
 wanderer where we lie, when we came here, and 
 when we went away, but even that will soon re 
 fuse to bear us record. " Time s effacing fingers " 
 
ETERNITY OF GOD. 203 
 
 will be busy on its surface, and at length will wear 
 it smootb, and then the stone itself will sink, or 
 crumble, and the wanderer of another age will 
 pass, without a single call upon his sympathy, over 
 our unheeded graves. 
 
 Is there nothing to counteract the sinking of the 
 heart, which must be the effect of observations 
 like these ? Is there no substance among all these 
 shadows ? 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 written against 
 us ; if the solid forms of inanimate nature and la 
 borious art are fading and falling ; if we look in 
 vain for durability to the very roots of the moun 
 tains, where shall we turn, and on what can we 
 rely ? Can no support be offered ; can no source 
 of confidence be named 1 O yes ! there is one 
 Being to whom we can look with a perfect con 
 viction 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 ever thou 
 hadst formed the earth and the world, even from 
 everlasting to everlasting thou art God." " Of 
 old hast thou laid the foundations of the earth, and 
 
204 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the heavens are the work of thy hands. They 
 shall perish, but thou shalt endure, yea, all of them 
 shall wax old as doth a garment, as a vesture shalt 
 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 contempla 
 tion, which, at the same time that it overwhelms 
 us with astonishment and awe, affords us an im 
 movable 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 ne 
 cessarily 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 influence 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 everlasting Creator of countless worlds, " the 
 high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity." What 
 a sublime conception ! He inhabits eternity, oc- 
 
ETERNITY OF GOD. 205 
 
 cupies this inconceivable duration, pervades and 
 fills throughout this boundless dwelling. Ages 
 on ages before ev?u tV.e dust of which v;e are 
 formed was created, I,.-; had existed in infinite 
 majesty, and ages on ages will roll away after we 
 have all returned to the dust whence we were 
 taken, and still HE will exist in infinite majesty, 
 living in the eternity of his own nature, reigning 
 in the plenitude of his own omnipotence, forever 
 sending forth the word, which forms, supports and 
 governs all things, commanding new created light 
 to shine on new created worlds, and raising up 
 new created generations to inhabit them. 
 
 The contemplation of this glorious attribute of 
 God is fitted to excite in our minds the most ani 
 mating and consoling reflections. Standing, as 
 we are, amid the ruins of time, and the wrecks of 
 mortality, where everything about us is created 
 and dependent, proceeding from nothing, and 
 hastening to destruction, we rejoice that some 
 thing is presented to our view which 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 friends, and 
 they have fled while we were gazing ; on our- 
 18 
 
206 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 selves, 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 sup 
 port, because they were so feeble themselves ; we 
 can look to the throne of God ; change and de 
 cay have never reached it ; the revolution of ages 
 has never moved it ; the waves of an eternity 
 have been rushing past it, but it has remained 
 unshaken ; the waves of another eternity are rush 
 ing toward it, but it is fixed, and can never be dis 
 turbed. 
 
 And blessed be God, who has assured us by a 
 revelation from himself, that the throne of eternity 
 is likewise a throne of mercy and love ; who has 
 permitted and invited us to repose ourselves and 
 our hopes on that which alone is everlasting and 
 unchangeable. We shall shortly finish our allotted 
 time on earth, even if it should be unusually pro 
 longed. We shall leave behind us all which is 
 now familiar and beloved, and a world of other 
 days and other men will be entirely ignorant that 
 once we lived. But the same unalterable Being 
 will still preside over the universe, through all its 
 changes, and from his remembrance we shall 
 never be blotted. We can never be where he 
 is not, nor where he sees and loves and upholds 
 us not. He is our Father and our God forever. 
 
ETERNITY OF GOD. 207 
 
 He takes us from earth that he may lead us to 
 Heaven, that he may refine our nature from all 
 its principles of corruption, share with us his own 
 immortality, admit us to his everlasting habitation, 
 and crown us with his eternity. 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 THE prose writings of Milton, though they have 
 been praised and recommended by a few who 
 have felt their astonishing power and beauty, are 
 yet but little known among us. We hope, how 
 ever, that this will not long be the case ; and that 
 the excellent edition by Mr. Jenks, will enable 
 many to read the prose of a man with whose po 
 etry they have long been familiar prose, we will 
 venture to say, hardly inferior to his poetry. As 
 Americans, as lovers of freedom, improvement, 
 and truth, we wish to see these two volumes widely 
 circulated among our countrymen, and deeply 
 read. They are fit manuals for a free people. 
 They are full of those eloquent, soul-stirring, holy 
 lessons of liberty, which do something more than 
 simply persuade and convince the mind ; which 
 give it purpose, and principle, and firm resolve ; 
 which brace up the heart, while they strengthen 
 the understanding ; which render timidity or apos- 
 tacy impossible ; which, at the same time that 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 209 
 
 they impart the feeling of discipleship, infuse the 
 spirit of martyrdom ; because the truths which 
 they inculcate are of such a nature, that those who 
 receive them must contend, and if needs be, must 
 die for them. Therefore it is that we earnestly 
 desire to see the prose works of John Milton gen 
 erally disseminated ; and that we hail with plea 
 sure and gratitude every attempt to make them 
 known. When they are, known, it cannot be but 
 that they will produce their impression, and be 
 estimated by many, as they are now estimated by 
 a few, according to their real value. 
 
 For ourselves, we can truly say that we never 
 knew Milton, till we were acquainted with his 
 prose writings. We never knew the man till 
 then ; never felt how entirely and supremely he 
 was a poet, or, to use his own words, " a true 
 poem ; that is, a composition and pattern of the 
 best and honorablest things." We never knew 
 till then, what a noble, high-minded being, what a 
 contemner of littleness and baseness, what ?l fear 
 less asserter of right and denouncer of wrong, how 
 pure, how virtuous, how incorruptible, how un 
 conquerable he was. How truly the modern poet 
 speaks of him, when he says ; " His soul was as a 
 star, and dwelt apart." When we now compare 
 him with his brother stars, we perceive that he has 
 indeed his own separate heaven, where he shines 
 18* 
 
210 
 
 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 alone, and not to be approached. If we grant 
 that in the single respect of genius he was second 
 to Shakspeare, and to him alone would we grant 
 him to be second, yet what was Shakspeare s life ? 
 What were his occupations, studies, principles ? 
 We know nothing of them ; they made no im 
 pression on the world ; they have passed away, 
 and left us no trace ; they have procured no re 
 spect for the man. We think of Shakspeare s 
 poetry, and not of Shakspeare. His name comes 
 to us as a voice, an abstraction, a beautiful sound. 
 But the name of Milton is inseparably united with 
 the man himself; with the imnge of his life ; with 
 his studious, blameless, brilliant youth ; with his 
 diligent, useful, resolute manhood ; with his un 
 broken and undaunted, though blind and neglected, 
 old age ; with learning, various, profound, unri 
 valled ; with opinions really liberal, and republi 
 can ; with convictions which no fear nor flattery 
 could shake; with principles which grew up from 
 the ver^ roots of truth. We will not proceed with 
 other comparisons, which readily suggest them 
 selves to us. They may be pursued by those who 
 are sensible that genius of mind alone ranks far 
 below what may be called genius of life ; genius 
 of rnind united in admirable consistency with ge 
 nius of action, genius of purpose, and genius of 
 heart. 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 211 
 
 There is another thing with which the prose 
 writings of Milton brought us acquainted. We 
 never knew, till we read them, the whole power 
 of our mother tongue. Let him who would un 
 derstand how rich, how copious, how forcible the 
 English language is, study the prose of Milton, 
 and make himself familiar with his style ; but let 
 him not attempt to imitate, let him not hope to 
 equal the master, unless he feel within himself the 
 master s gifts and the master s soul. 
 
 But if such is the prose of the great poet, how 
 happens it that it is not more generally known ? 
 How happens it that this magazine of just and no 
 ble thoughts, high imaginations, and burning 
 words, has been in a manner shut up and un vis 
 ited ? How happens it, that while the Paradise 
 Lost has been printed in every form and size, in 
 editions without number, for the rich and for the 
 poor, illustrated by the artist, and furnished with 
 notes and commentaries by distinguished scholars, 
 as if it \vere an ancient classic, that the Areopa- 
 gitica, The Reason of Church Government, The 
 Animadversions, have been rarely published, and 
 sparingly read ? 
 
 The two principal reasons of the want of popu 
 larity of Milton s prose works, have been usually 
 stated, and truly, to be the peculiarities of their 
 style, and the nature and management of their 
 
212 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 topics. Of their style we shall say a few words 
 by-and-by. Of their topics, and the management 
 of them, in which the great cause of their unpopu 
 larity is decidedly to be found, we shall speak at 
 once, and more at length. 
 
 The prose writings, then, of Milton, are all, 
 both Latin and English, with only one or two ex 
 ceptions, strictly, and many would say, bitterly 
 controversial. They are theological and political 
 controversies. They wear, therefore, a formidable 
 and forbidding aspect to the generality of readers ; 
 for controversy is not a favorite kind of reading; 
 it requires more thought, and a more severe and 
 constant exercise of judgment, candor, patience, 
 and equanimity, than most people are willing or 
 able to bestow and apply ; it is rarely conducted 
 by the disputants without more or less asperity ; 
 it hns acquired a bad name ; it is called, by dis 
 tinction, a thorny path ; and many think they 
 cannot walk in it, without danger to their faces 
 and their clothes, and therefore they decline it 
 with terror and aversion. Now we profess our 
 selves to be great friends of controversy. We 
 regard it with respect and favor, if not absolutely 
 with love. If it is not a pleasant and flowery 
 way, it is the direct road to light and knowledge ; 
 and if so, why do we talk about thorns, as if we 
 expected to reach any of the supreme and per- 
 
213 
 
 manent blessings of life, treading all the distance 
 on turf and roses ? We are glad that the glorious 
 bard made it his adopted path, and that he pur 
 sued it with so untiredj so forward, and so firm a 
 step. We would not have had him write on any 
 other subjects but those, which not only singularly 
 involved the destinies of England at the period of 
 his writing, but are inseparably connected with 
 the present, future, lasting welfare of the world. 
 He was peculiarly fitted to elicit and establish 
 truth by controversy ; which we are persuaded is 
 its proper, and almost its peculiar office. For the 
 confirmation of this sentiment, we will take the 
 liberty of offering our reasons. 
 
 False teachers will arise in all ages, and deceive 
 many ; some of them intending to deceive, and 
 others having no such intention. Dreams will be 
 announced as realities, and believed as such ; and 
 realities will be scouted as dreams. There is such 
 a perpetual warfare between truth and error in the 
 world, that the old Manichean notion of two great 
 opposing principles of good and evil, who, with 
 their kingdoms of light and darkness, are engaged 
 in constant and tremendous battle, would be little 
 more than an accurate account of the real state of 
 things, if it were stripped of its personifications and 
 oriental imagery. There is a battle between good 
 and evil ; there is a struggle between the powers 
 
214 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of light and darkness. Knowledge and virtue are 
 in perpetual conflict with ignorance and vice ; and 
 whatever advantages the former may from time 
 to time gain over the latter, the latter are mighty 
 antagonists, who will no doubt maintain the con 
 test obstinately and long. 
 
 If the champions of error would in all cases 
 avow themselves to be so ; if they would write 
 their name and their purpose on their banners, and 
 send an open defiance, like him of Gath, against 
 the armies of the living God, the contest might be 
 brought to a more certain and speedy issue ; but 
 there are few of them who do not profess, either 
 sincerely or insincerely, to be on the side of truth 
 arid virtue ; and thus they become doubly mis 
 chievous by being disguised, and occasion the dou 
 ble necessity of unmasking and overcoming them* 
 Many teachers of what is false and of a pernicious 
 tendency, are as honest as it is possible for self- 
 deceiving humanity to be. They are the first, and 
 most thorough believers of their own dreams ; and 
 are fully persuaded that they are dreaming for the 
 cause of truth and the general welfare. The same 
 honest language is held by those who are not ac 
 tuated by the same pure motives ; by those who 
 uphold falsehood for the sake of their own private 
 interests, or through the incitement of their bad 
 passionSj but do not confess the influence which 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 215 
 
 guides and sways them, because they know that 
 interest and passion, however powerful in them 
 selves, are worse than powerless when presented 
 as arguments to others ; for he who wishes to be 
 heard with the least patience by his neighbor, 
 must appear to be anxious for his neighbor s good, 
 not merely careful of his own. Tyrants talk of 
 the safely of the state, and the happiness of their 
 people, without saying much about the sweets of 
 absolute power, and the indulgence of all their 
 appetites and luxurious wishes. Indeed, it is not 
 unfreqnently the case that interest is louder in its 
 professions of disinterestedness than is disinterest 
 edness itself; for virtue is modest, and hypocrisy 
 is bold ; and a part that is acted is likely to be 
 overacted. 
 
 To detect error is to overthrow it. But the 
 most desperate antagonists of truth will not allow 
 that they are in the wrong, or, in other words, 
 that they are attacking what really is truth. The 
 world is filled with falsehood, which never calls 
 itself by that name. The diversities of human 
 intellect and feeling, and the influences of educa 
 tion, hnbit and passion, give rise to innumerable 
 errors, which agree together in two points, in be 
 ing of a bad tendency, and in assuming the name 
 of truth. On the one hand is falsehood, which 
 thinks itself to be truth ; and on the other hand 
 
216 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 is falsehood, which is resolved, if possible, to 
 be thought so too, whatever it may think itself. 
 Hence come theories, systems, and plans, varying 
 from each other, and from truth in different de 
 grees ; and, just in proportion as they vary from 
 truth, conducing to unhappiness, if not immedi 
 ately, yet in their remote effects. Wrong opin 
 ions and views tend to wrong conduct, and wrong 
 conduct seeks to defend or excuse itself by main 
 taining plausible and nicely-worded opinions. 
 These are the consequences, natural and inevita 
 ble, of human freedom and human imperfection, 
 the bitter fruits of the tree of knowledge of good 
 and evil, plucked from the beginning, and harshly 
 infused into the mingled cup of life. Men are in 
 a state of discipline ; and these are the weaknesses, 
 disorders, and rebellions of their pupilage. They 
 are in training for that heavenly harmony which 
 is the end of the Divine government ; and these 
 are the sad discords of their inexperience and per- 
 verseness, which break in upon the universal me 
 lody, and disturb the pure song of the stars. 
 
 Surrounded on all sides by bad principles, false 
 opinions, and doubtful disputations, what then is 
 the duty of the sincere, serious, impartial lover of 
 truth ? What is his duty, in view of the evils 
 which result from erroneous doctrines, and in re 
 gard to those who inculcate them ? It plainly 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 217 
 
 consists in moral courage and intrepidity ; in af 
 fording a fair and fearless audience to all proposi 
 tions, and advancing a faithful avowal and defence 
 of his own convictions of truth. To enjoin silence 
 by authority, or attempt to enforce it by penalties, 
 on those who would proclaim their free thoughts, 
 whether for good or evil, is not only a fruitless, 
 but an unwise and an unrighteous expedient. 
 The endeavor to suppress presumed error by phy 
 sical power, is itself an error of uncommon mag 
 nitude ; as great as any which it would suppress ; 
 and one which the world is beginning to get rid of, 
 by that best of all methods of suppression, consent 
 and dearly-bought experience. Opinions are like 
 certain plants, which thrive, and spread, and weave 
 their roots more firmly together, by being trodden 
 upon and used roughly. The basket which the 
 Corinthian woman set upon the young acanthus, 
 was speedily overtopped and hidden by the rank 
 and resolute leaves which sprung up from beneath 
 it. There is a pride in man which always rises 
 against pressure ; and a sympathy in man which 
 takes the part of an oppressed brother. Besides, 
 to punish error is only to proclaim it, and to pro 
 claim without refuting it. Punishment cannot 
 reach the silent and secret thoughts of men ; but 
 that which is punished may ; and that which is 
 received in secret, will secretly make its progress, 
 
2 1 8 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 undermining and destroying, like a poison without 
 its antidote ; for mere force, or mere denuncia 
 tion, is no antidote for disorder of the mind. 
 
 The only way to deal with error is, to meet it 
 face to face ; to examine it critically, feature by 
 feature ; to question it boldly, and to answer it 
 fairly. To fly from it, is to tempt it to advance. 
 To fear it, is to acknowledge its power, and to 
 increase it ; is to wrong, moreover, the power of 
 truth ; to misapprehend the very nature of truth ; 
 to doubt the reality of its existence, the divin 
 ity of its origin, and the strength and durabil 
 ity of its foundations ; to give up the world to 
 the dominion of darkness, and the reign of the 
 evil principle ; to deny, practically, that there is 
 anything progressive in intellect, or useful in in 
 vestigation, or conclusive in reason, or attainable 
 in knowledge. What is it that we fear ? Do we 
 fear that God has so constituted the human mind, 
 in relation to whatever is made to concern it, or 
 come before it, that it has no final ability to dis 
 cern what is good and what is bad ; what is 
 stable and what is fleeting ; what is and what is 
 not ? Do we fear that our Creator has ordained 
 such an affinity between error and the rational 
 part of those whom we are constrained to call his 
 rational creatures, that the two agree more con 
 stantly, and always will agree more constantly 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 219 
 
 and lovingly together, than will the latter and 
 truth ? Do we fear that error will naturally bear 
 examination more steadfastly and successfully than 
 truth, or that the human mind necessarily sup 
 ports what is false, with more ease and vigor than 
 what is real, or that those minds which espouse 
 the cause of evil, are constantly stronger than those 
 which take the good side, or that vice is por 
 tioned with such convincing arguments, that vir 
 tue cannot answer them ? Do we fear these 
 things ? Do we apprehend that this is the course 
 and order of the moral world ? Then ought our 
 life to be one perpetual fear ; we should fear the 
 government of the universe, and the dispensations 
 of eternity. 
 
 But if we do not fear that man is made more 
 capable and susceptible of error than of truth, and 
 that error is endowed from above with a perma 
 nent superiority here below, then error is not to 
 be feared, but to be faced and opposed. If there 
 is any falsehood which should terrify us, it is that 
 which lives in our own houses, and speaks from 
 our own hearts ; and even that, perhaps, is to be 
 handled severely rather than timidly ; but that 
 which comes from without, as it must come, and 
 there is no help for it, so let it come. Let the 
 prophet that hath a dream, tell his dream ; let us 
 hear it, and know what it is, so that it may be 
 
220 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 found to be a dream, and no reality. So long as 
 men will proclaim their fancies, and other men 
 will hear them, let them unburthen themselves ; 
 and let them not disperse their spurious ware 
 abroad, till it has undergone its inspection, and 
 received its brand. Error is a disease incident to 
 humanity, and we cannot fly from it ; and as 
 there are no means of general prevention, let it 
 develop itself, that we may see it and trace it, and 
 steadily administer its cure. Fear and ignorance 
 go together ; and those who timidly shrink from 
 error, are in the way of losing the opportunity of 
 much truth ; for truth is often descried by com 
 parison, and the manifestation of that, which among 
 many things presented, is the most worthy. By 
 sifting the dust we discover the diamonds ; which, 
 though hidden in the earth, and crusted over with 
 earth, are diamonds still. 
 
 Let every ambitious imagination, therefore, take 
 its own course, and come out and show itself. 
 And let not its consequence be needlessly increas 
 ed by a vain and unreasonable terror, which re 
 fuses to confront and rebuke it. It would be a 
 pity, indeed, if all the zeal, and all the courage, 
 and all the alertness, were to be exhibited on the 
 wrong side, and cowardice and torpor alone were 
 to be seen on the right. 
 
 At the same time that it is our duty, and also 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 221 
 
 our policy, to be fearless in regarding error, it is 
 our duty to be intrepid in declaring the truth. If 
 truth is of any value, we should maintain it as if 
 we valued it. If it is of any certain benefit to 
 mankind, we should proclaim it, as the well-wish 
 ers of our race. If it is the cause of Heaven, we 
 should plead for it earnestly, as the partakers of a 
 spiritual existence, and the heirs of immortality. 
 If we believe that infinite wisdom and rectitude 
 govern the world, we should join ourselves to its 
 interests, and contend for its rights, as for the 
 course which will finally and completely triumph. 
 He who is convinced that he has the living word 
 within his bosom, has no right to keep it shut up 
 there, pining and drooping for air and light and 
 action. It must go forth and do its work, which 
 is to oppose every false invention of man, and 
 bring it to trial and to condemnation. He who 
 thinks that error and vice are destructive of the 
 best interests of society, and of his own too, as 
 connected with and forming a part of them, what 
 has he to do, but to be the faithful advocate of 
 religion and virtue, if he thinks that religion and 
 virtue are contrary to error and vice, and to be 
 preferred before them ? If a man has no settled 
 principles of right, why does he talk about error, 
 or even pretend to fear it ? Neither error nor 
 truth is anything to him. But if he is possessed 
 19* 
 
222 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of settled principles, why does he suffer fear, or 
 fashion, or any motive in the world, to shake his 
 confidence, or prevent him from declaring his con 
 victions ? 
 
 Even in questions which are called doubtful, 
 because they divide honest and well-meaning 
 opinions, the lover of truth is to pursue the same 
 course, whenever he has taken his side candidly 
 and with understanding ; and he always will take 
 his side, as soon as he is satisfied that the subject 
 is of sufficient importance to claim his decision. 
 These questions generally grow less and less 
 doubtful every day, the more they are examined 
 and discussed, and the more liberally they are 
 handled. Experience is a principal test of truth ; 
 and as truth is founded on reality, or rather is 
 reality itself, it will sooner or later be made mani 
 fest by that test. Sooner or later ; for, in speak 
 ing of so long-lived a thing as opinion, which dies 
 not with one generation of men, but enjoys a spi 
 ritual and transmitted existence, we must not con 
 fine ourselves to short periods of time, but extend 
 our view far behind and far before, back even 
 to the day when man was created, and forward 
 to any limit within the bounds of probability. We 
 are too apt to become impatient, when we cannot 
 see favorite opinions confirmed in our own life 
 time. Our own lifetime is but a moment ; is but 
 
223 
 
 a single beat of the pendulum which measures out 
 the solemn and majestic progress of the ages. 
 We must not attach so much importance to the 
 period of our life. The epochs of mind and mo 
 rals must be regarded in conjunction with the life 
 of our world ; nor must even that life be consid 
 ered as a long one, as it respects that part of it 
 which is past. The days of its years have as yet, 
 probably, been few, in comparison with those 
 which are still to be numbered. In the mean 
 time, our lives, though short, compose the age of 
 the world, and our labors and inquiries, by their 
 accumulation, must bring about the world s im 
 provement, and add, however gradually, to its ex 
 perience. The duty involves a struggle, but it is 
 not therefore to be avoided. 
 
 Thus thought Milton ; and as he thought, so he 
 acted. Not the shadow of a doubt seems ever to 
 have passed over his mind, of the worth and the 
 might of truth ; and he scorned with a lofty in 
 dignation all aids to her cause, but those which 
 were offered by God s good spirit, and man s free 
 mind. " For who knows not," says he, " that 
 truth is strong, next to the Almighty ; she needs 
 no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings, to make 
 her victorious ; those are the shifts and the de 
 fences that error uses against her power ; give 
 her but room ? and do not bind her when she 
 
224 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 sleeps ; for then she speaks not true, as the old 
 Proteus did, who spake oracles only when he was 
 caught and bound." 
 
 With these convictions-, Milton never hesitated 
 in his course. Living in a time of great mental 
 as well as physical conflict and distraction, and 
 conscious of the talents which, like powerful en 
 gines of warfare, had been given into his trust, he 
 plunged into the mid battle of political and theo 
 logical controversy, as if it were at once his place 
 and his privilege to contend for the rights of man 
 kind. Though he loved peace, he loved truth 
 more ; he loved the souls of men ; " which is the 
 dearest love, and stirs up to the noblest jealousy." 
 He preferred his duty before his rest. He knew 
 the toil and danger which awaited him ; but he 
 knew also that he had taken his part in " the race 
 where that immortal garland is to be run for, not 
 without dust and heat." His great soul was in 
 itself gentle and open as day, and in gentler times 
 would not have appeared in so warlike a guise. 
 He would willingly have framed his measures to 
 the concords of peace ; " but," to use again his 
 own matchless speech, " when God commands to 
 take the trumpet, and blow a dolorous or a jarring 
 blast, it lies not in man s will what he shall say, 
 or what he shall conceal." The voice of duty, 
 and the testimony of conscience, were to him the 
 
MILTON S PROSE WORKS. 225 
 
 command of God ; he did take the trumpet, and 
 blow a blast, " of which all Europe rang from side 
 to side ; " a blast which even yet is not silent, but 
 has come echoing down from year to year to us 
 of the present, and will still go sounding on, clear 
 toned and thrilling, through the unknown depths 
 of future time, and from region to region of the 
 globe, till nations will hear and be roused up, that 
 now are dead, and the heart of the whole world 
 shall beat, like the heart of a single champion, at 
 the summons of truth and liberty. 
 
 The two principal objects of Milton s attack, 
 were the dignities, dogmas, and ceremonies of 
 English prelacy and kingly forms of government. 
 In his victorious career he rnet and overthrew all 
 arguments from prescription, antiquity, and a false 
 prudence and caution. He was awed by nothing 
 human ; he despised all temporizing and halfway 
 expedients in matters of great moment, all timid 
 recipes of confections and potherbs for violent and 
 critical disorder ; and he was not afraid of going 
 too far in the direction of truth, or of announcing 
 her dictates too boldly. 
 
 His opinions were evidently in advance of the 
 age, too much so to be generally received. 
 They are even now in advance of the w r orld, and 
 for a long time to come, perhaps, will continue to 
 be so. On the subjects of toleration, religious 
 
226 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 liberty, civil and political rights, education, and 
 the duties and prospects of men, he will forever 
 be on an equal line with the most improved age ; 
 for he marched forward at once to the utmost 
 boundary of truth. His treatise on the " Doctrine 
 and Discipline of Divorce," notwithstanding the 
 side which it takes, is in its whole tendency favor 
 able to purity and virtue. The domestic unhap- 
 piness with which he himself was afflicted, led him 
 to consider this subject, and no doubt had its in 
 fluence on his views of it. He convinced himself, 
 and endeavored to convince others, that divorce 
 should be granted on the grounds of opposition of 
 sentiments, habits, temper, and feelings between 
 the parties. But with whatever learning and fer 
 vor and skill he maintained this opinion, the con 
 victions of the wisest, most virtuous, and most lib 
 eral of mankind have been decidedly against it, 
 and have pronounced it false. We look on this 
 instance as a remarkable proof of the grand prin 
 ciple which pervades all his works, that truth will 
 at last prevail. It has prevailed over eloquence 
 like his, 
 
THE SEA. 
 
 and thou, majestic main. 
 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 
 Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice 
 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 " THE sea is his, and he made it," cries the 
 Psalmist of Israel, in one of those bursts of en 
 thusiasm and devotion, in which he so often ex 
 presses the whole of a vast subject by a few sim 
 ple words. Whose else indeed could it be, and 
 by whom else could it have been made ? Who 
 else can heave its tides, and appoint its bounds ? 
 Who else can urge its mighty waves to madness 
 with the breath and the wings of the tempest ; and 
 then speak to it again in a master s accents, and 
 bid it be still ? Who else could have poured out 
 its magnificent fulness round the solid land, and 
 
 " Laid as in a storehouse safe its watery treasures by ? " 
 
 Who elsP could have pcupled It With it 
 
 inhabitants, and caused it to bring forth its various 
 
228 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 productions, and filled it from its deepest bed to 
 its expanded surface, filled it from its centre to its 
 remotest shores, filled it to the brim with beauty, 
 and mystery, and power ? Majestic ocean ! Glo 
 rious sea ! No created being rules thee, or made 
 thee. Thou hearest but one voice, and that is the 
 Lord s ; thou obeyest but one arm, and that is the 
 Almighty s. The ownership and the workman 
 ship are God s ; thou art his, and he made thee. 
 
 " The sea is his, and he made it." It bears the 
 strong impress of his greatness, his wisdom, and 
 his love. It speaks to us of God with the voice 
 of all its waters ; it may lead us to God by all the 
 influences of its nature. How, then, can we be 
 otherwise than profitably employed w r hile we are 
 looking on this bright and broad mirror of the 
 Deity ? The sacred scriptures are full of refer 
 ences to it, and itself is full of religion and God. 
 
 " The sea is his, and he made it." Its majesty 
 is of God. What is there more sublime than the 
 trackless, desert, all surrounding, unfathomable 
 sea ? What is there more peacefully sublime than 
 the calm, gently heaving, silent sea ? What is 
 there more terribly sublime than the angry, dash 
 ing, foaming sea ? Power, resistless, overwhelm 
 ing power, is its attribute and its expression, 
 wKothor in the careless, conscious gnmdeur of its 
 deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. 
 
THE SEA. 229 
 
 It is awful when its crested waves rise up to make 
 a compact with the black clouds, and the howling 
 winds, and the thunder, and the thunderbolt, and 
 they sweep on in the joy of their dread alliance, 
 to do the Almighty s bidding. And it is awful, 
 too, when it stretches its broad level out to meet 
 in quiet union the bended sky, and show in the 
 line of meeting the vast rotundity of the world. 
 There is majesty in its wide expanse, separating 
 and enclosing the great continents of the earth, 
 occupying two-thirds of the whole surface of the 
 globe, penetrating the land with its bays and se 
 condary seas, and receiving the constantly pour 
 ing tribute of every river, of every shore. There 
 is majesty in its fulness, never diminishing, and 
 never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity, 
 for its whole vast substance is uniform ; in its local 
 unity, for there is but one ocean, and the inhabi 
 tants of any one maritime spot may visit the in 
 habitants of any other in the wide world. Its 
 depth is sublime ; who can sound it ? Its strength 
 is sublime ; what fabric of man can resist it ? Its 
 voice is sublime, whether in the prolonged song 
 of its ripple or the stern music of its roar ; whether 
 it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a 
 labyrinth of wave- worn caves, or thunders at the 
 base of some huge promontory, or beats against 
 a toiling vessel s sides, lulling the voyager to rest 
 20 
 
230 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies 
 away with the calm and dying twilight, in gentle 
 murmurs on some sheltered shore. What sight is 
 there mope magnificent than the quiet or the stormy 
 sea ? What music is there, however artful, which 
 can vie with the natural and changeful melodies 
 of the resounding sea ? 
 
 " The sea is his, and he made it." Its beauty 
 is of God. It possesses it, in richness, of its own ; 
 it borrows it from earth, and air, and heaven. 
 The clouds lend it the various dyes of their ward 
 robe, and throw down upon it the broad masses 
 of their shadows, as they go sailing and sweeping 
 by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored feet. 
 The sun loves to visit it, and the moon, and the 
 glittering brotherhood of planets and stars ; for 
 they delight themselves in its beauty. The sun 
 beams return from it in showers of diamonds and 
 glances of fire ; the moonbeams find in it a path 
 way of silver, where they dance to and fro, with 
 the breeze and the waves, through the livelong 
 night. It has a light, too, of its own a soft and 
 sparkling light, rivalling the stars ; and often does 
 the ship which cuts its surface, leave streaming 
 behind a milky way of dim and uncertain lustre, 
 like that which is shining dimly above. It har 
 monizes in its forms and sounds both with the 
 night and the day. It cheerfully reflects the light, 
 and it unites solemnly with the darkness. It im- 
 
THE SEA. 231 
 
 parts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur 
 to the thunder of heaven. What landscape is so 
 beautiful as one upon the borders of the sea ? 
 The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters, where 
 it dwells and rests, singing its spells, and scatter 
 ing its charms on all the coast. What rocks and 
 cliffs are so glorious as those which are washed by 
 the chafing sea ? What groves, and fields, and 
 dwellings are so enchanting as those which stand 
 by the reflecting sea ? 
 
 If we could see the great ocean as it can be 
 seen by no mortal eye, beholding at one view 
 what we are now obliged to visit in detail and spot 
 by spot ; if we could, from a flight far higher than 
 the sea eagle s, and with a sight more keen and 
 comprehensive than his, view the immense surface 
 of the deep all spread out beneath us like a uni 
 versal chart, what an infinite variety such a scene 
 would display ! Here a storm would be raging, 
 the thunder bursting, the waters boiling, and rain 
 and foam and fire all mingling together ; and here, 
 next to this scene of magnificent confusion, we 
 should see the bright blue waves glittering in the 
 sun, and while the brisk breezes flew over them, 
 clapping their hands for very gladness for they 
 do clap their hands, and justify by the life, and 
 almost individual animation which they exhibit, 
 that remarkable figure of the Psalmist. Here, 
 
232 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 again, on this self-same ocean, we should behold 
 large tracts where there was neither tempest nor 
 breeze, but a dead calm, breathless, noiseless, and, 
 were it not for that swell of the sea which never 
 rests, motionless. Here we should see a cluster 
 of green islands, set like jewels, in the midst of its 
 bosom ; and there we should see broad shoals and 
 gray rocks, fretting the billows and threatening 
 the mariner. " There go the ships," the white- 
 robed ships, some on this course, and others on the 
 opposite one ; some just approaching the shore, 
 and some just leaving it ; some in fleets, and oth 
 ers in solitude ; some swinging lazily in a calm, 
 and some driven and tossed, and perhaps over 
 whelmed by the storm ; some for traffic, and some 
 for state ; and some in peace, and others, alas ! in 
 war. Let us follow one, and we should see it 
 propelled by the steady wind of the tropics, and 
 inhaling the almost visible odors which diffuse 
 themselves around the spice islands of the East ; 
 let us observe the track of another, and we should 
 behold it piercing the cold barriers of the North, 
 struggling among hills and fields of ice, contend 
 ing with winter in his own everlasting dominion, 
 striving to touch that unattained, solemn, hermit 
 point of the globe, which ships may perhaps never 
 visit, and where the foot of man, all daring and 
 indefatigable as it is, may never tread. Nor are 
 
THE SEA. 233 
 
 the ships of man the only travellers whom we 
 shall perceive on this mighty map of the ocean. 
 Flocks of sea birds are passing and repassing, 
 diving for their food, or for pastime, migrating 
 from shore to shore with unwearied wing and 
 undeviating instinct, or wheeling and swarming 
 round the rocks which they make alive and vocal 
 by their numbers and their clanging cries. 
 
 How various, how animated, how full of inter 
 est, is the survey ! We might behold such a scene, 
 were we enabled to behold it, at almost any mo 
 ment of time on the vast and varied ocean ; and 
 it would be a much more diversified and beautiful 
 one ; for I have spoken but of a few particulars, 
 and of those but slightly. I have not spoken of 
 the thousand forms in which the sea meets the 
 shore, of the sands and the cliffs, of the arches and 
 grottos, of the cities and the solitudes, which oc 
 cur in the beautiful irregularity of its outline ; nor 
 of the constant tides, nor the boiling whirlpools 
 and eddies, nor the currents and streams, which 
 are dispersed throughout its surface. The variety 
 of the sea, notwithstanding the uniformity of its 
 substance, is ever changing and endless. 
 
 +" The sea is his, and he made it." And when 
 he made it, he ordained that it should be the ele 
 ment and dwelling-place of multitudes of living 
 beings, and the treasury of many riches. How 
 20* 
 
234 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 populous and wealthy and bounteous are the 
 depths of the sea ! How many are the tribes 
 which find in them abundant sustenance, and fur 
 nish abundant sustenance to man. The whale 
 roams through the deep like its lord ; but he is 
 forced to surrender his vast bulk to the use of man. 
 The lesser tribes of the finny race have each their 
 peculiar habits and haunts, but they are found out 
 by the ingenuity of man, and turned to his own 
 purposes. The line and the hook and the net are 
 dropped and spread to delude them and bring 
 them up from the watery chambers where they 
 were roving in conscious security. How strange 
 it is that the warm food which comes upon our 
 tables, and the substances which furnish our streets 
 and dwellings with cheerful light, should be drawn 
 up from the cold and dark recesses of the sea ! 
 
 We shall behold new wonders and riches when 
 we investigate the sea-shore. We shall find both 
 beauty for the eye and food for the body, in the 
 varieties of shell-fish, which adhere in myriads to 
 the rocks, or form their close dark burrows in the 
 sands. In some parts of the world we shall see 
 those houses of stone, which the little coral insect 
 rears up with patient industry from the bottom-of 
 the waters, till they grow into formidable rocks, 
 and broad forests whose branches never wave, and 
 whose leaves never fall. In other parts we shall 
 
THE SEA. 235 
 
 see those " pale glistening pearls " which adorn 
 the crowns of princes, and are woven in the hair 
 of beauty, extorted by the restless grasp of man 
 from the hidden stores of ocean. And, spread 
 round every coast, there are beds of flowers and 
 thickets of plants, which the dew does not nourish, 
 and which man has not sown, nor cultivated, nor 
 reaped ; but which seem to belong to the floods 
 alone, and the denizens of the floods, until they 
 are thrown up by the surges, and we discover that 
 even the dead spoils of the fields of ocean may 
 fertilize and enrich the fields of earth. They have 
 a life, and a nourishment, and an economy of their 
 own, and we know little of them, except that they 
 are there in their briny nurseries, reared up into 
 luxuriance by what would kill, like a mortal poi 
 son, the plants of the land. 
 
 " There, with its waving blade of green. 
 
 The sea-flag streams through the silent water. 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
 To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
 
 " There, with a light and easy motion, 
 
 The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; 
 And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
 Are bending like corn on the upland lea." 
 
 I have not told half of the riches of the sea. 
 How can I count the countless, or describe as they 
 
236 
 
 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ought to be described, those companies of living 
 and lifeless things which fill the waters, and which 
 it would take a volume barely to enumerate and 
 name ? But how can we give our minds in any 
 degree to this subject ; how can we reflect on a 
 part only of the treasures of the seas ; how can 
 we lend but a few moments to the consideration 
 of the majesty and beauty, the variety and the 
 fulness of the ocean, without raising our regards 
 in adoration to the Almighty Creator, and exclaim 
 ing, with one of the sublimest of poets, who felt 
 nature like a poet, and whose divine strains ought 
 to be familiar with us all, " O Lord, how mani 
 fold are thy works ! in wisdom hast thou made 
 them all ; the earth is full of thy riches ; so is this 
 great and wide sea, wherein are things creeping 
 innumerable, both small and great beasts. There 
 go the ships ; there is that leviathan whom thou 
 hast made to play therein. These wait all upon 
 thee, that thou mayst give them their meat in due 
 season. That thou givest them they gather ; thou 
 openest thine hand, they are filled with good." 
 
 We must not omit to consider the utility of the 
 sea ; its utility, I mean, not only as it furnishes a 
 dwelling and sustenance to an infinite variety and 
 number of inhabitants, and an important part of 
 the support of man, but in its more general rela 
 tions to the whole globe of the world. It cools 
 
THE SEA. 237 
 
 the air for us in summer, and warms it in winter. 
 It is probable that the very composition of the at 
 mosphere is beneficially affected by combining 
 with the particles which it takes up from the ocean ; 
 but, however this may be, there is little or no 
 doubt, that were it not for the immense face of 
 waters w r ith which the atmosphere comes in con 
 tact, it would be hardly respirable for the dwellers 
 on the earth. Then, again, it affords an easier, 
 and, on the whole, perhaps, a safer, medium of 
 communication and conveyance between nation 
 and nation, than can be found, for equal distances, 
 on the land. It is also an effectual barrier between 
 nations, preserving to a great degree the weak 
 from invasion and the virtuous from contamination. 
 In many other respects it is no doubt useful to the 
 great whole, though in how many we are not 
 qualified to judge. What we do see is abundant 
 testimony to the wisdom and goodness of Him who 
 in the beginning " gathered the waters together 
 unto one place." 
 
 There is mystery in the sea. There is mys 
 tery in its depths. It is unfathomed, and per 
 haps unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall 
 know, how near its pits run down to the central 
 core of the world ? Who can tell what wells, 
 what fountains, are there, to which the fountains of 
 the earth are in comparison but drops ? Who 
 
238 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 
 
 shall say whence the ocean derives those inex 
 haustible supplies of salt, which so impregnate its 
 waters, that all the rivers of the earth, pouring 
 into it from the time of the creation, have not been 
 able to freshen them ? What undescribed mon 
 sters, what unimaginable shapes, may be roving 
 in the profoundest places of the sea, never seek 
 ing, and perhaps from their nature unable to seek, 
 the upper waters, and expose themselves to the 
 gaze of man ! "What glittering riches, what heaps 
 of gold, what stores of gems, there must be scat 
 tered in lavish profusion on the ocean s lowest 
 bed ! What spoils from all climates, what works 
 of art from all lands, have been ingulfed by the 
 insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go 
 down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and 
 idle wealth ? Who bears the keys of the deep ? 
 And, oh ! yet more affecting to the heart and 
 mysterious to the mind, what companies of human 
 beings are locked up in that wide, weltering, un 
 searchable grave of the sea ! Where are the 
 bodies of those lost ones, over whom the melan 
 choly waves alone have been chanting requiem ? 
 What shrouds were wrapped round the limbs of 
 beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, 
 when they were laid on the dark floor of that se 
 cret tomb ? Where are the bones, the relics of the 
 brave and the fearful, the good and the bad, the 
 
THE SEA. 239 
 
 parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the bro 
 ther, the sister, and lover, which have been tossed 
 and scattered and buried by the washing, wasting, 
 wandering sea ? The journeying winds may sigh, 
 as year after year they pass over their beds. The 
 solitary rain-cloud may weep in darkness over the 
 mingled remains which He strewed in that un 
 wonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved 
 to what spot their affections may cling ? And 
 where shall human tears be shed throughout that 
 solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery all. When shall 
 it be resolved ? Who shall find it out ? Who, 
 but he to whom the wildest waves listen rever 
 ently, and to whom all nature bows ; he who shall 
 one day speak, and be heard in ocean s profound- 
 est caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest 
 deep, shall give up all its dead, when the sun shall 
 sicken, and the earth and the isles shall languish, 
 and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, 
 and there shall be " no more sea." 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 
 
 WE hold it to be a fortunate thing for any coun 
 try, that a portion of its literature should fall into 
 the hands of the female sex ; because their influ 
 ence, in any walk of letters, is almost sure to be 
 powerful and good. This influence appears to us 
 to be so peculiar in its nature, and so important 
 in its action, that we venture to demand the at 
 tention of our readers to some remarks upon it, 
 however unworthy of the subject our exposition 
 may be. 
 
 To speak first of the influence of female litera 
 ture on females themselves, we presume that the 
 mere fact of the existence of such a literature pro 
 duces a very sensible effect on the mental charac 
 ter of those, whom, if it were only for gallantry s 
 sake, we must call the best part of our race. A 
 woman feels a laudable pride in the knowledge 
 that a sister has distinguished herself in an intel 
 lectual career ; has won a prize in the competition 
 of mind ; has vindicated for her sex that equality 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 24L 
 
 with the other, which has been both doubted and 
 denied. Her success is an argument which can 
 be wielded at pleasure, and doubtless with pleas 
 ure, against all who would underrate feminine 
 capacity. And it is something more and better 
 than an argument. It is a stimulus ; acting on 
 the generous ambition of the whole sex ; prompt 
 ing all to an exertion of their highest faculties ; 
 inducing a general disposition to read, to study, 
 to think ; making something desirable beside per 
 sonal attraction, and something enviable, which 
 shall last longer, and be more attainable, than 
 beauty. The objects of pursuit will be exalted 
 and refined. The consciousness of power will 
 produce self-respect, and self-respect will lead to 
 improvement. 
 
 Nor will this be the end. Woman, at the same 
 time that she is thus raised in her own estimation, 
 will be necessarily lifted up in the good opinion of 
 man. He will acknowledge her claims on his re 
 spect, for the sake of the proofs she has offered of 
 her spiritual endowments ; and his behavior will 
 tell her that he regards her neither as the queen 
 nor the plaything of an hour, but as the real com 
 panion of his life. Then look at the happy light 
 of this sentiment, as it is reflected back on the 
 man. How much his own worth is increased, by 
 
 21 
 
242 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 he better opinions and more respectful feelings 
 which he is obliged to entertain towards woman, 
 and by the deportment and conduct which will be 
 the natural result of those opinions and feelings. 
 How much more estimable, useful, enlightened, 
 he is like to be with an accomplished fellow-crea 
 ture, than with a brainless idol in his house and 
 in his bosom. How different a being must man 
 be, according as he is united to a companion, or 
 tied to a plaything ! 
 
 And who perceives not that the influence of 
 woman, thus stimulated and directed, extends yet 
 further, and acts on another generation ; on the fu 
 ture men and the future women who are now infants 
 under her care ? Who can estimate the power of 
 a mother over the mind of her offspring ; and who 
 will say, that this power will not be exerted with 
 far happier prospects and probable consequences, 
 if she is capable of becoming the instructer, than 
 if she is only the nurse of her child ? 
 
 If we have reasoned justly, it follows that the 
 successful literary efforts of a few females, have a 
 direct tendency to raise the whole mass of human 
 intellect, in a manner, and to a degree, which 
 could not otherwise be accomplished, and which 
 are not to be estimated by common rules of cal 
 culation. That some bad consequences may fol 
 low a sudden taste or fashion for literature, is nei- 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 243 
 
 ther to be denied nor wondered at. That two or 
 three females may make themselves exceedingly 
 troublesome to their acquaintance by the annoying 
 perseverance of their high discourse at all times 
 and tides ; that a few more may prove too often 
 and too glaringly how little good their reading has 
 done them, by the questions they ask and the an 
 swers they give ; and that a very few indeed may 
 culpably and ruinously neglect their domestic du 
 ties for the circulating library or the goose-quill, 
 are matters of undoubted fact and sad experience ; 
 but in a general view of the subject, their impor 
 tance is inconsiderable. They are hardly worth 
 an estimation, when we are weighing the quantity 
 of good with which they come mixed up, the un 
 avoidable refuse and dust. Who will be so un- 
 courteous and ill-natured as to refuse to make for 
 them a due allowance ? Who so perverse as to 
 prefer a stupid and stationary ignorance without 
 these evils, to a state of diffused cultivation and 
 intelligence with them ? Will any one forego all 
 the advantages which must necessarily accrue to 
 himself and society, from the intellectual improve 
 ment of those who sustain the high and responsi 
 ble relations of wives and mothers, merely through 
 the fear of a little pedantry or pretension ? And 
 is pretension confined to one sex alone ? Are 
 there no male pretenders ? Are all the smatterers 
 
244 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and idlers in literature women ? Not if our ears 
 have given us a true report of the matter. Listen 
 to a beau and a belle discussing one of Sir Wal 
 ter s novels, or mayhap some graver book or sub 
 ject, during a morning call, or the pauses of a 
 cotillon ; and you will find, where both parties 
 are not on a melancholy equality, that, half the 
 time at least, the advantage in judgment, discrimi 
 nation, taste, and pertinent remark, will be on the 
 side of the fair one. Throw us into promiscuous 
 society anywhere, and for an hour s literary talk 
 we are quite willing to take our chance with the 
 ladies. The truth is, that wherever literature is at 
 all in vogue, there will be literary pretenders and 
 literary nothings ; but the gentlemen will furnish 
 a full quota of both. 
 
 We have not yet spoken of the character of fe 
 male literature, but only of its existence ; for its 
 existence alone, whatever may be its character 
 and objects, is capable of exerting, and does exert, 
 all the influences which have already been noticed. 
 A Carter and a Dacier may exalt the whole men 
 tal standard of the sex to which they belong, al 
 though few or none of those who feel the honor 
 of their celebrity may be able to enter into their 
 studies, and examine the grounds of their repu 
 tation as classical scholars. It is enough that 
 their merit is allowed and respected ; enough 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 245 
 
 that their fame is shared with their sex, that emu 
 lation is kindled, and that attention is directed to 
 intellectual acquisitions, employments, and pleas 
 ures. 
 
 But when the impetus has been given, and the 
 noble pride of mind is brought into action ; when 
 an authoress is no longer a rarity, and many a 
 titlepage has borne a female name, it will then ap 
 pear, that female literature has its proper walks ; 
 that it is peculiar in its nature and distinct in its 
 influence ; and it will appear, too, that these walks 
 are exactly those in which the greatest moral 
 power may manifest and most directly exert itself. 
 Into the paths of abstruse learning few of the sex 
 will bend their steps. Their situation, habits, and 
 feelings lead them not there. They will be found 
 in greener and more pleasant places, whither their 
 own inclinations and capabilities will most natu 
 rally conduct them, and where their enchantments 
 will exercise the most potent sway. A single 
 glance at the library of female writers, w r hich, by 
 the way, is now a large as well as a respectable 
 one, will satisfy us, that it comprises two main di 
 visions ; the instruction of youth, and what is 
 called, though in some respects improperly and 
 unjustly, the lighter kinds of literature. Books 
 for the nursery and the school will occupy a con 
 spicuous station on one side, while on the other 
 
 21* 
 
246 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 we shall see novels, tales, essays, and poetry. 
 And if we were asked to point out those descrip 
 tions of literature which are the most directly and 
 extensively active on the manners, principles, and 
 tastes, mental and moral, of a community, we 
 think that these are precisely the kinds which we 
 should name. 
 
 The power which well-adapted books may ex 
 ert on the minds of children can hardly be stated 
 in extravagant terms, and will be allowed by every 
 one to be great. And when we consider further, 
 that early impressions, though often weakened, 
 are seldom entirely erased ; that good seed on 
 good ground affords an abundant return at the 
 harvest time ; that " the child is father of the 
 man ; " that a strong direction once given is long, 
 and, in a majority of cases, always retained ; and, 
 to put the subject in one other point of view, when 
 we consider that the mother s influence, which, 
 next to the influence of Heaven itself, is the best 
 and dearest and most heavenly, and has been the 
 most frequently and gratefully acknowledged by 
 its objects, may be so effectually aided in its opera 
 tions by the hints which the parent receives, and 
 the stores of auxiliary instruction and entertain 
 ment which are placed at her disposal, in judicious 
 books for children, we shall regard such books not 
 with pleasure alone, but with respect ; we shall 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 247 
 
 esteem it no act of condescension in ourselves, in 
 any one, to turn over their pages ; we shall per 
 ceive more solid instruction, more beauty, truth, 
 power, in many a little work stitched up in colored 
 paper, bearing a simple wood cut on each side, 
 and thrown about the nursery with as much free- 
 doni of dissemination as the most ardent republi 
 can could desire, than in many a proud octavo, 
 redolent of Russia, and tenacious of its standing 
 on shelves of mahogany. 
 
 Such being the importance of juveniFe books, 
 who are the best qualified to make them ? and 
 who do make them ? To the first question we 
 answer, Women. They are the best qualified to 
 make books for children, who are most in the 
 company of children ; who have almost the sole 
 care of children ; whose natural sympathies unite 
 them most closely with children, even such of them 
 as have never been mothers themselves ; who best 
 know the minds, the wants, the hearts of children ; 
 and whose tenderness and gentleness gracefully 
 bend to the ignorance of children, and assimilate 
 most easily and happily with their soft and con 
 fiding natures. The child, in its earlier years es 
 pecially, has no guardian like woman, no friend 
 like woman, and can therefore have no instructor 
 like woman. 
 
 And, when we come to answer the next ques- 
 
248 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 tion, Who have really devoted their best talents 
 and most anxious care to the education of child 
 ren ; who have written the best books for and 
 about children ; we are thankful that we again 
 can answer, Women. Thirty years ago (if we 
 had been in existence then) we could not have 
 answered thus. We should have been compelled 
 to say, There are no books for children ; these 
 important members of the human family are desti 
 tute ; this immensely valuable and infinitely fer 
 tile field lies neglected and runs to waste ; no seed 
 has been sown there for the propitious skies to 
 mature ; the grain is yet to be deposited ; the 
 weeds are yet to be eradicated ; both man and 
 woman pass it by, and take their labor to other 
 places, and think not of redeeming it, nor know 
 that by care and culture it may be made to blos 
 som like the rose, and fill the earth with its fruits. 
 This we should at that time have been obliged to 
 say. But now we can say, that those whose part 
 and province it was to do this work, have done it, 
 and done it well. We can point to the names of 
 Barbauld and Edge worth, Taylor and Hoffland, 
 and confidently ask, where there are worthier 
 Men talk of eras in literature. The era of the 
 two first named of those ladies, the era of the 
 " Hymns for Children," and the "Parent s As 
 sistant," was a golden era, pure and bright, and 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 249 
 
 full of riches, and deserving of a rank among the 
 most glorious dates of improvement. Since that 
 time laborers have been fast coming into the same 
 field, and have worked well ; though we must 
 still say, that those who came first worked best. 
 Our own countrywomen have been neither tardy 
 in advancing to this delightful task, nor inefficient 
 in their services. We believe that the best child 
 ren s books which we have and we have many 
 which are excellent are the composition of fe 
 males ; and if we felt ourselves at liberty to do so, 
 we could repeat an honorable, and by no means a 
 scanty list of the names of those who have earned 
 something better than mere reputation, by con 
 tributing to form the minds and hearts of our 
 children. Those who are conscious that they be 
 long to the catalogue, have little to ask of fame, 
 and certainly nothing to receive from it half so 
 valuable as that which they already possess the 
 gratulations of their own hearts. 
 
 The department of juvenile literature, then, is 
 almost entirely in female hands. Long may it 
 remain there ! Long, for the interests of virtue, 
 and the improvement of our kind, may it be in the 
 heart of woman to nurture the growth, and watch 
 over and direct the early puttings forth of youth 
 ful intellect and feeling. While she retains the 
 office, so delightful in itself, and so grave and mo- 
 
250 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 mentous in its ends, and even adds to its beautiful 
 dignity by the graceful and effectual manner in 
 which she has hitherto performed its duties, she 
 inspires us with an admiration of a deeper, and 
 more lasting, and, we must also believe, more 
 flattering character, than was the most glowing 
 and romantic love of the days of chivalry. Talk 
 not to us of chivalry, unless it be in poetry, and 
 with the usual latitude and license of poetry. In 
 truth, and in prose, the most refined devotion of 
 knighthood and chivalry is no more to be com 
 pared, in purity and elevation, to the sentiments 
 which female excellence now commands, than are 
 those fair ones who then presided at the great 
 duels which we read of under the poetical name 
 of tournaments, and who by their presence and 
 plaudits animated the legalized and courtly slaugh 
 ter which was raging and struggling beneath them, 
 to be compared to the females of our own time, 
 who, as beautiful, no doubt, and accomplished as 
 they, find it their more appropriate privilege and 
 pleasure to stimulate the fresh powers of child 
 hood to the competitions of knowledge and virtue, 
 and to hold out the meed of approbation to the 
 exertions of innocent and ingenuous minds. 
 
 To pass from this department of woman s lite 
 rary labors to the other, we come to a field, which, 
 though she does not occupy it so exclusively, she 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 251 
 
 occupies with honor, and in which she has done 
 much good, and still may do more. It is a field, 
 too, which, in common with the former, has been 
 undervalued. We shall not stop to argue with 
 those who contend that novels, and romances, 
 poems and plays, should not be read. It is enough 
 that people will read them as fast as they are writ 
 ten ; that beyond other kinds of literature, they 
 are widely diffused, and caught up with an un 
 satisfied avidity. In one sense, if in no other, 
 they are truly light ; for, like those seeds to which 
 nature has given wings, they fly abroad with the 
 four winds, rejoicing in their buoyancy, and dis 
 seminating themselves through every land. This 
 lightness is of itself a vast advantage, and the true 
 inquiry is, not whether the advantage shall be 
 used for that we cannot help but how it may 
 be best used. As thistle down, and nettle seed are 
 in full possession of it, we ought to turn our atten 
 tion to those worthier plants, whose seeds are also 
 winged, and favor their culture, and encourage 
 their maturity. The interest, the natural, irre 
 pressible interest, which the passions of men will 
 always take in lively descriptions of passion ; the 
 absorbing heed which their affections will render, 
 while the world stands, to writings which address 
 and excite them, should be turned to virtuous ends 
 by all those who love virtue, to useful ends by all 
 
252 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 those who honor truth ; and every patriot and 
 every philanthropist, every well-wisher to his coun 
 try or his kind, should rejoice whenever he sees 
 those, who, with the magic wands of poesy and 
 fiction and the potent spells of genius, might lead 
 the spirits of men almost whither they would, and 
 who yet would rather snap their wands asunder, 
 and abjure their spells forever, than wield them 
 for a moment in league with the powers of dark 
 ness ; who would rather die, than lure men, by 
 any charms of theirs, from the paths of upright 
 ness and life. 
 
 The purity and the goodness of woman have 
 here done their proper work. They are seen and 
 felt in the elegant literature of the times. They 
 have greatly contributed to chasten the morals of 
 literature, and establish a code of laws, by which 
 offences against decency are condemned as of 
 fences against taste. We would hazard the opin 
 ion, that to their absence the prevailing licentious 
 ness of old English literature is in some degree 
 to be ascribed. There were no female authors in 
 those days when ribaldry w r as deemed essential to 
 the drama, if to no other species of writing ; and 
 when a novel was thought none the worse, per 
 haps all the better, for describing scenes, which 
 we trust would now be the proscription of any 
 book whatever. They have now come in, follow- 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 253 
 
 ing the conduct of their own taste and peculiar 
 powers, to try their skill in providing the intellect 
 ual entertainment of society ; and a chaster tone 
 of public sentiment has been, in part, the conse 
 quence of the trial. We would not give an un 
 reasonable share in the reformation to the influence 
 of female literature ; but we have no doubt what 
 ever, that the cooperation of that with other meli 
 orating influences has been of the utmost import 
 ance to the final effect. How should it be other 
 wise ? Why should not the modesty and delicate 
 feeling of woman refine and soften the character 
 of society as much in her writings, as in her man 
 ners and conversation and life ? 
 
 That some females seem to have forgotten their 
 sex, and to have prided themselves on throwing 
 off their peculiar qualities, and adopting the coarser 
 habits of men, in their literary performances, is 
 true. But such cases are happily, and as we 
 think, necessarily rare. The masquerade is out 
 of nature, and gives no pleasure to those whose 
 approbation is valuable. It is like the occasional 
 adoption of masculine attire by heroines of the 
 stage. All may not be disgusted with the meta 
 morphosed individual, but certainly none can re 
 spect, and few can approve. 
 
 If there is a poison more subtle, more deadly, 
 and, alas, more palatable, than all others, it is the 
 22 
 
254 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 poison of passion, which is communicated far and 
 wide through the medium of books of amusement. 
 If there is a medicine more healthful, pleasant, and 
 precious than others, it is the antidote of virtuous 
 principle conveyed through the same medium, 
 acceptable to all tastes, and spreading wherever 
 the poison had spread. The hand of woman has 
 been doing its proper office in largely administer 
 ing the healing potion. The gentle and faithful 
 nurse of our bodily sicknesses has extended her 
 care to our mental and moral constitution, assidu 
 ously and with success. Both services belong to 
 her, and in both capacities she is at home. She 
 cannot be false to her nature. The cause of vir 
 tue must always find in her an advocate. While 
 she uses the pen, she must always use it to incul 
 cate the graces which she loves, and in which she 
 herself excels. If our literature needs a preserva 
 tive against the deleterious infusions of licentious 
 ness and folly, we look confidently to her, for we 
 shall find it in the enthusiasm of her heart, and 
 the strength of her good principles. But if our 
 confidence should prove to be misplaced ; if our 
 anticipations should be disappointed ; if woman 
 should ever turn recreant to her own interest, her 
 own happiness, her own nature ; if she too should 
 begin to blot the fair page of letters with unseem 
 liness, and make the mind and soul instruments of 
 
FEMALE LITERATURE. 255 
 
 their own degradation ; then, though we are not 
 apt to despair of anything that is good, then we 
 should either give up the cause, or look for direct 
 interposition from above, for vain would be the 
 help of man. 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 
 
 WE have abundant reason for gratitude to 
 Heaven, and to those instruments in the hands of 
 Heaven, our worthy ancestors, for the numerous 
 and excellent institutions of learning, and means 
 of education which we in this country enjoy. For 
 the most part, we evince our gratitude for them 
 by the value which we set upon them ; though we 
 are not yet grateful enough, for we do not yet 
 value them highly enough. We do not value 
 them highly enough, because we do not correctly 
 appreciate, nor universally understand, the great 
 purpose and end of instruction. Many among 
 us are not in the habit of regarding this purpose 
 as a moral purpose, and this end as a moral end. 
 We are afraid that, from the poorest to the richest 
 of us, the mind is considered as the principal ob 
 ject of education, and the information of the 
 mind as education s peculiar and ultimate design. 
 Though there exists very remarkably in our coun 
 try, or at least in this part of our country, a great 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 257 
 
 desire in parents to secure an education to their 
 children, and a general willingness to spend their 
 money for this gift, yet we believe that it is com 
 mon for the poor to bestow what means of edu 
 cation they can on their children, under the sole 
 idea of preserving them from the disgrace and 
 the inconvenience of ignorance, and for the rich 
 to furnish their children with every accomplish 
 ment which wealth can command, with the pre 
 dominant impression and hope that they are qual 
 ifying them to push their way in the world, and 
 make a figure in the eyes of society. They do 
 not seem to extend their views, or if at all, not 
 with a due anxiety, to that far nobler and more 
 important office of education, which is simply 
 and beautifully described in the words of the. 
 prophet Ezekiel. They seem not to apprehend 
 that it confers its best and most finished endow 
 ment on their offspring, only when it has taught 
 them " the difference between the holy and pro 
 fane, and caused them to discern between the un 
 clean and the clean." 
 
 This is education s perfect work. When it has 
 done this, it has done everything ; and till it has 
 done this, it has done nothing effectually. Who 
 has a finished education, as far as any education 
 may be called finished ? Not he who is often 
 complimented by the world on its possession, 
 
 22* 
 
258 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Not he who has been through all the most expen 
 sive schools, and yet without learning his duty to 
 God and his neighbor. No ; if he is master of 
 all accomplishments ; if his brain is filled to its 
 remotest cell with all manner of knowledge, and 
 still he does not discern, or does not act as if he 
 discerned, between the unclean and the clean, his 
 education is not finished in the most important 
 respect ; it is imperfect ; it has stopped short of 
 its destination ; for it has stopped short of true 
 wisdom, and the pupil is as yet immature, super 
 ficial, unfurnished. Who has a finished educa 
 tion ? He has it, who, though he may have only 
 learned to read and write, has learned, beside, the 
 difference, the immense difference, between the 
 holy and profane ; has cultivated his moral capaci 
 ties ; has acquired sound opinions, and firm prin 
 ciples, and good habits ; has preferred and chosen 
 the paths and the rewards of virtue. His educa 
 tion is really finished, for its true end is attained ; 
 it has given him the wisdom to perceive, the abili 
 ty to discharge, his personal, his social, his reli 
 gious obligations ; it has placed him as a column 
 in the great fabric of human relations ; and 
 though he may not adorn that fabric, to the eye, 
 as much as some other columns which art has 
 more carefully enriched, he supports it quite as 
 well in the simple beauty of strength and dura 
 bility. 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 259 
 
 We mean not to say that everything which 
 informs, and enlarges and embellishes the mind, 
 has not a natural tendency to educate the heart, 
 and establish the character on enduring founda 
 tions. We cannot be such recreants to the noble 
 cause and holy faith of letters. We believe that 
 education, in all its fulness, and all its variety, 
 has a powerful and beneficial influence on morals. 
 It is precisely because we believe this, that we say 
 it is never finished till it has exerted that influ 
 ence ; morals being its end. Mind is its first ob 
 ject, but it is not its only, nor its final object. 
 Through the mind it must reach the moral senti 
 ments and convictions, or it reaches not its mark. 
 That is but a partial education, which does not 
 lead its pupil to the knowledge and the practice 
 of duty. That is a complete education, the edu 
 cation of a man, which makes a man feel himself 
 one ; an accountable creature of God ; a free and 
 a noble spirit, discerning the difference between 
 the holy and profane, the unclean and the clean, 
 and renouncing the evil and embracing the good, 
 for his own sake, for society s sake, and for God s 
 sake. 
 
 That by such an education, and in no other 
 way, or in no other way so well, some of the 
 greatest blessings of life are to be widely and 
 permanently secured, we have no doubt. If 
 
260 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 such an education is impracticable to any greater 
 extent and degree than has already been at 
 tained, then, with all our faith in human improve 
 ment, we should be obliged to acknowledge that 
 no further improvement was to be hoped for, in 
 this world. A few remarks on some of the ad 
 vantages which can only result from a general 
 and thorough system of moral education, will 
 best explain our reasons for attributing to it so 
 great an importance. 
 
 We must be permitted to say, then, that we 
 know not in what other way the best political 
 blessings are to be secured to our country. We 
 are as prosperous, as powerful, and as free as we 
 are, chiefly because we have been thus far, and 
 comparatively speaking, an intelligent and a 
 moral people; because knowledge has been re 
 markably diffused among us, and our habits have 
 been simple, and for the most part virtuous and 
 religious. But luxury has increased with our 
 wealth, corruption with our numbers, and ambi 
 tion with our strength. The virtue which carried 
 us through the time of our tribulation, may relax 
 and be dissolved in the time of our prosperity. 
 Those principles of honesty, and justice, and free 
 dom, which we only wrapped the more closely 
 about us while the storms of persecution and pov 
 erty were blowing, may be loosened, and perhaps 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 261 
 
 thrown off, under the warm suns of plenty and 
 ease. It was a day of peril and of trial, when, 
 to guard their rights and liberties against an arro 
 gant and superior force, our fathers stood on the 
 brink " few and faint, yet fearless still," and dared 
 and suffered the worst ; but, if we are not greatly 
 mistaken, our country may see a day more peril 
 ous and trying than that ; the day when it will 
 have to contend with the passion, and the pride, 
 and the lust of its own children. If ;t escapes 
 from such a trial safely and with honor, it will be 
 only owing to the prevailing moral sentiment of 
 the people, diffused through their mass by all the 
 efforts and means of a moral education. 
 
 We form a republic. We are all politically 
 equal. The right of government is shared by 
 every individual in the nation ; and Heaven forbid 
 that it should be otherwise. But this right of 
 government must be delegated somewhere. We 
 must have rulers like other nations. We appoint 
 these rulers ourselves, and in their hands we place 
 in trust much of our happiness. What is to se 
 cure to us good rulers, rulers who will respect and 
 watch that sacred deposit, but the widest diffusion 
 of correct opinions and feelings through the influ 
 ences of a moral education ? What is to secure 
 us against unprincipled rulers, but a deep respect 
 for principle, and a stern, uncompromising de- 
 
262 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 mand for men of principle, and a universal deter 
 mination to bestow no confidence on talent alone 
 without principle ? What is to secure us against 
 the winding, specious, flattering arts of political 
 quacks and demagogues, but an understanding 
 sufficiently informed to detect those arts, and a 
 virtue sufficiently elevated to despise them ? 
 What, in fine, is to carry the best men to the 
 highest and most responsible places, but the exist 
 ence and the predominance in the community of 
 worth, of moral worth, which will appreciate and 
 sympathize with, and seek out worth like its own, 
 for honor, office and trust ? And how shall we 
 secure this moral worth in the community, unless 
 it is instilled, guarded and confirmed by all the 
 influences and appliances of a moral education 
 universally diffused. 
 
 And what, again, we ask, is to preserve us from 
 a national passion for war and the deeds of war, 
 an admiration of military fame, a love of domin 
 ion, a thirst of conquest ? What is to preserve 
 us from these things, which have been among the 
 deepest stains and curses of the world from the 
 world s childhood, but a general sentiment, which, 
 with purged and undazzled eyes, shall view war 
 rather as a scourge, a judgment, than as a thea 
 tre of glory ? Why should we not go on, as 
 other nations have gone on, extending our posses.* 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 263 
 
 sions by the sword, and losing them by the sword, 
 attacking and attacked, spoiling and spoiled, and 
 devoting treasure, talent and life, to the insane 
 purpose of fighting with the rest of the world, 
 and entailing on ourselves that misery, be it 
 splendid or otherwise, which is always entailed 
 by ambitious war, unless we are taught by expe 
 rience and religion to regard war as that last, ter 
 rible resort, which good men in all ages, though 
 not, alas ! the multitude, have considered it to be ? 
 If we feel and think on this and kindred subjects 
 as other nations have thought and felt, why should 
 we not take the path of other nations, and stride 
 on through luxury, and what is called glory, to 
 ruin and oblivion ? 
 
 Everything depends, under Providence, on the 
 education, and intellectual and moral habits of 
 our people. Where each man has, as here, a 
 voice and a vote, the fate of the whole hangs on 
 the disposition and character of the majority. If 
 the majority, the great mass of the nation, are 
 brought up to entertain sober views, to regard 
 consequences, to suspect their passions and re 
 spect their reason, to divest themselves of sec 
 tional prejudices, to study the things that make 
 for peace, to know and to feel the difference be 
 tween the holy and profane, and to value virtue 
 more than fame or eloquence, or anything else 
 
264 MISCELLANIES* 
 
 that can be named, then there can be no fear for 
 our liberty, our prosperity, our union, or stability ; 
 no fear of enemies without or factions within, no 
 fear of bad rulers, or misguided mobs, or any 
 permanently evil influence, for power will be 
 righteous, and righteousness will be all powerful ; 
 there will be a natural junction of right and 
 might which nothing human can overcome and 
 disturb. But if the majority are to grow up un 
 informed, undisciplined, discerning nothing but 
 the present, and that but partially and passionate 
 ly, overflowing with local and petty antipathies, 
 south against north, and east against west, easily 
 inflamed, easily led, and always most easily by 
 the most interested guides, then fear may augur 
 the worst. 
 
 These remarks are made without any reference 
 to the present promises or prospects of the coun 
 try, which we are willing to believe are of a 
 favorable description. We have merely been 
 drawing inferences from the nature of our gov 
 ernment. We, the people, govern ourselves. 
 The main object of our solicitude, therefore, an 
 object of far more importance than any tempo 
 rary question of party politics, should be, to know 
 how to govern ourselves, or, which with us 
 amounts to the same thing, how we ought to be 
 governed. In other words, our first political duty 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 265 
 
 is a moral self-education, as thorough as possible, 
 and as widely diffused. If we faithfully attend to 
 this duty, it requires little sagacity to predict that 
 our destiny is a truly glorious one, the most glo 
 rious that has yet been achieved on earth. If we 
 neglect it, it requires as little to foresee, that if 
 our fortune is not to be more melancholy than 
 that of other nations has been, it will differ but 
 little from the common course ; we shall follow 
 in the beaten track, and pursue the accustomed 
 trade, 
 
 " A wild and dreamlike trade of blood and guile, 
 Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! " 
 
 But we will pass from this topic, which may be 
 thought to be of too general a nature, and touch 
 upon one or two others which are more special 
 and definite. 
 
 Let us speak of the influence of a moral educa 
 tion in suppressing or checking a vice which has 
 been said, but we hope not truly, to be more com 
 mon in this country than in any other. Whether 
 more common or not, it is fearfully prevalent, and 
 comparison is altogether unnecessary to impress 
 us with a vivid sense of its magnitude. We mean 
 the vice of intemperance. We need not describe 
 it, its nature, character, or consequences. We 
 need not tell how odious and degrading it is in 
 23 
 
266 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 itself, and how often it becomes the parent of other 
 vices, as bad, or worse. Its ravages have been 
 so extensive and terrible, that within a few years 
 the public attention has been most seriously di 
 rected to it, and various measures have been pro 
 posed and tried with the design of arresting its 
 progress. For this purpose, societies have been 
 formed, sermons have been preached, tracts have 
 been distributed, newspapers have been estab 
 lished. These means have in some degree, per 
 haps we should say, in a great degree, effected 
 their end. Let them not be sneered at because 
 they have not effected everything. There was 
 never a society formed yet, by sensible men, with 
 a moral object in view, which did not accomplish 
 something toward that object. United thoughts 
 suggest expedients, and united efforts arrest pub 
 lic attention. Thus much has been done, if no 
 more, by the societies which have been formed for 
 the suppression of intemperance. From the nature 
 of the case, this is about all which they can do, 
 or ought to be expected to do. Much remains to 
 be done by education, by moral education, which 
 nothing but a moral education can do. The les 
 sons of moderation must be particularly enforced 
 on the young. They must be made to see the 
 sure connection between intemperance and shame 
 and misery. They must be made to consider a 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 267 
 
 spectacle of intoxication in the street, as a subject, 
 not of mirth, but of pity and dread. They must 
 be taught that there are other and better social 
 pleasures than that of drinking ; that there are 
 other and more effectual consolations in sorrow 
 than that of drinking ; and those pleasures and 
 those consolations must be placed before them, 
 and within their reach. They must be taught to 
 feel that they have a nature too high and heavenly 
 in its origin and capacities, to be enslaved to an 
 indulgence lower than brutal. They must respect 
 it, and fear to wrong and insult and debase it. 
 They must be led to exercise self-government ; to 
 know their own strength, and to rejoice in it ; to 
 feel themselves superior to a poor temptation of 
 appetite ; to feel it to be impossible that they could 
 ever sacrifice their -respectability, their substance, 
 their health, their talents, the feelings of their 
 friends, and the favor of their God, to the vile 
 solicitations of intemperance. 
 
 These are lessons which can and must be taught 
 more assiduously than they ever yet have been. " 
 These lessons of wisdom, prudence, and duty, be 
 gin at the beginning, and by preventing the vice, 
 do better than cure it. They may be inculcated 
 by various instructers, and in ten thousand differ 
 ent ways. They may be taught to the poor, as 
 well as to the rich. There is nothing chimerical 
 
268 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in the idea of such instruction. If there is, the 
 idea of any improvement in this respect is chimer 
 ical. One thing appears to us very evident, which 
 is, that nothing but lessons of morality and sober 
 ness, well taught and well learned, will make us 
 a sober people ; for nothing but a moral elevation 
 will raise us above a moral reproach ; and those 
 who are low in their thoughts, sentiments, and 
 principles, will be also low, and you cannot help 
 it, in their pleasures and tastes. 
 
 There is another subject on which we would 
 say a few words in this connection, because it is 
 also one which has occupied considerable atten 
 tion in this portion of the country. We refer to 
 the observance of the Lord s Day as a day of rest. 
 The reason for the attention which has been lately 
 paid to this subject, is not that the Lord s Day has 
 not been observed here, but that it has hitherto 
 been observed with such extreme strictness, that 
 any deviations from the former course have been 
 regarded by many as alarming proofs of degen 
 eracy. The truth is, that the Christian Sabbath is 
 remarkably well kept in this section of the coun 
 try ; but as population increases, variety of pur 
 suits will keep pace with it, some of which will be 
 incompatible with the strict observance of the day 
 of rest. Travelling, for instance, of all kinds, will 
 increase, and of course necessary travelling, and 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 269 
 
 all the means, facilities, and appendages of travel 
 ling. To make a law which should distinguish 
 between necessary and unnecessary travelling and 
 their accompaniments, would be impossible. Nor 
 would the people long submit to any law on the 
 subject ; nor ought they ; it would be reversed, 
 or it would fall into disuse. The only provisions 
 which can be made with regard to it, are the pro 
 visions of moral education. We have begun well. 
 We are in a good path. We have inherited from 
 our forefathers a respect for the Lord s Day, its 
 duties and its rest. We devoutly hope that the 
 inheritance may never be undervalued or dissi 
 pated ; that the feeling may never be diminished. 
 But we are sincerely of opinion, that the only me 
 thod of insuring so desirable an object, is to keep 
 up, and indeed greatly to confirm and spread 
 abroad, the moral habits of the people, by making 
 a moral education our chief concern. If we cher 
 ish among us a regard for religious privileges, for 
 order, for peacefulness, for duty, we need not 
 tremble for the Christian Sabbath. A day, which 
 in its quiet observance harmonizes so beautifully 
 with these blessings, and contributes so much to 
 their security, will always be well observed. Man 
 will see that it is made for him, for his use and for 
 his good, and he will keep it holy. But if the 
 public moral sentiment, and perception of obliga- 
 23* 
 
270 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 tion, and love of quiet happiness and intellectual 
 occupation, are not fostered ; if boisterous pleas 
 ures come to be preferred to peaceful ones, and 
 dissipation to improvement, the Lord s Day, so 
 long hallowed by us, and endeared to us, will be 
 desecrated, as a matter of course, and a volume 
 of laws could not prevent the desecration. We 
 do not permit ourselves to harbor the fear that 
 such an event will take place ; but if it should, 
 our Sabbath bells, which have heretofore rung out, 
 on every first day of the week, their cheerful call 
 to rest and praise and prayer, might well be taught 
 to toll a knell throughout the land for the death of 
 ancient virtue. 
 
 Why should we say more ? The simple fact 
 that the course and the fate of this country de 
 pend, under Providence, on the character of the 
 mass of its inhabitants, is proof sufficient to my 
 mind, that the moral education of all classes, and 
 all ages, but more particularly of the poor and the 
 young, is the one thing needful. If the people 
 are lifted up into knowledge, virtue, and respecta 
 bility, their course will be an elevated one ; if not, 
 it will be a vulgar, and finally a miserable one ; 
 for they will take their own way. 
 
 If we are asked, what are the means of moral 
 education, and how they are to be applied, and 
 who shall apply them, we answer, the means are 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 271 
 
 numberless, and they are to be applied in many 
 various ways, and by many descriptions of per 
 sons, a few only of which we have time to specify. 
 
 Schools are to be supported with liberality, and 
 multiplied to the extent of the demand. Too 
 many children should not be crowded together in 
 one school, nor more pupils be placed under one 
 master than he can well attend to. Our good 
 opinion of a town always rises, according to the 
 number of schools which it contains in proportion 
 to the number of its inhabitants. 
 
 The office of instructer of youth should always 
 be regarded as an important and dignified office, 
 and treated accordingly. Instructers of the best 
 acquirements should always be sought for ; and 
 when found, should be honored and well support 
 ed. You certainly do not wish to look down on 
 him as an inferior, who has the care of the minds 
 of your children. But you cannot avoid doing so, 
 unless his talents and attainments really entitle him 
 to your respect ; and you cannot think of obtain 
 ing one thus respectable, unless you afford to his 
 labors that remuneration which they would secure 
 in other professions. It is poor policy and poor 
 economy, to look out for the cheapest schoolmas 
 ter who is to be had ; for the cheapest is generally 
 the dearest, because he is generally the least worth 
 what is given for him. A good education, a really 
 
272 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 good education, is the best legacy which you can 
 leave to your children ; and it becomes you to be 
 sparing in anything rather than in that. We do 
 not mean that you should be extravagant, even in 
 education ; but, we adjure you, parents, by all that 
 is worthy and respectable, by the honor arid happi 
 ness of your children, and by your own hopes for 
 them, do not consider education the least of neces 
 saries, or the least of comforts ; do not put it 
 down among the lowest of your expenses ; do not 
 make it the last of your indulgences, but rather 
 the first. It is, as we have said, the best legacy. 
 It has no wings, like riches. It does not pass 
 away with youth. It cannot be alienated, and it 
 only increases in value with years. Let the in- 
 structers of your children, therefore, be well qual 
 ified to instruct them. Above all, see that they 
 are unimpeachable in their moral character ; for 
 no other qualification will supply the absence of 
 this. The air of a school-room is tainted and poi 
 soned by the presence of an immoral teacher ; let 
 not your children breathe it. 
 
 Books of instruction are to be carefully exam 
 ined and selected, that they may always inculcate 
 the soundest and purest views of life, conduct, and 
 happiness, and inculcate them in the most engag 
 ing and convincing manner. Children receive 
 many of their first and deepest impressions from 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 273 
 
 school-books. It is highly important that these 
 impressions should be of a virtuous stamp, and 
 that they should also be associations of pleasant 
 ness. 
 
 No change in the modes of education, which 
 promises to be a real improvement, should be 
 slighted. We must not permit our attachment to 
 old methods to prevent our adopting new ones 
 which are better. Experiment is the natural pio 
 neer of improvement, and should not be discour 
 aged in its vocation and duty. Education has 
 already been made to bear closely and powerfully 
 on the mass. We should leave no means untried 
 to make it bear still more closely and powerfully. 
 Lyceums have done and are doing much in our 
 villages: Public lectures have done and are doing 
 much in our cities and towns. We have it from 
 unquestionable authority, that crowds of young 
 men attend constantly and with interest on these 
 means of information, who, a little while ago, 
 spent their evenings at places of resort, which are 
 always very questionable, often fatal. This change 
 cannot operate otherwise than to produce great 
 and general benefit. 
 
 Parents what a weight of responsibility there 
 is upon them ! How much the moral education 
 of their children depends on their efforts, advice, 
 and example ! What a power they have over the 
 
274 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 character of the coming generation ! How deeply 
 does it concern them to inculcate on those en 
 trusted to their care, the necessity of virtue and 
 religion, and to show forth their beauty and glory 
 by the whole course of their example ! Vain 
 will be the teaching of schools, if they are not 
 confirmed at home. Vain will be the lessons 
 of the tutor, if they are not seconded by the 
 precepts and conduct of the father and the mo 
 ther. The child must not only read of goodness 
 and purity in the books which are placed be 
 fore him ; he must read of them in the looks, the 
 words, and the actions of those whom nature di 
 rects him to imitate, and habit brings him to re 
 semble. There is hardly a sight so distressing, so 
 alarming, to the real patriot and philanthropist, as 
 the sight of parents, who, whatever they may teach 
 with their lips, are teaching their children, day by 
 day, in the constant tenor of their lives, to be self 
 ish, to be frivolous, to be worldly, to be deceitful, 
 to prefer earthly things to heavenly, to cherish the 
 body and to forget the soul. 
 
 Parents and instructers should not only select 
 good books for those who are committed to their 
 oversight, but should qualify themselves for this 
 and other kindred duties, by reading and digesting 
 the best books on education, and thus instruct 
 themselves. Much is doubtless to be left to the 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 275 
 
 good sense and daily experience of those who 
 have the guidance of the young ; but we should 
 be far from respecting the self-confidence of any 
 one who should think himself above deriving as 
 sistance from such books. He should have the 
 care of no child of ours. And yet we should 
 dislike a literal bigot to any particular system 
 of education, as much as we dislike a bigot to 
 a set of theological articles, or any system what 
 ever. 
 
 As moral education is nearly connected with 
 general education, the instruction which is given 
 to all classes of society should be as generous and 
 liberal, as various and elevated, as means and cir 
 cumstances will allow. In a country like this, if 
 you would have a moral people, you must have 
 an educated people, a people who are taught 
 something more than to read and write. Do not 
 fear that education will make the poor vain and 
 pedantic. Be assured that the more they know, 
 the less vain they will be of their knowledge. 
 And even if a variety of information should have 
 the effect upon them which is feared, it is far bet 
 ter that they should be vain and pedantic, than 
 coarse, sensual, and criminal. There is no reason 
 to apprehend that any considerable number of 
 those who are to gain their living by their toil, 
 will quit their tools and their shops, and turn 
 
276 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 knights-errant in a dim and visionary quest of lite 
 rary adventure. A few individuals, peculiarly 
 constituted, or peculiarly influenced, may do so ; 
 but common sense and necessity will keep all the 
 rest to the work or employment to which they are 
 bred, and for which they are fitted, and in which, 
 whatever it may be, every one may raise himself 
 above want and above contempt. The great evil 
 to be apprehended is a want rather than an excess 
 of a disposition to mental exertion and improve 
 ment. For what are the principal causes of crime ? 
 They are inconsiderateness and idleness. They 
 are the want of habits of reflection, and the want 
 of innocent and interesting employment. Both of 
 these wants are supplied by education. Teach 
 people to reflect and give them the means of men 
 tal occupation, and in general they will avoid 
 crime, because they will be aware of its miserable 
 consequences, and will have something better to 
 think of and to accomplish. Every exercise of 
 the mind which causes it to know how to use it 
 self, and every species of information which fur 
 nishes it with objects of employment, is a more 
 powerful security against crime, than any physi 
 cal durance which can be devised. 
 
 Let everything be taught, then,.for which there 
 is time and opportunity. Away with that libel 
 and insult on the mind of man, that it was not 
 
MORAL EDUCATION. 277 
 
 formed for improvement, and that knowledge is 
 not good for it. Pour down instruction on the 
 land, even on our land, like rain, for even yet it is 
 dry and athirst. " Let the ridges thereof be wa 
 tered abundantly. Let the showers drop upon the 
 pastures and the wilderness, till they rejoice on 
 every side, and shout and sing ! " 
 
 24 
 
RELIGION OF THE SEA. 
 
 " In every object here I see 
 Something, O Lord, that leads to thee ! 
 Firm as the rocks thy promise stands, 
 Thy mercies countless as the sands, 
 Thy love a sea immensely wide, 
 Thy grace an ever- flowing tide." 
 
 J. NEWTON. 
 
 THE ocean is wonderful and divine in its forms 
 and changes and sounds, in its grandeur, its beau 
 ty, its variety, its inhabitants, its uses and its mys 
 teries, in all that strikes the sense and is immedi 
 ately apprehended by the understanding. But 
 besides all these, and lying deeper than all, it pos 
 sesses a moral interest, which is partly bestowed 
 upon it, and partly borrowed from it, by the mind 
 of man. The soul finds in it a fund of high spirit 
 ual associations. Analogies are perceived in it, 
 which connect it most affectingly with our mortal 
 life, with dread eternity, and with Almighty God 
 himself, the source and end of all. And thus it 
 
RELIGION OF THE SEA. 
 
 becomes a principal link in that great chain of 
 purpose and sympathy, with which the Creator 
 has bound up all matter and mind, together with 
 his own infinite being, in one consenting whole. 
 
 The sea has often been likened to this our life. 
 Poetry is fond of remarking resemblances between 
 it and the passions and fortunes of humanity. Our 
 contemplations launch forth on its capacious bo 
 som, and gather up the images and shadowings of 
 our existence and fate, of what we are, and what 
 is appointed to us. Do we see its multitudinous 
 waves rushing blindly and impetuously along 
 wherever they are driven by the lashing wind ? 
 They remind us of the tempest of an angry mind, 
 or the tumult of an enraged people. Are the 
 waves hushed, and is a calm breathed over the 
 floods ? It is the similitude of a peaceful breast, 
 of a composed and placid spirit, or a quiet, un 
 troubled time. Doubts, anxieties, and fears pass 
 over our minds, as clouds do over the sea, tinging 
 them, as the clouds tinge the waters, with their 
 deep and threatening hues. Does a beaming hope 
 or a golden joy break in suddenly upon us, in the 
 midst of care or misfortune ? What is it but a ray 
 of light, such as we sometimes behold sent down 
 from the rifted sky, shining alone in the dark hori 
 zon, a sun-burst on a sullen sea ? 
 
 Then how often are the vicissitudes of life com- 
 
280 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 pared with the changes of the ocean. Who that 
 has been abroad on the sea, who that has heard 
 or read anything of its phenomena, does not know 
 that to the most propitious winds and skies which 
 can bless the mariner, frequently succeed those 
 which are the most adverse and destructive ; that 
 the morning may rise with the fairest promises, 
 bringing the favoring breeze, and smiling over the 
 pleasant water, and ere the evening falls, or be 
 fore high noon is come, the scene may be wrapt 
 in gloom, the steady gale may be converted into 
 the savage blast, the gay sunbeams may be fol 
 lowed by the blue lightnings, and the floods above 
 be poured down on the floods below, as if together 
 they were determined, as of old, to drown and 
 desolate the world ? And do not these things take 
 place in the voyage of human life ? Who knows 
 not how often youth sets sail with flattering hopes 
 and brilliant prospects, which are changed before 
 manhood, into dreary disappointment or black 
 despair ? Who knows not how often and how 
 suddenly the sun of prosperity may be covered up 
 from sight, and its glowing rays be quenched in 
 the coldness and darkness and fearfulness of howl 
 ing adversity ? Who knows not that in the midst 
 of joy and peace, the billows of affliction may all 
 at once rise up, and roll in upon the soul ? " All 
 thy waves and thy billows are gone over me," cries 
 
RELIGION OF THE SEA. 281 
 
 the mourning Psalmist ; and again he complains, 
 " Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, 
 in the deeps. Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and 
 thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves." And 
 there is not, perhaps, in all literature, sacred or 
 profane, a more striking image of dank, weltering, 
 utter desolation, than is contained in the exclama 
 tion of the prophet Jonah : " The depth closed 
 me round about," says he ; " the weeds were wrap 
 ped about my head." 
 
 Though no voyage, on the sea or in life, is free 
 from vicissitudes, yet the same changes happen 
 not to all, nor do all suffer the same or equal re 
 verses. Our barks are all abroad on the wide 
 surface of existence, and some experience more 
 severe and frequent storms, or more baffling winds 
 than others. For some, the gales of prosperity 
 appear to blow, as we may say, tropically, so fair 
 and steady is the course of fortune into which they 
 seem to have fallen ; while others appear to have 
 encountered, almost at the outset, an unfavorable 
 vein, which has opposed, wearied and persecuted 
 them to the very end. To that end they all ar 
 rive, sooner or later. The ocean has many har 
 bors ; life has but one. It is safe and peaceful. 
 There the tempests cease to rage, and all the 
 winds of heaven fold up their wings, and rest. 
 There the mariner reposes from all his toils, and 
 
 24* 
 
282 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 forgets his perils and fears, his watchings and fa 
 tigues. The billows are without ; they foam and 
 toss in vain. The sails are furled, and the anchors 
 are dropped. " We sail the sea of life," says the 
 poet, 
 
 " We sail the sea of life a calm one finds, 
 And one a tempest and, the voyage o er, 
 Death is the quiet haven of us all." 
 
 Thus discourses the ocean on the great themes 
 of mortality the eloquent ocean, sounding forth 
 incessantly, in its deep-toned surges, a true and 
 dignified philosophy ; repeating to every shore the 
 moral and the mystery of human life. 
 
 But it does something more. It is so vast, so 
 uniform, so full, so all-enveloping, that it leads the 
 thoughts to a sublimer theme than life or time, to 
 the theme of dread eternity. When contempla 
 tions on this subject are suggested by it, human life 
 shrinks up into a stream, wandering through a va 
 ried land, now through flowers, and now through 
 sands, now clearly and now turbidly, now smoothly 
 and quietly, and now obstructed and chafed, till it 
 is lost at last in the mighty ocean, which receives, 
 and feels it not. There is nothing among the 
 earthly works of God, which brings the feeling 
 for it can hardly be termed a conception the 
 feeling of eternity so powerfully to the soul, as 
 
RELIGION OF THE SEA. 283 
 
 does the " wide, wide sea." We look upon its 
 waves, succeeding each other continually, one ris 
 ing up as another vanishes, and we think of the 
 generations of men, which lift up their heads for 
 a while and then pass away, one after the other, 
 for all the noise and show they make, even as 
 those restless and momentary waves. Thus the 
 waves and the ages come and go, appear and dis 
 appear, and the ocean and eternity remain the 
 same, undecaying and unaffected, abiding in the 
 unchanging integrity of their solemn existence. 
 We stand upon the solitary shore, and we hear 
 the surges beat, uttering such grand, inimitable 
 symphonies as are fit for the audience of cliffs and 
 skies ; and our minds fly back through years and 
 years, to that time, when, though we were not, 
 and our fathers were not, those surges were yet 
 beating, incessantly beating, making the same wild 
 music, and heard alone by the overhanging cliffs, 
 and the overarching skies, which silently gave 
 heed to it, even as they do now. In the presence 
 of this old and united company we feel on what 
 an exceedingly small point we stand, and how 
 soon we shall be swept away, while the surges 
 will continue to beat on that very spot, and the 
 cliffs and the skies will still lean over to hear. 
 This is what may be called the feeling of eternity. 
 Perhaps the feeling is rendered yet more intense, 
 
284 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 when we lie on our bed, musing and watching, 
 and hear the sonorous cadences of the waves com 
 ing up solemnly and soothingly through the still 
 ness of night. It is as the voice of a spirit as 
 the voice of the spirit of eternity. The ocean 
 seems now to be a living thing, ever living and 
 ever moving, a sleepless influence, a personifica 
 tion of unending duration, uttering aloud the ora 
 cles of primeval truth. 
 
 " Listen ! the mighty being is awake, 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder, everlastingly." 
 
 Where are the myriads of men who have trod 
 den its shores, and gone down to it in ships ? 
 They are passed away. Not a single trace has 
 been left by all their armaments. Where are the 
 old kingdoms which were once washed by its 
 waves ? They have been changed, and changed 
 again, till a few ruins only tell where they stood. 
 But the sea is all the same. Man can place no 
 monuments upon it, with all his ambition and 
 pride. It suffers not even a ruin to speak of his 
 triumphs or his existence. It remains as young, 
 as strong, as free, as when it first listened to the 
 Almighty Word, and responded with all its bil 
 lows to the song of the morning stars. 
 
 " Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; 
 Such as creation s dawn beheld, thou rollest now." 
 
RELIGION OF THE SEA. 285 
 
 It is this immutability, which, more than any 
 other of the attributes of ocean, perhaps, impresses 
 our minds with the sentiment of eternity, and 
 gives to it its character of superiority among the 
 works of God. Earth never frees itself entirely 
 from the subjection of man. It constantly re 
 ceives and covers his fallen remains, indeed, but 
 is made to bear memorials of the victor, even after 
 he is vanquished. All over the world, we see the 
 vestiges of former generations ; their caves, their 
 wells, their pyramids, their roads, their towers, 
 their graves. But none of these things are on the 
 sea. Its surface is unmarked but by its own com 
 motions ; and when it buries man or man s works, 
 the sepulture is sudden and entire ; a plunge, a 
 bubble, and the waters roll on as before, careless 
 of the momentary interruption of their wonted 
 flowing. Thus immutable, thus unworn and un 
 sullied is ocean. To what shall it be compared, 
 but to the highest subjects of thought, to life and 
 to immortality ? It allies itself in its greatness 
 more with spirit than with matter. It holds itself 
 above subjection or control. It seems to have a 
 will, a liberty, and a power. 
 
 As these are high associations, they readily lead 
 us up to Him who is above all height. There 
 is a natural connection between all sublime and 
 pure sentiment, and the conception of Deity. All 
 
MISCELLANIES, 
 
 grandeur directs us to him, because we have learnt 
 that he is greatest. We cannot stop in the crea 
 ture, after we have received any true ideas of the 
 Creator. And thus God himself comes, as if by 
 an influence of his spirit, into our minds, when we 
 are looking upon the sea, or listening to its roar, 
 and imbibing the emotions which it is so powerful 
 to excite. Where he comes, he reigns. The con 
 ception of God, when it enters, takes the throne 
 of authority among the other thoughts, and brings 
 them into easy subordination. And then we think 
 how inferior and dependent are all might and ma 
 jesty, compared with his. The eternity of ocean 
 becomes a brief type of the eternity of him who 
 made it, and all its grandeur as a passing shadow 
 of his. It does not, however, lose any of its inter 
 est, by this kind of inferiority. Nothing is les 
 sened to the pious mind, by being esteemed less 
 than the Supreme. It retains its connection with 
 eternity and God, and is exalted by its glorious 
 dependence. It puts on the aspect, and speaks 
 with the added solemnity of religion ; telling us 
 that all its power and magnificence are from the 
 Maker, and that if it is full of beauty, and life, and 
 usefulness, and mystery, it is because the Maker 
 is good and wise and infinite. The sea has been 
 called the religious sea. It is religious, as it sug 
 gests religious thoughts and emotions. And as 
 
RELIGION OF THE SEA. 287 
 
 the feelings excited by a noble object in a con 
 templative soul, are always in some degree re 
 flected back upon that object, the sea will appear 
 to be in its own self religious ; to know that it is 
 lying in the hollow of the Almighty s hand ; to 
 chant loud anthems to his praise in the noise of its 
 rushing floods, and to send up its more quiet de 
 votions in the breathing stillness of its calms. In 
 short, we know nothing of the sea as we ought to 
 know, we feel nothing of its best and sublimest 
 inspirations, unless we receive from it, and com 
 municate to it, the thoughts and feelings of reli 
 gion ; unless we grow devout as we gaze, and 
 return from contemplating it with the conscious 
 ness that we have entered into a nearer union with 
 God. 
 
 The moral associations which have now been 
 described as naturally arising from the soul s con 
 verse with the sea, are all in a great degree defi 
 nite. The deep is, as it were, freighted and laden 
 with them, and bears them richly to our receiving 
 bosoms. And when we look out upon the ocean, 
 without fixing on either of these associations as the 
 direct subject of thought, it is the union of several 
 or of all of them, which, almost unconsciously to 
 us, produces such a strong impression within us. 
 But besides these sentiments, which can be traced 
 and numbered, there are feelings suggested by 
 
288 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 that magnificent object, which cannot so well, if 
 at all, be defined. I believe that no one, who 
 loves nature, has let his soul go out on the sea, 
 without experiencing emotions which he could not 
 possibly explain, but which were as real as any 
 that he ever felt. All that "he can tell of them, is, 
 that they are elevating and refining. Further 
 than this he cannot communicate them, for they 
 baffle all description and search. It seems to him, 
 sometimes, as he waits and watches on the shore, 
 that the great Spirit himself moves, as in the be 
 ginning, on the face of the waters, and speaks to 
 him holy words, which, though he hears and im 
 bibes, he cannot fully understand ; which he knows 
 not now, but will know hereafter. They come 
 like whispers of that communion, intelligence, and 
 consent which pervade creation. They teach us 
 something of our unrevealed connections, some 
 thing of the unseen and unimaginable future ; and, 
 if so be that we are disposed to bring down all 
 our faith and trust to that alone which we can 
 touch and clearly define, they gently rebuke. us 
 for our coldness, and intimate to us that there are 
 more, many more things in heaven and earth and 
 sea, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. 
 
 I have spoken as I was able, and not as I could 
 have desired, of the " great and wide sea." Let 
 the rest be learnt by each one, where it can be 
 
RELIGION OF THE SEA. 289 
 
 learnt much better than from me, from the sea 
 itself. If I have induced a single individual, who 
 has hitherto regarded it as a barren collection of 
 waters, or a medium of traffic merely, to look 
 upon it as something more wonderful, divine, and 
 useful than this, I am satisfied. If his curiosity is 
 at all excited, let him go to the sea-shore, and get 
 wisdom. If his devout affections are at all moved, 
 let him go to the ocean, and worship. 
 
 " His choir shall be the moonlight waves, 
 When murmuring homeward to their caves ; 
 Or, when the stillness of the sea, 
 Even more than music, breathes of Thee ! " 
 
 Every object in nature yields instruction to the 
 teachable and listening mind ; but some objects 
 utter a voice more powerful, more commanding, 
 more thrilling, than others. If we may find, as 
 one of the best English poets tells us we may, 
 " sermons in stones," in lifeless stones, what elo 
 quent and soul-stirring addresses may we not hear 
 from the living, glorious, beautiful, eternal sea ! 
 
 25 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 
 
 THERE is a power and beauty, I may say a di 
 vinity, in rushing waters, felt by all who acknow 
 ledge any sympathy with nature. The mountain 
 stream, leaping from rock to rock, and winding, 
 foaming, and glancing through its devious and 
 stony channels, arrests the eye of the most care 
 less or business-bound traveller ; sings to the heart 
 and haunts the memory of the man of taste and 
 imagination, and holds, as by some undefinable 
 spell, the affections of those who inhabit its bor 
 ders. A waterfall, of even a few feet in height, 
 will enliven the dullest scenery, and lend a charm 
 to the loveliest ; while a high and headlong cata 
 ract has always been ranked among the sublimest 
 objects to be found in the compass of the globe. 
 
 It is no matter of surprise, therefore, that lovers 
 of nature perform journeys of homage to that 
 sovereign of cataracts, that monarch of all pouring 
 floods, the Falls of Niagara. It is no matter of 
 surprise, that, although situated in what might 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 291 
 
 have been called, a few years ago, but cannot be 
 now, the wilds of North America, five hundred 
 miles from the Atlantic coast, travellers from all 
 civilized parts of the world have encountered all 
 the difficulties and fatigues of the path, to behold 
 this prince of waterfalls amidst its ancient soli 
 tudes, and that, more recently, the broad high 
 ways to its dominions have been thronged. By 
 universal consent it has long ago been proclaimed 
 one of the wonders of the world. It is alone in 
 its kind. Though a waterfall, it is not to be com 
 pared with other waterfalls. In its majesty, its 
 supremacy, and its influence on the soul of man, 
 its brotherhood is with the living ocean and the 
 eternal hills. 
 
 I am humbly conscious that no words of mine 
 can give an adequate description, or convey a sat- 
 isfactory idea, of Niagara Falls. But having just 
 returned from a visit to them, 1 with the impression 
 which they made upon my mind fresh and deep, 
 I may hope to impart at least a faint image of that 
 impression to the minds of those who have not 
 seen them, and retouch, perhaps, some fading 
 traces in the minds of those who have. And if I 
 can call the attention of any to this glorious object 
 as a work of God, and an echo of the voice of 
 
 1 The visit was made with some friends, in July, 1831. 
 
292 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 God ; if by anything which I may fitly say of it, 
 I can quicken the devotion of one breast, I shall 
 feel that I have fulfilled a sacred duty, and that I 
 have not unworthily expressed my sense of obli 
 gation for having been permitted to behold it my 
 self. 
 
 I will not begin my description with the cata 
 ract itself, but take you back to the great lake from 
 which the Niagara flows, so that you may go down 
 its banks as I did, and approach the magnificent 
 scene with a knowledge regularly and accumu 
 latively gained of its principal accessories. For 
 the river and the lake, nay, the whole superb chain 
 of rivers and lakes, should be taken into view, 
 when we would conceive as we ought of the falls 
 of Niagara. 
 
 As we approach the town of Buffalo, which is 
 situated near the eastern extremity of Lake Erie, 
 that wide-spread sheet of water opens to the sight. 
 If the traveller has never seen the ocean, he may 
 here imagine that he sees it. If he has, he will 
 say that it is a sea view which here lies before 
 him. As he looks to the west, the horizon only 
 bounds the liquid expanse ; and it is not till he 
 descends to the shore, and marks the peculiar, 
 quiet, and exact level of the even and sleeping 
 lake, that he will find anything to remind him that 
 he is not on the coast of the salt and swelling sea. 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 
 
 293 
 
 Four miles north from Buffalo, we come to the 
 village of Black Rock ; l and it is here that the 
 boundaries of the lake contract, and its waters be 
 gin to pour themselves out through the sluiceway 
 of the Niagara river. The river is at this place 
 about a quarter of a mile broad ; and, as I gazed 
 on its dark and deep and hurrying stream, I felt a 
 sensation of interest stealing over me, similar to 
 that which I have experienced in reading of the 
 preparations of men for some momentous expedi 
 tion. Opposite Black Rock, on the Canada side, 
 is the village of Waterloo, to which we were fer 
 ried over, and from which we commenced our 
 ride down the river, which runs north into Lake 
 Ontario. There is also a road on the American 
 side, from Buffalo to the Falls, a distance, either 
 way, of about fifteen miles. 
 
 From Waterloo we pass on by a level road, im 
 mediately on the western bank of the Niagara, and 
 observe that the river continually becomes wider, 
 till at length it divides into two streams which 
 sweep round an island several miles in length. 
 They then unite again, forming one stream as 
 before, only that it is increased in breadth and 
 
 1 According to Mr. Featherstonhaugh, editor of the Monthly 
 American Journal of Geology and Natural Science, the " seams and 
 patches of dark-colored chert, contained in the beds of carboniferous 
 limestone," have furnished its name to this village. 
 25* 
 
294 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 swiftness. And now the interest thickens, and 
 begins to grow intense. Hitherto we had been 
 travelling on the side of a large river, it is true, 
 but one not much distinguished otherwise, either 
 by its motion, its shape, or the beauty of its bor 
 ders. We are obliged to call on ourselves to con 
 sider where we are, and whither we are going ; 
 for Niagara itself seems unconscious of the grand 
 associations with which it is freighted. It moves 
 as if unmindful, or as not caring to put the travel 
 ler in mind, that its waters have come down 
 through the whole length of Erie from the far 
 away Huron, Michigan, Superior ; that they are 
 just about to rush over the wondrous precipice 
 below, and theji are to hasten forward into an 
 other majestic lake, and from it are to pass through 
 the portals of a thousand islands, and the alternate 
 rapids and lakes of a noble and romantic river, 
 washing the feet of cities, and so to flow on into 
 the all-receiving sea. We are obliged to remem 
 ber this, I say ; for the unpretending waters, 
 though pressing forward continually and intently, 
 have thus far told us nothing, themselves, of their 
 long pilgrimage behind, or the yet more eventful 
 journey before them. But here, as they are meet 
 ing round Grand Island, they break their silence 
 and speak, and the whole scene becomes full of 
 spirit and meaning. Here, about three miles from 
 
PALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 295 
 
 the Falls, you see the white-crested rapids tossing 
 in the distance before you. Here, even in the 
 most unfavorable state of the weather, you hear 
 the voice of the cataract, pervading the air with 
 its low, monotonous, continuous roar. And here 
 you see a column of mist rising up, like a smoke 
 in distantly burning woods, and designating the 
 sublime scene over which it is immediately hang 
 ing. I know not that I was afterward more 
 strongly affected, even by the Falls themselves, 
 than I was by the sight of this ever-changing and 
 yet never absent guide, this cloudy pillar, this 
 floating, evanescent, and yet eternal testimony, 
 which pointed out to me the exact spot which had 
 been for so many years as a shrine to thousands, 
 which I had heard of and read of so long, and 
 which I had myself so often visited, though not in 
 person, yet with my reverential wishes, with my 
 mind, and with my heart. Childhood came back 
 to me, with its indistinct, but highly wrought and 
 passionate images ; maps were unrolled ; books 
 were opened ; paintings were spread ; measure 
 ments were recalled ; all the efforts which the art 
 of man had made, all the tributes which his spirit 
 had offered, at the call of the great cataract ; all 
 these associations, with other dreamlike thoughts 
 of the wilderness, the lake, and the stream, rose 
 up unbidden and with power within me, as I stead- 
 
296 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 fastly regarded that significant, far-off mist, and 
 knew that I, too, was soon to stand on the conse 
 crated spot, and see. and feel. 
 
 A mile or two is soon passed, and now we turn 
 a little from the road to the right, in order to have 
 a near view of the rapids. These occupy the 
 whole breadth of the river, from shore to shore, 
 and extend half a mile back from the Falls, and 
 are formed by the rush of the entire body of wa 
 ters down a rough bed, the descent of which in 
 the course of this half mile is fifty feet. Here all 
 is tumult and impetuous haste. The view is some 
 thing like that of the sea in a violent gale. Thou 
 sands of waves dash eagerly forward, and indicate 
 the interruptions which they meet with from the 
 hidden rocks, by ridges and streaks of foam. 
 Terminating this angry picture, you distinguish 
 the crescent rim of the British Fall, over which 
 the torrent pours, and disappears. The wilder 
 ness and the solitude of the scene are strikingly 
 impressive. Nothing that lives is to be seen in its 
 whole extent. "Nothing that values its life, ever 
 dares venture it there. The waters refuse the 
 burden of man, and of man s works. Of this they 
 give fair and audible warning, of which all take 
 heed. They have one engrossing object before 
 them, and they go to its accomplishment alone. 
 
 Returning to the road, we ride the last half mile, 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 297 
 
 ascending gradually, till we come to the public 
 house. A footpath through the garden at the back 
 of the house, and down a steep and thickly-wooded 
 bank, brings us upon Table Rock, a flat ledge of 
 limestone, forming the brink of the precipice, the 
 upper stratum of which is a jagged shelf, no more 
 than about afoot in thickness, jutting out over the 
 gulf below. Here the whole scene breaks upon 
 us. Looking up the river, we face the grand cre 
 scent, called the British or Horseshoe Fall. Op 
 posite to us is Goat Island, which divides the Falls, 
 and lower down to the left, is the American Fall. 
 And what is the first impression made upon the 
 beholder ? Decidedly, I should say, that of beau 
 ty ; of sovereign, majestic beauty, it is true, but 
 still that of beauty, soul-filling beauty, rather than 
 of awful sublimity. Everything is on so large a 
 scale ; the height of the cataract is so much ex 
 ceeded by its breadth, 1 and so much concealed by 
 the volumes of mist which wrap and shroud its 
 feet ; you stand so directly on the same level with 
 the falling waters ; you see so large a portion of 
 them at a considerable distance from you ; and 
 their roar comes up so moderated from the deep 
 abyss, that the loveliness of the scene, at first sight 
 
 1 The height of the Horseshoe Fall is 150 feet ; its breadth 2376 
 feet. 
 
298 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 is permitted to take precedence of its grandeur, 
 Its coloring alone is of the most exquisite kind. 
 The deep sea-green of the centre of the crescent, 
 where it is probable the greatest mass of water 
 falls, lit up with successive flashes of foam, and 
 contrasted with the rich, creamy whiteness of the 
 two sides or wings of the same crescent ; then the 
 sober gray of the opposite precipice of Goat Is 
 land, crowned with the luxuriant foliuge of its 
 forest trees, and connected still further on with the 
 pouring snows of the greater and less American 
 Falls ; the agitated and foamy surface of the wa 
 ters at the bottom of the Falls, followed by the 
 darkness of their hue as they sweep along through 
 the perpendicular gorge beyond ; the mist, float 
 ing about, and veiling objects with a softening in 
 distinctness ; and the bright rainbow which is con 
 stant to the sun altogether form a combination 
 of color, changing too with every change of light, 
 every variation of the wind, and every hour of the 
 day, which the painter s art cannot imitate, and 
 which nature herself has perhaps only effected 
 here. 
 
 And the motion of these Falls, how wonderfully 
 fine it is ! how graceful, how stately, how calm ! 
 There is nothing in it hurried or headlong, as you 
 might have supposed. The eye is so long in mea 
 suring the vast, and yet unacknowledged height, 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 299 
 
 that they seem to move over almost slowly ; the 
 central and most voluminous portion of the Horse 
 shoe even goes down silently. The truth is, that 
 pompous phrases cannot describe these Falls. 
 Calm and deeply-meaning words should alone be 
 used in speaking of them. Anything like hyper 
 bole would degrade them, if they could be de 
 graded. But they cannot be. Neither the words 
 nor the deeds of man degrade or disturb them. 
 There they pour over, in their collected might and 
 dignified flowing, steadily, constantly, as they al 
 ways have been pouring since they came from the 
 hollow of His hand, and you can add nothing to 
 them, nor can you take anything from them. 
 
 As I rose, on the morning following my arrival, 
 and went to the window for an early view, a sin 
 gular fear came over me that the Falls might have 
 passed away, though their sound was in my ears. 
 It was, to be sure, rather the shadow of a fear 
 than a fear, and reason dissipated it as soon as it 
 was formed. But the bright things of earth are 
 so apt to be fleeting, and we are so liable to lose 
 what is valued as soon as it is bestowed, that I be 
 lieve it was a perfectly natural feeling which sug 
 gested to me for an instant, that I had enjoyed 
 quite as much of such a glorious exhibition as I 
 deserved, and that I had no right to expect that it 
 would continue, as long as I might be pleased to 
 
300 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 behold. But the Falls were there, with their full, 
 regular, and beautiful flowing. The clouds of 
 spray and mist were now dense and high, and 
 completely concealed the opposite shores ; but as 
 the day advanced, and the beams of the sun in 
 creased in power, they were thinned and con 
 tracted. Presently a thunder shower rose up from 
 the west, and passed directly over us ; and soon 
 another came, still heavier than the preceding. 
 And now I was more impressed than ever with 
 the peculiar motion of the Fall ; not, however, be 
 cause it experienced a change, but because it did 
 not. The lightning gleamed, the thunder pealed, 
 the rain fell in torrents ; the storms were grand ; 
 but the Fall, if I may give its expression a lan 
 guage, did not heed them at all ; the rapids above 
 raged no more and no less than before, and the 
 Fall poured on with the same quiet solemnity, 
 with the same equable intentness, undisturbed by 
 the lightning and rain, and listening not to the loud 
 thunder. 
 
 About half a mile below the Horseshoe Fall, a 
 commodious road has lately been cut in a slanting 
 direction, down the side of the perpendicular cliff, 
 and through the solid rock, to the river. Here 
 we find a regular ferry, and are conveyed in a 
 small boat across the stream, which is now nar 
 rowed to a breadth of about twelve hundred feet, 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 301 
 
 to the American side. The passage is perfectly 
 safe, and, though short, delightful, as it affords a 
 superb view of both the Falls above, and of the 
 dark river below. The current is not very rapid, 
 and near the American side actually sets up to 
 ward the Falls ; by the help of which eddy the 
 boat regains what it had lost in the middle of the 
 stream. We land almost directly at the feet of 
 the American Fall, and by walking a little way to 
 the right, may place ourselves in its spray. Now 
 look up, and the height will not disappoint you. 
 Now attend to the voice of the cataract, and it 
 will fill your soul with awe. It seems as if the 
 "waters which are above the firmament" were 
 descending from the heights of heaven, and as if 
 " the fountains of the great deep Avere broken np " 
 from belo\v. The noise, which permits free con 
 versation to those who are on the bank above, is 
 here imperative and deafening. It resembles the 
 perpetual rolling of near thunder, or the uninter 
 rupted discharge of a battery of heavy ordnance, 
 mingled with a strange crashing and breaking 
 sound. This resemblance to the roar of artillery 
 is heightened by the sight of the large bodies of 
 spray, which are continually and with immense 
 force exploded from the abyss. The impression 
 of superior height is gained, not so much from the 
 fact that the American Fall is actually ten or 
 26 
 
302 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 twelve feet higher than the British, as from your 
 having a complete profile view of the one, from 
 brink to base, which you cannot well obtain of the 
 other. 
 
 Flights of secure wooden steps bring us to the 
 top of the bank, 1 where we again stand on a level 
 with the descending Falls. We soon found that 
 the greatest variety of interest was on this, the 
 American side. The village of Manchester is sit 
 uated on the rapid, just above the Fall. A bridge 
 is thrown boldly over the rushing and " arrowy " 
 rapid to a small island, called Bath Island, where 
 there are one or two dwellings and a paper-mill ; 
 and from this spot another bridge runs with equal 
 boldness to Goat Island. The whole breadth of 
 the space thus traversed is one thousand and 
 seventy-two feet. 
 
 Goat Island is a paradise. I do not believe 
 that there is a spot in the world, which, within the 
 same space, comprises so much grandeur and 
 beauty. It is but about a mile in circumference, 
 
 1 On this bank, near the ferry-house, there is a stone embedded in 
 the ground, rudely carved, on which there has lately been discovered, 
 by removing the moss which had grown over it, the following in 
 scription : I. V. 1747. This is by far the most ancient date to be 
 found in the vicinity. I. V., whoever he was, when he looked upon 
 the Falls, must have been surrounded by a perfect wilderness. What 
 poet will speak in his name, and describe his feelings, and record his 
 thoughts, as he stood here alone with God ? 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 303 
 
 and in that mile you have a forest of tall old trees, 
 many of them draperied with climbing and cleav 
 ing ivy ; a rich variety of wild shrubs and plants ; 
 several views of the rapids ; an opportunity to pass 
 without discomfort under the smaller American 
 Fall, and the very finest view, I will venture to 
 say, of the great Crescent, or Horseshoe Fall. 
 Turn to the left, as you enter this Eden, and you 
 come out into a cleared and open spot, on which 
 you discern a log-hut, with vines round its door 
 and windows, and a little garden in front of it, 
 running down to the water s edge ; a flock of 
 sheep feeding quietly, or reposing pleasantly, un 
 der scattered clumps of graceful trees ; while, be 
 yond this scene of rural repose, you see the whole 
 field of the rapids, bearing down in full force upon 
 this point of their division, as if determined to 
 sweep it away. Or, turn to the right, and thread 
 ing the shady forest, step aside to the margin of 
 the smaller American Fall, 1 and bathe your hands, 
 if you please, in its just leaping waters. Then, 
 pursuing the circuit of the island, descend a spiral 
 flight of stairs, and treading cautiously along a 
 narrow footpath, cut horizontally in the side of the 
 
 4& 
 
 1 This is separated from the greater Fall by a diminutive island, 
 covered with trees, which tenaciously maintains its terrible position, 
 in emulation, as it were, of Goat Island. This lesser Fall, small as 
 it is, compared with the others, would of itself be worth a journey. 
 
304 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 - 
 
 cliff, enter the magnificent hall formed by the fall 
 ing flood, the bank of which you have just left, 
 and command your nerves for a few moments, 
 that, standing as you do about midway in the de 
 scent of the Fall, you may look up, eighty feet, to 
 its arched and crystal roof, and down, eighty feet, 
 on its terrible and misty and resounding floor. 
 You will never forget that sight and sound. 
 
 Retrace your steps to the upper bank, and then, 
 if your strength holds out, proceed a short way 
 further to the enjoyment of a view, already referred 
 to, which excels every other in this place of many 
 wonders. It is obtained from a bridge or plat 
 form, which has recently been thrown out over 
 some rocks, 1 and is carried to the very brink of 
 the Horseshoe Fall, and even projects beyond it ; 
 so that the spectator at the end of the platform, is 
 actually suspended over it. And if he is alone, 
 and gives way to his feelings, he must drop upon 
 his knees, for the grandeur of the scene is over- 
 powering. The soul is elevated, and at the same 
 time subdued, as in an awful and heavenly pre 
 sence. Deity is there. The brooding and com 
 manding Spirit is there. " The Lord is upon many 
 waters." Tha heights and the depths, the sha 
 dows and the sunlight, the foam, the mist, the rain- 
 
 1 These are called the Terrapin Rocks. 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 305 
 
 bows, the gushing showers of diamonds, the beauty 
 and the power and the majesty all around and 
 beneath, environ the spirit with holiest influences, 
 and without violence compel it to adore. " Deep 
 calleth unto deep." The cataract, from its mys 
 terious depths, calleth with its thunder, back to the 
 deep lake, and up to the deep sky, and forward 
 to the deep ocean, and far inward to the deep of 
 man s soul. And the answer of the lake, and the 
 answer of the sky, and the answer of the ocean, 
 are praise to the Maker, praise to Him who sit- 
 teth above the water-flood, praise to Almighty 
 God ! And where is the soul, which will not also 
 hear that call, and answer it even with a clearer 
 and louder answer, and cry, Praise to the Creator, 
 praise to the infinite and holy and blessed God ! 
 
 These Falls are not without their history ; but, 
 like their depths, it is enveloped with clouds. 
 Geologists suppose, and with good apparent rea 
 son, that time was when the Niagara fell over the 
 abrupt bank at QueenstowTi, between six and se 
 ven miles below the place of the present Falls, 
 and that it has, in the lapse of unknown and in 
 calculable years, been wearing away the gulf in 
 the intermediate distance, and toiling and travel 
 ling through the rock, back to its parent lake. 
 The abrupt termination of the high bank and table 
 land at Queenstown ; the correspondence of the 
 26* 
 
306 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 opposite cliffs to each other all the way up to the 
 Falls ; the masses of superincumbent limestone, 
 which both the American and Canadian cataracts 
 hurl, from time to time, into the boiling abyss, 1 all 
 seem to favor this supposition. But when did the 
 grand journey begin ? When will it end ? How 
 vain to ask ! How momentary human life ap 
 pears, when we give our minds to such contem 
 plations ! Where was the cataract toiling in its 
 way, when none but the awe-struck Indian came 
 to bow before its sublimity ? Where was it, when 
 the moss-buried trunk, which now lies decaying 
 by its borders, was a new-sprung sapling, glit 
 tering with the spray-drops which fed its infant 
 leaves ? Where, was it, before the form of a sin 
 gle red man glided through the forest ? Where 
 was it, when lofty trees stood by it in the intimate 
 sympathy of centuries, which long since have been 
 resolved into earth ? Where was it when winds 
 and clouds were its only visiters ; and when the 
 
 1 Within a few years, several pieces of the upper stratum have 
 been thus thrown down. The waters, however, are now obliged to 
 act upon a surface three times wider than that which formerly sus 
 tained them, and the limestone is becoming more and more compacted 
 with the harder chert, as they approach Black Rock. Their retro 
 cession must therefore be slow, beyond the power of computation. 
 Beneath the limestone strata, there is a layer of loose shale, which is 
 easily washed away, and which is always first hollowed out, before 
 the limestone falls. 
 
FALLS OF THE NIAGARA. 307 
 
 sun and blue heaven by day, and the moon and 
 stars by night, alone looked down and beheld it, 
 the same as they behold it now ? And is not 
 science blind and foolish, when she does not learn 
 to be humble ? Is she not miserably blind and 
 foolish, when, being in her elements and leading- 
 strings, she lisps impiety, instead of prayer ? 
 
 Four days flew by us, like the waters of the 
 rapids, while we staid here, and then came our 
 time for departure. As we rode down to Lake 
 Ontario, on the bank of the river, and turned every 
 moment to catch glimpses of the Falls, we were 
 favored, when between two and three miles on 
 our way, with a full view of the whole cataract, 
 through an opening in the woods. We stopped 
 and alighted, in order to enjoy the melancholy 
 pleasure of contemplating it for the last time. It 
 looked softer and gentler in the distance, and its 
 sound came to the ear like a murmur. I had 
 learned to regard it as a friend ; and as I stood, I 
 bade it, in my heart, farewell. 
 
 Farewell, beautiful, holy creation of God ! 
 Flow on, in the garment of glory which he has 
 given thee, and fill other souls, as thou hast filled 
 mine, with wonder and praise. Often will my spirit 
 be with thee, waking, and in dreams. But soon I 
 shall pass away, and thou wilt remain. Flow on, 
 then, for others eyes, when mine are closed, and 
 
308 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 for others hearts, when mine is cold. Still call to 
 the deeps of many generations. Still utter the in 
 structions of the Creator to wayfaring spirits, till 
 thou hast fulfilled thy work, and they have all re 
 turned, like wearied travellers, to their home. 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 
 
 WHAT is the spirit of reform ? What is it that 
 has animated and enabled men from time to time 
 to become reformers, not disturbers, but true re 
 formers ; and not religious reformers alone, but 
 moral reformers of all descriptions ? Has it not 
 been a sense of independence and personal re- 
 sponsibleness, and of superiority to what are usu 
 ally termed existing circumstances and the spirit 
 of the age ? 
 
 A very large proportion of the evil which has al 
 ways existed in society, may be traced to the want of 
 personal independence, and disregard of personal 
 responsibility. We do not mean by independence, 
 that fiery essence of pride and selfishness, which 
 is quick to resent a slight or wrong ; which is al 
 ways ready to meet aggression more than half 
 way ; and which delights to show itself in rude 
 ness or haughtiness, as its condition may happen 
 to be low or high. For such independence we 
 have little sympathy and less respect, and so far 
 
310 . MISCELLANIES. 
 
 from thinking that there is a want of it in the 
 world, can only lament that there is such a super 
 fluity. By independence we mean another and 
 a far different thing. We mean the resolution 
 which adopts, and maintains, and obeys its own 
 standard of right and wrong ; which refuses to 
 render an unquestioning homage to the voice of 
 the many ; which, being based upon principle, is 
 not to be driven to and fro by the popular breath, 
 even should that breath rise into a whirlwind ; 
 which, acknowledging allegiance to a higher than 
 any mortal authority, will not forfeit it at the be 
 hest of any. This is the independence which 
 leaves to a man his own views and convictions, 
 his own conscience, and his own conduct. With 
 out inciting or suffering him to be forward or bois 
 terous, it makes him steadfast and sure. Without 
 obliging him to feel an uncharitable scorn of pub 
 lic opinion, it offers a rule to his admiration and 
 observance which is alone worthy of his serious 
 study, and entitled to his faithful submission, 
 the great rule of right, the solemn law of God. It 
 teaches him to consider himself as responsible for 
 his thoughts and actions, in the first and highest 
 place, not to the multitude, but to his Maker ; and 
 in the second place, not to the multitude, but to 
 his own soul. It leads him into a safer, happier, 
 and more glorious path, than the broad, dusty, 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 311 
 
 soiled, and soiling road, which is beaten by the 
 multitudinous and crowding world. It sets his 
 feet and his heart at liberty, and breathes into his 
 soul the consciousness of individual existence and 
 value, and the sense of individual duty. 
 
 This is the independence, to the want of which 
 may be traced and referred very much of past and 
 existing evil. Not possessing it, men lose them 
 selves, their accountability, their dignity, all that 
 constitutes them men, in the absorbing mass ; 
 where they acquire the color, and motions, and 
 tendencies of the mighty vortex which has en 
 gulfed them. Instead of uttering a voice of their 
 own, they wait for an acclamation, and then they 
 join in ; instead of having opinions of their own, 
 they listen for the prevalent opinions, and then 
 they repeat them ; instead of having a morality of 
 their own, a religion of their own, they are con 
 tent to be just as moral and just as immoral, just 
 as religious and just as irreligious, as other peo 
 ple ; taking the tone of the world around them, 
 which is seldom the highest, and imbibing its sen 
 timents, which are not always the purest. They 
 do not test and try opinions by any self-instituted 
 process. They do not examine manners and ac 
 tions according to a fixed and exalted standard. 
 They trouble themselves with nothing of the kind. 
 They fall in with the great procession, without 
 
312 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 inquiring whither it is going, upwards or down 
 wards, to a good end or a bad one ; it is enough 
 for them that they are going with it. And thus it 
 comes, that there are so many slaves to custom 
 and fashion ; and that there are so many expen 
 sive and monstrous sacrifices to custom and fash 
 ion. Thus it comes, that those who ought to be 
 economical are extravagant, and those who ought 
 to be industrious are idle, and the rich so often 
 grow poor, and the poor so often keep themselves 
 poor, or grow poorer, and strip themselves to des 
 titution. Thus it comes that so many think evil is 
 metamorphosed into good, when they see the mul 
 titude practise it, and good is turned into evil, 
 when they see the multitude slight, or forsake, or 
 forbid it. And thus it comes, that the amount of 
 evil is so vastly increased, because there are so 
 many who blindly and carelessly, or cowardly, 
 without using their own eyes to observe, or their 
 own minds to prove, follow the multitude to do it. 
 But must we be singular ? Must we be eccen 
 tric ? Must we do nothing that others do ; say 
 nothing that others say ? Must we be perpetually 
 quarrelling with society about its usages and hab 
 its ? No. We are to do none of these things. 
 It is best that we should follow the many in all 
 ways which are indifferent ; perhaps it is best that 
 we should follow them in some ways which are 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 313 
 
 inconvenient ; but we must not follow them to do 
 evil." " Thou must not follow a multitude to do 
 evil." That is the simple commandment. It is 
 very true that singularity and eccentricity, when 
 they come from a causeless, wilful, diseased prin 
 ciple of opposition to general custom and senti 
 ment, are no virtues ; but even then they partake 
 no more of the nature of sin, than does a servile 
 acquiescence in general custom and sentiment. 
 Without doubt, public opinion, on most points, is 
 worthy of respectful attention and examination ; 
 but, after you have examined it by the great and 
 permanent light within, after you have weighed it 
 in the balance of truth and the gospel, and found 
 it false and wanting, reject and oppose it, and if 
 your decision is to be called singularity and eccen 
 tricity, let it be called so, and, in the name of all 
 that is true and holy, be singular and eccentric. 
 We are not required to dispute with the world 
 step by step ; we are not required to be solitary 
 and to forsake the world ; we are rather called 
 upon to do all the good we can in it, and receive 
 all the good we can from it. But we are required 
 to recognize a higher authority than the world s 
 will ; to obey a more sacred commandment than 
 the world s law. We are required to form moral 
 and religious principles of our own, and to regu 
 late our commerce with the world by our princi- 
 27 
 
314 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 pies, and not borrow our principles from cur com 
 merce with the world. If we will not do this, we 
 shall do evil ; for we shall do whatever the multi 
 tude does, and the multitude often does evil. The 
 very reason why so many follow a multitude to 
 do evil, is, not that they take any particular plea 
 sure in evil, but that they are in the weak and 
 silly habit of following a multitude, as a matter of 
 course, without considering whether it is for evil 
 or good. That is to say, they want moral inde 
 pendence, and do not hold themselves individually 
 accountable to their own spirit, or to the Father 
 of spirits. 
 
 This want of independence is manifested by 
 some, who yet would repel the charge of follow 
 ing a multitude. We care not for the multitude, 
 say they. We are not governed by the popular 
 voice, or the popular taste. We acknowledge no 
 such vulgar dominion. We go with the select 
 few, and not with the many, whom we avoid and 
 despise, and feel no disposition to follow. 
 
 Such persons are to be told, that their distinc 
 tion is merely verbal. Their select few, or the 
 fashionable world, or whatever else it may be 
 termed, is to all intents and purposes a multitude, 
 for it is a multitude to them, acting upon them by 
 all the influences of a combination, and with all 
 the despotism of general example. So that we 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 315 
 
 surrender our conscience, and our right of judg 
 ing, deciding, and acting, it matters not whether 
 the surrender ismade to a well-clad or an ill-clad 
 collection of people, to the fashionable or unfash 
 ionable world. These precious powers and digni 
 ties we are not to lay at the feet of any body of 
 men, be they kings, priests, or common people. 
 We are to resist improper influences, at all events 
 and from all directions ; whether they come down 
 from palaces or up from hovels. A multitude is 
 not necessarily a mob. Any number or circle of 
 people, be it large or small, genteel or ungenteel, 
 to whose dictates we yield an Eastern homage, 
 whose maxims we obediently adopt, and in whose 
 ways we implicitly tread, is our multitude, with 
 all the power and associations of a multitude ; and 
 they carry their chains with them, be they gold or 
 be they iron ; and if we are bound, if we cannot 
 stir but in a certain mode and to a certain extent, 
 of what consequence is it what our fetters are made 
 of? We are not at liberty. We have parted 
 with our birthright We have suffered ourselves 
 to be divested of the privilege of self-control. We 
 follow our multitude, and, when it runs to evil, to 
 evil ; and evil is of such a homogeneous charac 
 ter, that it is of little moment whether it is coarse 
 or refined. No kind of evil is genteel in the eyes 
 of the really upright and good. They are essen^ 
 
316 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 tially the subjects of a kingdom, the only one, we 
 believe, where evil, in any dress, is always out 
 of fashion ; the kingdom of righteousness and 
 heaven. 
 
 Are there those, who say that they are not in 
 bondage, or that their bondage is a voluntary one ; 
 that they do not act by compulsion ; that it is their 
 will and pleasure to follow a multitude, and fol 
 low it anywhere ? The amount of this assertion 
 is, that, instead of doing evil with the rest of the 
 world thoughtlessly or unwillingly, they do it wil 
 fully and willingly ; that, instead of disobeying 
 the commandment of God blindly or with reluct 
 ance, they disobey it readily and fearlessly. They 
 take the offered fetters gladly, and put them on 
 with their own hands. They are proud of them, 
 and desirous of wearing them. They do not in 
 tend to inquire what is good or what is evil. They 
 only intend to do as others do, whether what they 
 do is evil or good. This alacrity and satisfaction 
 in parting with their independence, and denying a 
 supreme law of right and wrong, and submitting 
 to an earthly direction, bears a character of ex- 
 plicitness and reckless hardihood, and that is the 
 best that can be said of it. It is no extenuation 
 of the offence, but the contrary. If they declare 
 that it gives them pleasure to follow a multitude, 
 and that they mean to follow it, they only declare 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 317 
 
 that they are more completely and in spirit servile, 
 than he is who says, that he cannot help following 
 the multitude, that he dislikes the bondage, but 
 cannot throw it off. 
 
 We have shown that the great danger of dis 
 obeying the divine law lies in the habit, so easily, 
 and, unless carefully guarded against, so inevita 
 bly formed, of following a multitude ; of giving 
 up our sentiments and conduct into the hands of 
 those around us, instead of keeping them in our 
 own ; of having no permanent rule of action, above 
 the authority of a multitude, and beyond their 
 power ; of permitting ourselves to be dependent 
 on a multitude, and to forget all other and higher 
 accountability. Our main duty, therefore, is, as 
 it will be our great safeguard and defence, to have 
 a fixed standard, to acknowledge a supreme rule, 
 and to refer to this standard, and observe this rule, 
 firmly and regularly, let the multitude go as they 
 will. 
 
 It has all along been intimated where the great 
 and sacred law is to be found. God has written 
 it on our hearts, and he has revealed it in the 
 Scriptures. We have a sense of right and wrong ; 
 and we should heed fully attend to its unper verted 
 monitions. We are gifted with reason, that di 
 vine light within ; and we should use it in deter 
 mining what is profitable and what is unprofita- 
 27* 
 
318 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ble ; what is hurtful to our nature and what is 
 helpful to it ; what is a useful and dignified em 
 ployment of our time and faculties, and what is 
 a waste and abuse of them ; what will contribute 
 to exalt, and what to degrade us. 
 
 From the same Eternal Source and Supreme 
 Authority we have a light and a law in the Bible. 
 The word is written there against all sin and all 
 manner of defilement. Unequivocal precepts of 
 righteousness are laid down there, which it is im 
 possible to misconstrue, and concerning which 
 there can be no controversy. 
 
 And then there is the example of the Saviour, 
 who practised the purity, integrity and holiness 
 which he came to teach ; and whose life can be 
 no more misapprehended than his moral doctrine 
 can be ; a life of piety, a life of truth, a life of sin 
 gular, independent excellence, a model of living 
 for all the sons of God. 
 
 Behold, then, the law, the testimony, and the 
 life which are to be our standard and rule, as men 
 and as Christians. Let these be erected above the 
 world s highway, far above it. Let these be 
 obeyed and followed before the world s command 
 ment and example, far and long before them. 
 Then shall we not follow a multitude to do evil, 
 because we shall follow, first of all, and rather 
 than all, those divine dictates, and that divine ex- 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 319 
 
 ample, which are clothed with the highest author 
 ity, which beam with the clearest light, which call 
 us to our own true happiness, and can only lead 
 us to do good. 
 
 The above remarks have been made, and prin 
 ciples laid down, preparatory to the consideration 
 of the correctness of some ideas which are com 
 monly entertained with regard to the nature and 
 power of circumstances. 
 
 When we are reviewing the history of a gener 
 ation, the character and conduct of ancestors, or 
 the biography or writings of individuals, it is the 
 constant habit to account for, and at the same 
 time to extenuate, and almost to justify, some of 
 the worst of their faults and sins, by imputing 
 them to the circumstances of the age in which they 
 lived. Let there be gross inconsistencies, glaring 
 errors, burning shames in the scene, the broad 
 veil of circumstances is only to be dropped before 
 them, and it covers, conceals, or, at least, shades 
 them all. 
 
 Now, it is not to be denied that the circum 
 stances of the times and manners of the age are in 
 a certain degree palliative of vices, irregularities, 
 and excesses which grow out of them, or go to 
 constitute them. That is to say, the mighty force 
 and sway of general example, for evil as well as 
 for good, are to be duly allowed in estimating the 
 
320 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 movements of society. The proneness of individ 
 uals to follow a multitude, and of the constituent 
 members of a multitude to follow each other to do 
 evil, is a fact in our moral nature which is not to 
 be overlooked, and which, in some cases, and 
 with respect to the very ignorant and benighted, 
 amounts to nearly a full palliation of offences. 
 But it is not to be allowed, that circumstances are 
 the complete justification of offences in all cases, 
 which they are often asserted to be. It is not to 
 be allowed that a bad example, however general, 
 cannot be resisted ; that a man, by exercising his 
 reason, speaking to his courage, and putting forth 
 his strength, cannot break away from the enthrall 
 ing influence of the many. We therefore think 
 that the usual estimate of what are called circum 
 stances, as excuses of corrupt morals and fatal 
 principles, is superficial, delusive, and of injurious 
 tendency. 
 
 What are circumstances ? With many, they 
 seem to mean a sort of fate ; an undefinable, in 
 comprehensible, and irresistible combination of 
 agencies, which take into their hands the moral 
 government of the world ; an overhanging cloud, 
 under the oppressive shadow of which all men 
 must grope ; an external power, with the myste 
 rious action of which men have no concern but 
 that of obedience. This vague notion of circum- 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 321 
 
 stances, is, as we conceive, at war with the impor 
 tant truth of each man s responsibility, and with 
 some other truths and facts, as may be briefly and 
 easily shown. 
 
 Circumstances, then, we say, are not external 
 and overwhelming powers, but the effects of the 
 free actions and opinions of men themselves, both 
 as individuals and as the constituent parts of soci 
 ety ; and the influence of circumstances is, for the 
 most part, nothing more than the influence of pre 
 valent example ; which we have already allowed 
 to be great, but not almighty and resistless. 
 
 From this definition we of course except phy 
 sical circumstances, such as a cold or a warm cli 
 mate, a maritime or an inland situation ; but the 
 other class, which we may term moral circum 
 stances, and which are not constant, but continu 
 ally varying in the same climate and country, are 
 nothing more than what we have already stated 
 them to be, the effects of the free actions and opin 
 ions of men themselves, for which men themselves 
 are to be held accountable. What are called un- 
 propitious circumstances, are the manifestations 
 and influences of something bad in the character 
 of a people, which, by a reference to a pure and 
 existing standard, might have been better. To 
 yield to such circumstances, to be governed by 
 them, is to follow the multitude to do evil ; which 
 
322 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 is to evince a common and yet culpable want of 
 independence and resolution. A law and a stand 
 ard have always been set up before the Daces of 
 men, by observing which they might have kept in 
 a more excellent way than that which the world 
 has usually or ever pursued. That they might 
 have kept in it, is proved by the fact that some 
 always have kept in it. In all ages, we are made 
 acquainted with individuals, who, like Noah, and 
 Lot, and Joshua, have resolved, with their houses, 
 to serve the Lord, let others serve whom they 
 would. In all nations, there have been those who 
 have worked righteousness and been accepted ; 
 who have listened to the still monitions of their 
 bosoms, in preference to the noise of the multi 
 tude ; and have walked by the light of heaven, 
 whether it shone from within or beamed from the 
 written word, rather than by the delusive and per 
 ishing fires which were kindled by the passions 
 and perversities of the crowd. Have such per 
 sons any merit ? If they have, have not the mul 
 titude, and those who follow the multitude, any 
 sin ? If those who stand aloof from surrounding 
 corruption are to be praised, are not those who 
 permit themselves to be swallowed up in it to be 
 blamed ? We had always thought that it was the 
 prerogative, the dignity, and the duty of men to 
 resist circumstances, even physical circumstances. 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 323 
 
 certainly the circumstances manufactured for them 
 by men like themselves, the vicious fashions, hab 
 its, and systems set up for their worship by the 
 idolatrous world. And we had consequently 
 thought that the human prerogative was yielded, 
 and the dignity lost, and the duty neglected, when 
 the soul submitted and the knee was bent. 
 
 Is it said that the general sin is a necessary re 
 sult of the general ignorance, and that when men 
 have no light, it is no wonder that they stray ? 
 The answer is, that there has always been a light 
 above the darkness, and if the darkness has been 
 preferred, it has been more or less the fault of those 
 who have preferred it ; and whenever the light has 
 been preferred, it has been more or less the glory 
 of those who have preferred it. And surely, since 
 the rising of the Sun of righteousness, there has 
 been light enough. Since the promulgation of the 
 Christian code, there has been a sufficient law, and 
 a satisfactory standard. And the fact is, that those 
 who have enjoyed the most light, have often wan 
 dered the widest, and have made circumstances 
 worse than they found them. Must these be de 
 fended, too, on the score of circumstances and the 
 manners of the age ? Must they who pervert 
 their superior powers to administer to the popular 
 wickedness, and so make it greater, must they, 
 too, be sheltered under the convenient mantle of 
 
324 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the spirit of the times ? We repeat it, they make 
 circumstances, and in different degrees and ways 
 we all make circumstances ; for it appears as plain 
 to us as anything which we behold, that circum 
 stances do not come up from the ground or fall 
 down from the sky, but are made, actually made, 
 by the ever-operating wills of men. If a genera 
 tion or class of men are remarkable for laxity of 
 manners, sensuality and grossness, it is not because 
 they do not know that there is a divine blessing 
 pronounced upon the pure in heart, and a woe 
 against the unclean, but because, knowing, they 
 choose to slight both blessing and ban, and indulge 
 appetite in defiance of law. Again, if they are 
 quarrelsome, revengeful, and warlike, it is not be 
 cause they are not commanded, and do not know 
 that they are commanded, to love one another, but 
 because they determine to give loose to their fiery 
 passions, and send them forth to burn, waste, and 
 destroy ; and because one man follows his neigh 
 bor, and follows the multitude to do evil, without 
 giving the heed which he ought and very well 
 might to his own steps, that they should be found 
 in the way of righteousness. Thus are circum 
 stances created ; and as they are created, so can 
 they be resisted and destroyed, even by the 
 wills and energies of men. The command always 
 exists, Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 325 
 
 evil ; and it can always be obeyed ; for it cannot 
 be considered as issued to those who are absolutely 
 unable to obey it. 
 
 An illustration or two may help us in the con 
 sideration of this subject. Open the works of one 
 of the English dramatic writers of the sixteenth or 
 seventeenth century. They are full of scenes and 
 passages which you acknowledge are not fit to be 
 read by man, woman, or child. But you say, the 
 author was a fine genius, and while his writings are 
 certainly not to be recommended in all respects, 
 he himself ought not to be charged with the faults 
 of his age ? Why is he not to be charged with 
 the faults of his age ? And why is not the age to 
 be charged with its own faults ? They had a law ; 
 the same law which we have, uttering the same 
 language which it does now, clothed with the 
 same sanctions. And yet, knowing this law, and 
 knowing that it called on them to put away the 
 works of darkness, and distinctly specified what 
 those works of darkness were, the crowd, both the 
 well-dressed and the ill-dressed crowd, could de 
 mand such plays as were then written, and the 
 fine geniuses could write them ; and people, who 
 had Bibles in their houses, or at least heard them 
 read in the churches, could go to the theatre, and 
 listen to the grossest stuff which was ever penned 
 28 
 
326 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 or spoken, without a murmur or a blush. Are 
 those playwrights to be excused for their indecency 
 and profaneness, because the spirit of the age ex 
 cused and even required such things ? We can 
 not see why either they or the age are to be ex 
 cused ; why the age is to be considered innocent 
 in having such a spirit, or the playwrights are to 
 be absolved for affording it its congenial nutriment. 
 The divine law did not excuse them, and they 
 knew it did not. And here is the great point in 
 this ease. They sinned, both the multitude and 
 those who followed them, against a known com 
 mandment. A light was shining, and they did 
 not heed it. A standard was erected, and they 
 did not recur to it. No circumstances can furnish 
 a full excuse for such sinning as this, especially 
 when the sin and the circumstances are one and 
 the same ; the sin being the circumstance. To 
 defend such writings as we are speaking of, there 
 fore, by a slight recurrence to the spirit of the age, 
 is a loose and dangerous way of treating moral 
 subjects of this moment. That age was a Christ 
 ian age, a polite and advanced age, and its spirit 
 ought to have been better. All sin, indeed, which 
 is indulged in by numbers, may admit of the same 
 excuse. You may call it the spirit of the age, if 
 you please, but unless you can show that there 
 was no corrective principle existing, no loudly ut- 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 327 
 
 tered law against it, you cannot maintain that the 
 spirit is necessary and blameless, for you cannot 
 prove that a sin is no sin when many partake in it, 
 and follow one another to commit it. 
 
 Then it is further to be considered, that in those 
 very times to which our attention has been di 
 rected, there were those who had the indepen 
 dence and the true wisdom to bring the existing 
 state of morals and habits into comparison with a 
 standard which they revered, and which was wor 
 thy of their reverence, and to see the fearful oppo 
 sition in which the former stood to the latter. 
 And they courageously refused to be governed by 
 the circumstances to which others submitted, that 
 is to say, to be enslaved by the reigning vices ; 
 and they resisted the spirit of their age, and by re 
 sisting reformed it. In other words, they made 
 new circumstances, or greatly modified the old 
 ones. We allude not only to the noble army of 
 Puritans, whose utter abhorrence of the spirit of 
 the age, led them into such harsh but very natural 
 extremes, but to many others, who, though they 
 did not nominally join the Puritans, kept them 
 selves pure amidst impurity, and thus contributed 
 to bring about a chaster style, a more moral taste, 
 and a more serious and practical religion. Are 
 these men worthy of praise ? You will readily 
 allow that they are. Why, then, must you not 
 
328 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 also allow, that those others from whom they se 
 parated themselves, writers and readers, corrupt- 
 ers and corrupted, the makers of fashion and the 
 slaves of fashion, are deserving of blame ? And 
 allowing this, will you not grant, that as moral cir 
 cumstances may be thus formed and changed by 
 men, yielded to or opposed by men, they are in 
 the power of men, being the opinions and customs 
 of men themselves, and therefore not irresistible 
 fates compelling men to certain courses, and de 
 priving them of their accountableness ? 
 
 Perhaps there is no sin which has called more 
 frequently for this excuse of circumstances, and 
 plead more successfully in its defence the spirit of 
 the age, than the sin of religious intolerance. 
 Catholics and Protestants, Churchmen and Puri 
 tans, must all be acquitted of the guilt of fiery pas 
 sions and horrible persecution, because persecution 
 was the fashion of their times, and religious toler 
 ation and liberty of opinion had not yet been in 
 vented. Strange, indeed, that sixteen hundred 
 years after the law of charity and love had been 
 proclaimed to the world, men had not come to the 
 understanding and obedience of it. But some did 
 understand and obey it. Are they to be put on 
 the same level in the moral scale with those who 
 did not ? Is Archbishop Laud to take rank among 
 the peacemakers and sons of Christian liberty, 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 329 
 
 with Roger Williams, William Perm, and Lord 
 Baltimore ? Are circumstances and the spirit of 
 the age really to be permitted to have this equal 
 izing power ? Are the passionate and the peace 
 ful, the forgiving and the revengeful, to be thus 
 jumbled together, because a great majority of 
 their contemporaries were passionate and not 
 peaceful, revengeful and not forgiving ? If it is 
 said that the asserters of full liberty of conscience 
 were really no better men than the advocates of 
 persecution, but were taught their principles by 
 the imposed lessons of dire experience, we shall 
 not take the trouble of disputing the assertion, 
 though we do not believe it ; but even then, grant 
 ing it to be strictly true, we say that it was some 
 credit to the former that they were docile, that 
 they could be taught at all, taught by anything, 
 while they were surrounded by the latter, who, 
 subject to the same dire experience, suffering un 
 der the same discipline, could be taught by no 
 thing. It is much, we repeat, in a man s favor, 
 that he can be taught. 
 
 If this is a just exposition of the nature and 
 power of moral circumstances, it follows that it is 
 one of our first and gravest duties, to do whatever 
 we can to resist and overcome bad circumstances, 
 and to create good ones. This double- fronted 
 duty, as it may be called, looks behind and before, 
 28* 
 
330 MISCELLANIES, 
 
 to the past and to the future. It enjoins upon us 
 a steady warfare with the false notions, injurious 
 customs, and all the unpropitious circumstances 
 which may have come down to us, and among 
 which we find ourselves ; and it requires us to 
 prepare favorable circumstances, by the perform- 
 ance of good works, and the exhibition of a good 
 example, for those who are to come after us. It 
 may be a hard thing, and doubtless is for most of 
 us, to contend resolutely and perseveringly with 
 prevalent and allowed immoralities. We have 
 not said that it is easy to resist perverse circum 
 stances, but that it is practicable and is our duty. 
 A man with a heavy burden on his shoulders, can 
 not be expected to rise with as much facility as if 
 he were not thus laden, and therefore his burden 
 is some excuse for him, if he sits still, or sinks 
 prostrate ; nevertheless, if by vigorous exertion he 
 is able to rise, his burden does not justify him for 
 neglecting or refusing to exert himself and rise up 
 on his feet. 
 
 If we are aware that resistance to the opposing 
 current of circumstances is hard, and that yielding 
 to it is perilous and sinful, so much the more ear 
 nestly should we brace ourselves up to the en 
 counter, both for duty s sake and the sake of those 
 who are to take their turn of duty when we are 
 called to our account. Let us do all we can for 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 33 1. 
 
 them to diminish their danger and their toil, and 
 still they will have enough left to do themselves, 
 and will see no time lying idle on their hands, if 
 they would carry forward the great work of hu 
 man improvement, and leave the world better than 
 they found it. 
 
 We have already spoken of the duty of regard 
 ing and obeying a law of right in preference to 
 the example of the multitude. We have also 
 spoken of the duty of resisting those circumstances 
 which may be resolved into the evil influence of 
 general example, and also of the corresponding 
 duty of forming good circumstances as far as lies 
 within the compass of each man s ability. We 
 will conclude the subject, by stating the kind of 
 exertion which seems to be requisite in the perform 
 ance of these duties. How are we to treat the 
 circumstances by which we are surrounded ? How 
 are we to oppose those which are of a bad ten 
 dency, and how are we to create new and good 
 ones ? Such are the questions which we propose 
 to answer. 
 
 First of all, a reflecting and investigating habit 
 is important. Having a law and a standard, we 
 must keep them steadily in view, and bring other 
 authorities and influences to the test of comparison 
 with them. With the very best dispositions, we 
 may frequently follow the multitude to do evil, if 
 
332 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 we are not wakeful and watchful, and do not pon 
 der well our ways. We must examine circum 
 stances, and not be satisfied that they are innocent 
 because they are familiar, or because they are in 
 troduced to us by friends. We must not take for 
 granted that opinions are true or customs correct 
 and harmless, because they are held and practised 
 by many whom we have much cause to respect 
 and love. Respect and love are supremely due 
 to G od and his word ; and our great care and con 
 stant care should be to try all propositions by the 
 highest and not an inferior rule. If such and such 
 persons, whom we esteem, do such and such 
 things, it is exceedingly pleasant, to be sure, to 
 bear them company, much more pleasant than 
 to stand apart or go on alone, provided those 
 things are good but that is a point which we are 
 bound previously to settle by a holier authority 
 than their example ; for though estimable, they are 
 not infallible. We never ought to lull our suspi 
 cions of the rectitude of a course by repeating the 
 names of those who pursue it. It is a bad prece 
 dent, though a royal one, to have any keepers of 
 our consciences, which we ought to keep and 
 guard ourselves. There is exceeding danger in 
 indulging a careless, indifferent, pains-hating tem 
 per, which acquiesces in all usual and established 
 injunctions, and avoids the trouble of moral inves* 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 333 
 
 tigation and personal decision. It is a proof of 
 weakness, and of a poor understanding of our 
 duty, to say, I form this engagement, I partake of 
 this amusement, I adopt this fashion, because my 
 friends and acquaintance do the same. The pro 
 per interrogatives to be put to ourselves, are, Is 
 this engagement consistent with my known and 
 positive duties ? Can I enter into it with safety, 
 and come out of it unembarrassed, and without a 
 breath on that mirror which reflects to me the im 
 age of my inner self ? Does this amusement in 
 terfere with none of the more serious allotments of 
 my time ? Does it help or hurt me in the process 
 of self-cultivation ? Is it a relaxation or a tempta 
 tion ? Does it relieve or dissipate my mind ? Is 
 it perfectly innocent ? And if innocent now, w T ill 
 it be so by-and-by ; or if innocent to my neigh 
 bor, is it so to me ? And how is it with regard to 
 this fashion ? Is it only one of the varieties of 
 taste, or is it in itself preposterous ? Can I afford 
 to adopt it ? Will a compliance with one of the 
 caprices of the day be of no injurious consequence 
 to my health, my real comfort, or my fortune ? 
 And, finally, will a participation in any engage 
 ment, amusement, or fashion, which is presented to 
 me by the consent of those about me, make me less 
 respectable in my own eyes, and less worthy in the 
 sight of the omniscient and omnipresent Judge ? 
 
334 MISCELLANIES* 
 
 Considerations of this sort we should bring before 
 us very often in our intercourse with the world ; 
 for if we do not, we shall be very apt to slide into 
 that easy, careless habit above mentioned, and be 
 ready to receive whatever comes with the broad 
 seal of society affixed to it, and join in with a mul 
 titude, whichever way they are flocking, 
 
 That the want of that reflection and discrimina 
 tion, the importance of which we have been urg 
 ing, is quite a common want, may be perceived 
 in the conversation of numbers, who, from the 
 way in which they talk, evidently entertain the 
 conviction, that there really is no authority above 
 and beyond the general voice and example, and 
 no such duty as that of examining, for themselves, 
 the validity of the world s law and the propriety 
 of an established usage, before they consent to 
 them, and obey them. It never seems to have 
 entered their heads that a custom of fair repute is 
 a thing to be questioned or sifted, or compared 
 with anything else ; and by the unsuspecting, de 
 finitive manner in which they say "It is the fash 
 ion," you see that their meaning is the same as if 
 they had said, " It is right, and of complete and 
 final obligation." Hence it is that old practices 
 are suffered to continue, till some who are wiser 
 than others take up the task of examining them, 
 and then it is found, perhaps, and acknowledged, 
 
SPIRIT OP REFORM. 335 
 
 that these practices had been preying on the vitals 
 and drinking up the life-blood of the community. 
 Was not this the case with many of the details, 
 for instance, connected with the prevalent vice 
 of intemperance ? Twenty years ago, nobody 
 thought of inquiring into and arraigning the cus 
 tom of displaying and using a variety of spirituous 
 liquors at all times, in all forms, and on all occa 
 sions, before dinner, and with dinner, and after 
 dinner, and in the evening, and just before bed 
 time, and for all meetings of men, even those which 
 solemnized the obsequies of the dead. Though 
 the mournful victims of excess were everywhere 
 about us, no one thought of tracing the ruin, in 
 part, at least, to the simple fact, that the means of 
 excess were everywhere about us, too, thrust 
 into our way, and by ourselves thrust into the 
 way of others, as an indispensable mark of hospi 
 tality and kindness, wherever we could turn. This 
 was the universal custom, and therefore, as in our 
 sleepy, dreaming state we concluded, it was all 
 right. But presently some of us woke up, and 
 woke others up, and we began to see that it was 
 all wrong, and that it was a mistake to have sup 
 posed that the general practice could have ever 
 made it right. Thus it has been with all past re 
 formations, and thus it will probably be, in time, 
 with some present practices, which we think we 
 
336 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 must follow, or at any rate allow to exist, because 
 they have never been probed and investigated. 
 Hereafter they will be tested, and their vanity or 
 iniquity be fully revealed, and they will be dis 
 countenanced and repudiated. Then it will be 
 found that the circumstances of society have been 
 changed, and how changed ? Changed, we 
 answer, by the reflections of the thoughtful, the 
 examinations of the discerning, the comparisons 
 instituted by the wise and good between the ways 
 of the world and the laws of reason and of God. 
 Some men have changed the habits and practices 
 of other men, and there is a better general exam 
 ple than there was before, and this is a change of 
 circumstances. Thinking men, and virtuous and 
 religious men, owning a supreme law, have taken 
 circumstances into their own hands, and have 
 changed them. If they had been left entirely in 
 the hands of the unreflecting and the vicious, of 
 those whose only law was the law of passion or of 
 custom, they would never have been changed, 
 except from bad to worse, and from one folly to 
 another. 
 
 The first step in the treatment of circumstances, 
 then, is the cultivation of a habit of thinking, ex 
 amining, and comparing for ourselves. With this 
 habit to befriend us, we shall be little likely to fol 
 low the multitude to do evil blindly, because it 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 337 
 
 will be a usual inquiry with us, whither they are 
 going, what is the direction of their path, and 
 where will be its end. 
 
 In the second place, having measured the gen 
 eral example or custom by the eternal standard, 
 and found it deficient ; having examined circum 
 stances by the true and steady light, and deter 
 mined that they are corrupt and baneful, it be 
 comes our duty to act up to our convictions with 
 courage and perseverance. 
 
 It is no easy thing to withstand the general rush 
 of long perverted opinion ; no easy thing to face 
 out reiterated discharges from the battery of ridi 
 cule ; no easy thing to be content to be called sin 
 gular, and visionary, and romantic, and millennial ; 
 no easy thing to dare the hazard of being dragged 
 into the newspapers. But all this must be done 
 and dared, if we are going to do our duty as good 
 members of society and opposers of vicious prac 
 tices and customs. Then we must sometimes be 
 ready to appear to be interfering with the rights 
 and domains of others, observe that We say, ap 
 pear to be interfering, for really to interfere with 
 them, is a sin great enough to vitiate the merit of 
 our best intentions. But the hosts of wickedness, 
 the tempters of youth, the doorkeepers of the house 
 of death, w T hen they see their base interests in dan 
 ger, are always ready to talk of their rights, and 
 29 
 
338 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 place themselves in the predicament of injured and 
 persecuted citizens. And what are their rights ? 
 the rights, we mean, about which they make all 
 this pretension ? They are, almost universally, 
 rights to do wrong, which, to say the best of them, 
 are very imperfect rights. And why may not an 
 honest man, who feels that his happiness is going 
 to wreck all about him, through the exercise of 
 such rights, say to those people, " Sirs, I do not 
 recognize your rights. You have no right to en 
 tice away, by the preparation of the most danger 
 ous blandishments, from duty, from happiness, 
 from home, and from me, those who are dearer to 
 me than life. You have no right to sell poison 
 and death to my children, even for the support of 
 your own. And if I can find a way, a legal way, 
 of breaking down the intrenchments which you 
 call your rights, my wrongs call on me to take it, 
 and I shall take it. Be virtuous, sirs, be honora 
 ble, be innocent, and then your rights will be per 
 fect ones, and no one will be disposed to molest 
 them, no one can take them away." If true 
 Christian courage will prompt some to go forward, 
 and say such things, the same courage should 
 prompt others to support them and countenance 
 them. And it must either be an unworthy tem 
 porizing, or a strange mode of reasoning, which 
 could allow us to hold back, and leave the bold 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 339 
 
 few alone. For our own poor part, we hope we 
 shall always have the heart and mind to say in 
 behalf of those who now, or at any time, are boldly 
 and lawfully advancing any real, generous reform, 
 here or elsewhere, we hope we shall always have 
 the heart and mind to say, in public and private, 
 in the pulpit and in the closet, for our own sake 
 and for our children s sake, " God speed them, 
 and God bless them ! " 
 
 But we must be prudent, considerate, rational, 
 and careful, surely, as well as courageous. If we 
 are not, indeed, our courage will probably be of 
 small avail. We have already said, that abuses, 
 customs, fashions, and prevalent notions must be 
 examined ; and we can hardly do this without ac 
 quiring thoughtfulness, and a habit of looking at 
 things on all sides. A restless, meddlesome, pry 
 ing temper, never at ease, and never suffering 
 others to be at ease, is not the best calculated for 
 changing circumstances, or for effecting improve 
 ment. There are some who are fond of busying 
 themselves with the private and domestic concerns 
 of then: neighbors ; who intrude their advice, and 
 perhaps their embarrassing help, where they are 
 not asked, and are not wanted ; who like to get 
 up an excitement, if it is only to have something 
 to do, to show themselves, or to get their names 
 printed. This petty, meddlesome disposition, 
 
340 MISCELLANfES. 
 
 ought to be discountenanced, as it commonly is, 
 It is very different from the judicious, energetic, 
 brave spirit, which arrays itself against evil cir 
 cumstances, and which alone can resist them with 
 any permanent success. 
 
 And, finally, the very best rule, as a universally 
 applicable one, for the resistance of evil circum 
 stances, is, the silent and steady opposition to them 
 which each one who pleases may manifest in his 
 own behavior and life. There are those, singular 
 as it may seem, who are exceedingly sensitive to 
 the extravagances and follies of the times, and de 
 claim much against false notions and absurd fash 
 ions, and yet go along with them all, in their own 
 practice, exactly the same as if they were entirely 
 pleased with them. Such conduct as this is not 
 only no help, but a great hindrance, to improve 
 ment. We must be reformers and puritans at 
 home. Let a man take care of himself in the first 
 place, and of those over whom he has a natural 
 and just influence in the second place, and his and 
 their life will, of itself, be of incalculable benefit to 
 the good cause. If a fashion or custom appears 
 to you a bad one, follow it not, adopt it not, keep 
 it away from your own doors, let it not take a seat 
 by your own hearthstone, and then your own re 
 sistance, your own simplicity, your own prudence, 
 must have some influence, and if they should 
 
SPIRIT OF REFORM. 341 
 
 have none, you and yours will be blameless of the 
 great offence, and that surely is something, is 
 everything, to creatures holding themselves ac 
 countable to God, and looking for a righteous 
 judgment. 
 
 29 J 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 If we could open and intend our eye, 
 We all, like Moses, should espy 
 Even in a bush the radiant Deity. 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 THE love of nature, and the knowledge of natu 
 ral history, are two different and distinct things, 
 though the one frequently leads to the other. We 
 may admire the objects of nature fervently and sin 
 cerely, and yet know nothing about them beyond 
 their form and color, and some of their most obvious 
 properties. But we can hardly make ourselves ac 
 quainted with the construction, the organization, 
 the habits and the classification of these objects, 
 without admiring them also, and admiring them 
 the more. This is the superiority of those who 
 know, over those who merely love nature. And 
 yet it has not been uncommon for the lovers of 
 nature to look down on men of natural science as 
 narrow-minded, technical plodders, without enthu 
 siasm, without soul ; the former, forgetting that it 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 343 
 
 might be a more intense and abiding love of na 
 ture than their own, which led the latter to inves 
 tigate, to collect, to arrange, or, as they please to 
 term it, to plod and be technical. Another thing 
 which the general lovers of nature are apt to for 
 get, is, that they who study nature minutely, ob 
 serve many things which are wholly overlooked 
 by others, and therefore as they see more, must 
 admire and love more, simply because they have 
 more to admire and love. When they who love 
 nature, entertain so true and constant a love, that 
 they begin to study nature ever so slightly, they 
 will from that moment be convinced that study is 
 the fruit of love, and will be ashamed that they 
 ever disparaged study, if in moments of unin- 
 structed presumption they ever did. 
 
 I will speak first, of the advantages of an ac 
 quaintance with natural history to those who are 
 in situations where the works of nature, rather 
 than of men s hands, are around them. Let us 
 take, for example, the case of those who retire from 
 the city into the country, during the warm season, 
 when the city is languid and panting, and the 
 country is in all its pride. Motives of different 
 kinds induce the removal. Some are operated on 
 by a sense of uneasiness and a Jove of change ; 
 others by the force of habit imperceptibly acquir 
 ed ; others by a regard for health ; and others by 
 
344 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the authority of fashion, the poorest motive of all. 
 But in general it is a desire to escape from heat 
 and dust, to freshness, verdure and freedom, which 
 leads men out from the close streets into the open 
 fields. The sense of escape, and the enjoyment 
 of pure air, and the sight of growing things, and 
 the sounds of whispering trees, flowing waters and 
 singing birds, are for a few days, pleasure and 
 occupation enough. But is it so after -those few 
 days are past ? It is to a small number, perhaps ; 
 though the delight of that small number would be 
 greatly enhanced by knowledge. But the major 
 ity become listless and uneasy again. The wild 
 flowers spring up and blossom with all their wonted 
 beauty; the trees, waters and birds, join in melody 
 as sweetly as before. Why are they not seen and 
 heard as at first ? Where is the charrn that made 
 them to be seen, and heard, and felt ? 
 
 " Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? " 
 
 The pleasure is gone, because there was no in 
 telligent observation to detain it. The interest 
 dies away, because it was not kept alive by know 
 ledge and study. The view has been superficial, 
 comprising only the more general and obvious 
 features of the landscape, and the eye has been 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 345 
 
 soon satisfied with seeing. The fields have been 
 looked upon as verdant or flowery carpets merely, 
 and though that is a poetical way of regarding 
 them, who can be interested long by the sight of 
 a carpet, however splendid and varied its colors ? 
 The flowers come and go, according to then* times 
 and seasons ; they bear the distinctive marks of 
 their separate families ; they have their peculiar 
 habits and various properties, and uses ; but all 
 these sources of pleasure are unvisited, and to the 
 uninstructed eye they are undistinguished flowers ; 
 flowers the last month, and flowers this, or rather 
 a confused mass of coloring, taking the place of 
 snow and death in the spring of the year, and giv 
 ing place to death and snow in the winter. A 
 walk through the roads, lanes and meadows of the 
 country, soon becomes, by repetition, as uninterest 
 ing as a walk through the well-known streets and 
 squares of the city, and indeed more so. The 
 shelter of the house is less frequently quitted, day 
 by day, because it is now too warm to go out, and 
 now too windy, and now too wet. In short, the 
 country grows very dull. 
 
 Am I not truly, and not at all too strongly, de 
 scribing the experience of numbers ; of many, 
 even, who think they love nature and the country, 
 and who do so, if love means an admiration ex 
 tremely transient and easily tired ? But this love 
 
346 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 would have ripened into true love, if the proper 
 means had been taken. This admiration would 
 have become fixed and abiding, if it had been 
 placed on the foundations of observation and sci 
 ence. Let any one branch of natural history be 
 attended to, botany, ornithology, entomology, and 
 only leisurely attended to, according to one s en 
 tire convenience, and nature wears a more attract 
 ive aspect, and is seen with other eyes. Every 
 walk discloses some new beauty. You are among 
 friends, whose qualities you know, and whose 
 characters you esteem. Acquaintances peep out 
 from under the stone walls, or sing to you from 
 the trees, or buzz among the bushes. You learn 
 to address them by their names, their Christian and 
 sur-names ; and you ascertain their periods of ar 
 rival and departure, and some particulars of their 
 business ; and you bid them welcome when they 
 appear in their gaiety and freshness ; and when, 
 poor transitory things, they fade or fly away, you 
 bid them farewell. And, perhaps, as you do so, 
 your thoughts recur to other beings, much nearer 
 to yourselves, who come as sweetly and as joy 
 ously, and who go as sadly and as soon. 
 . And is it not something to know what plants 
 are medicinal, and what are used in the arts, and 
 what are innocent, and what are poisonous ? Is 
 it not something to know the names of the earths 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 347 
 
 and minerals ? Is it not something to know where 
 the birds come from, and where they go to, and 
 how they subsist, and how with varied art they 
 build ? Is it not something to know what the lit 
 tle insects are about, and to find out, as we inves 
 tigate more and more, what a large place they fill 
 in the kingdom and economy of nature, how im 
 portant are the occupations of many of them, how 
 curious are the works and habits of ah 1 , of how 
 much use and how much injury they are to man ? 
 
 With these resources of knowledge, and objects 
 of inquiry within his reach, a man s hours in the 
 country cannot be vacant or profitless. What is 
 learned will assist and gratify, and what is to be 
 learned will continually excite. Fact will lead to 
 fact, and be added to fact. His time will be filled ; 
 his mind will be informed ; his sense of the value 
 of existence will be increased. 
 
 And suppose he goes to a part of the country 
 which lies by the sea-side. The ocean is so grand 
 and imposing ; the motion and the music of the 
 waves so fill the eye and the ear ; there is a quiet 
 and majestic solitariness in the firm rocks, and the 
 broad sands, arid the deep waters, which so sym 
 pathize with the soul of the visiter, that he thinks 
 he can never weary of such noble, such spiritual 
 scenery. But the intensity of his interest will be 
 diminished by familiarity with its objects, though 
 
348 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 it may be from time to time renewed. His eyes 
 cannot be forever out upon the sea, nor studying 
 the prominent features of the shore. If nothing 
 else demands his attention, heavy hours will creep 
 over him, and it will come to pass that often will 
 the waves lift up their voices unheard, and the 
 shores will watch for the visits of his heart in vain. 
 There are times, tedious times, in which he feels, 
 though he may not confess, that the borders of the 
 sea, as well as the inland hills and vales, may be 
 dull, very dull. 
 
 But why should he not here also observe nature 
 in detail, as well as in mass ? Is there nothing in 
 the sea but waves ? Is there nothing on the shore 
 but rocks and sands ? Have the briny fields no 
 flowers ? Are there no habitations along the 
 coasts but the scattered huts of fishermen ? Why 
 should the clustering sea-plants wave and glow 
 unseen ? Why should the tribes of shell-fish be 
 neglected ? The sea and the shore teem with life, 
 with industry, with art. Why should we not know 
 something about them ? Let the visiter possess 
 himself of a few of the outlines of marine botany. 
 Let him collect the brilliant and delicate Algae. 
 Let him watch the habits of the testaceous tribes, 
 and gather specimens of their dwellings. Let him 
 interest himself by the simple process of observa 
 tion, in what is growing and doing about him, and 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 349 
 
 it may be that he will think the longest summer 
 days too short for his inquiries ; and when the sea 
 is covered with a heavy impenetrable fog, or the 
 clouds are plentifully returning their borrowed 
 rain, he will have materials for occupation and re 
 search within doors, the harvest of his sunny hours, 
 when the resources of others are exhausted. 
 
 Nor is there any cause for fear that this obser 
 vant and systematic attention to nature in the de 
 tail, will in the least degree disturb or diminish the 
 delight inspired by her grander and more exten 
 sive aspects. The knowledge of the parts will 
 assist the comprehension of the whole. The soul 
 of the student will rise up as often to the call of 
 the deep sky, the varied landscape, the sweeping 
 river, or the mysterious ocean, as it did before he 
 studied. He has gained much ; he has lost no 
 thing. He hears when others hear, and often 
 when others do not ; for he hears the whispers 
 and undertones of nature. The entrances to his 
 heart stand as wide open as ever, inviting the 
 sweet airs of heaven to come in, and course 
 through its halls and chambers, and sing their wild 
 melodies at will. To him 
 
 " The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 Is lovely yet ; " 
 
 and none the less so ? because he knows the tribes 
 of earth and air which burst into being with it, 
 
350 . MISCELLANIES. 
 
 The stars will not despise him for noting the least 
 thing which they shine upon. His converse with 
 them will be as earnest as before. Kind nature 
 will not requite unkindly the attention which he 
 pays to any of her children. She will adopt him 
 the more entirely as her own. 
 
 More might easily be said to enforce the truth, 
 which I fear is not regarded as it ought to be, that 
 leisure time may be delightfully and profitably 
 filled, that the pleasure and interest of a summer re 
 treat, or vacation from business, may be preserved 
 without fading or diminution ; that what is called 
 the tedium of life may often and often be wholly 
 avoided, by even a moderate acquaintance with 
 natural history. But let us pass to the considera 
 tion of some other views of the subject. 
 
 Some knowledge of the objects and nomencla 
 ture of natural history is an essential aid in several 
 of the paths of literature. Geography and natural 
 history are closely united. The description of the 
 earth s surface is incomplete, without a description 
 of its productions. In reading books of travels, 
 easy and pleasant as this kind of reading is, the 
 facility and pleasure are not unfrequently inter 
 rupted by the want of knowledge of natural his 
 tory ; by our not understanding what many objects 
 are which the traveller saw, and was evidently 
 gratified, perhaps overjoyed, to see, and of which 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 351 
 
 he gives the names, to us useless names. I refer 
 not to those books of travels, standing on the low 
 est shelf of literature, composed of gossiping an 
 ecdotes, frothy speculations, accounts of roads, 
 inns, dinner-parties and theatres, and showing no 
 thing so clearly as the egotism and emptiness of 
 the writers ; for, as they have little to do with 
 natural history, natural history can have little to 
 do with them. Nor do I mean to say, that excel 
 lent books of travels may not be written, and have 
 not been published, containing sound views and 
 interesting descriptions of men, and manners, and 
 scenery, and not a word of natural history, or a 
 term of science. But it is well known that many 
 of the best, that almost all the standard works in 
 this department, are the narratives of men of sci 
 ence, who were able to describe the natural objects 
 belonging to the countries which they visited, and 
 thus contribute essentially to the stock of human 
 knowledge. But this communication is not for 
 those who are unprepared to receive it. This 
 valuable, perhaps most valuable, portion of their 
 works, is completely hid from us, if we are igno 
 rant of natural history. Its terms are to us a 
 strange language. They convey to us no idea. 
 We skip over the pages that bear them, to us so 
 blank and unprofitable, to others so full of instruc 
 tion and pleasure. But if we possess some ac- 
 
352 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 quaintance with natural history, which need not 
 be for this purpose profound, we carry with us a 
 torch which lights up what is otherwise so obscure, 
 with a clear and beautiful light, and we travel 
 where the author travels, and whatever he sees we 
 see also. Does he tell us that in the forest he meets 
 with such and such trees and shrubs, and hears 
 the song or the scream of such and such birds ? 
 We see them, we hear them. We know their 
 forms. Unless they are entirely new, he need not 
 paint for us their foliage or their plumage. Does 
 he name rare flowers which are profusely bloom 
 ing amidst untrodden solitudes ? Their names 
 come to us glowing with their own colors, and 
 loaded with their several odors. Does he say that, 
 in roaming on the sea-beat shores of some tropical 
 island, he found scattered along the beach speci 
 mens of this shell and of that ? There they lie 
 distinctly on the sand before our mind s eye ; we 
 are acquainted with them ; perhaps we covet 
 them. In short, we understand the book com 
 pletely ; we go along with the traveller without 
 halting or weariness. 
 
 Do we travel ourselves, and travel with our eyes 
 open ? Have we any curiosity, any taste ? Do 
 we see in our path a splendid plant, a bright or 
 singular insect, a curious shell ? Perhaps we wish 
 to give others an idea of what has pleased us, and 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 353 
 
 we enter, being unacquainted with its name, upon 
 a description of it, in writing or in words. It is 
 an equal chance whether we make ourselves intel 
 ligible or not ; whether we do or do not convey 
 to readers or hearers a knowledge of the object 
 we mean. If we do not, our labor is in vain. If 
 we do, two words would have answered as. well 
 as the whole of our description. 
 
 As to the toil of acquiring the nomenclature of 
 any branch of natural history, it is in a great mea 
 sure imaginary. It is appalling enough to glance 
 at an apparently interminable list of Latin and 
 Greek names, when we are entirely unacquainted 
 with the objects to which they belong, and the 
 classifications of the science which embraces them. 
 But let a person once seriously apply himself to 
 study the science and collect or examine its ob 
 jects, and the difficulty of the nomenclature disap 
 pears ; nay, he will find it an indispensable help. 
 Some labor must be given at first, it is true, but I 
 should like to know what science it is, which is to 
 be learned without labor. If objects are to b3 
 classified, they must have names. And if natural 
 ists of different countries are to communicate their 
 observations, these names must be drawn from a 
 common language. If each nation insisted on 
 having the terms of science in its own language, 
 then, instead of being obliged to learn them in one 
 
 30* 
 
354 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 language only, the Latin or Greek, we should first 
 have to acquire the English words, which would 
 be about as much exercise for the memory, and 
 then the French, Italian, German, and so on. 
 The learned nomenclature is by far the easiest and 
 best for any branch of natural science. 
 
 In writing on various subjects, an acquaintance 
 with natural history diminishes the liability of wri 
 ters to be mistaken in matters of fact. They will 
 not, thus guarded, be apt to speak, for example, 
 of a substance used in the arts, as supplied from 
 one source, when it comes from another far differ 
 ent. They will not attribute to one animal what 
 belongs to another. They will not fix on the land 
 that which is drawn up from the sea. They will 
 not mention as strange and new something which 
 is common and very well known. Mistakes of 
 this kind are not unfrequently committed by the 
 best authors. Perfect correctness is not, indeed, 
 to be expected ; but a slight acquaintance with 
 natural history would very often secure correct 
 ness where now it is wanting ; and every writer 
 must desire to be as correct as possible, because 
 every error is a blemish of greater or less magni 
 tude. 
 
 The study of any branch of natural history in 
 duces or strengthens the important habit and fa 
 culty of discrimination, by obliging the student to 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 355 
 
 perceive and note those small differences in ob 
 jects which are the marks of wide distinctions. To 
 the unobserving, who are the multitude, a rock is 
 a rock, everything that flies in the insect kingdom 
 is a fly, or a butterfly, or a bug, and all creeping 
 things are worms. But there is as much differ 
 ence between insects as between quadrupeds, 
 though bounded within smaller dimensions, and 
 consequently less obvious. Let those differences 
 be detected, and the mind grows quicker in re 
 mark, and more discerning of variety and of re 
 semblance. Every one who attends to the opera 
 tions of mind, knows of how great advantage is 
 this enlargement of faculty. A friend of mine, 
 settled as minister in a small and remote village, 
 having turned his attention to entomology soon 
 after his ordination, is now one of the best ento 
 mologists, and owns one of the most complete 
 cabinets of insects in this country. In the mean 
 time he has not neglected his proper professional 
 duties. The children of his parish come in for a 
 large share of his attention. Among other good 
 lessons he teaches them to regard with love and 
 respect the works of God. They observe the in 
 terest taken by their teacher in the insect tribe. 
 Of their own accord, and with the hope of making 
 themselves useful to him, many of them have be 
 come his assistant collectors, and have rendered 
 
356 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 him essential service ; for, like other boys, they 
 are quick of eye, ear and limb ; and that must be 
 a smart insect which can escape, in the long run, 
 from the clutches of a smart boy. And they not 
 only catch the insects, but they know something 
 about them. Insensibly they acquire a tolerable 
 acquaintance with entomology. I am told that 
 some of them, unconscious of possessing any re 
 markable learning, will give the names of insects, 
 like so many professors, and know a new or rare in 
 sect as well as their minister does, and when they 
 find such a one, will take it immediately to him. 
 In this way they not only are really advancing in 
 some degree the cause of science, but they are im 
 proving their own minds, and that, too, while they 
 are exercising their bodies. They are strengthen 
 ing the important faculty of discrimination, and 
 their health at the same time. 
 
 Again, the pursuit of natural history in almost 
 any way, as a study or an amusement, is both in 
 dicative and productive of gentleness, refinement 
 and virtue. I know of no indication which would 
 sooner predispose me in favor of a person with 
 whom I might be accidentally thrown in a stage 
 coach, than a familiarity manifested by him with 
 any branch of natural science, or an intelligent love 
 evinced for its objects. If he could tell me the 
 names of the flowers by the roadside, or the in- 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 357 
 
 sects as they flitted by us, I should be exceedingly 
 surprised if he ran into the bar-room for liquor at 
 every stopping-place, or let fall from his lips an 
 oath or an indecent word. I should know that he 
 occupied some of his hours with the observation 
 and study of the sweet and tranquillizing features 
 of nature. I should judge that he preferred a 
 quiet walk to a noisy revel ; that when among 
 men, he chose the society of good men, and that 
 he was fond of books, which are the choicest por 
 tions of the spirits of men. And if I should see 
 in one who had been led astray, sadly astray, by 
 the force of passion or the tendencies of bad ex 
 ample, if I should see in such a one the love of 
 any department of nature, the disposition to culti 
 vate any branch of natural science, I should hail it 
 as a spring in the desert, and trust that through 
 the " scent of that water " his life would bud again, 
 " and bring forth boughs like a plant." And why 
 should I entertain that trust ? Because I should 
 know that some of his tastes at least were pure, 
 that some of his pleasures were innocent, that 
 some of his pursuits were calm, that hfe Avas not 
 wholly given up to sensuality. I should argue 
 that there was a delicacy in his mind which excess 
 had not rooted out, that there was a sacred prin 
 ciple in his heart which survived amidst corrup 
 tion ; and I should go on to argue that this deli- 
 
358 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 cacy, that this principle would be made to thrive 
 and grow by study, by the direction of the thoughts 
 to their culture, till at last the desert place would 
 become a garden. 
 
 But the study of nature has its religious as well 
 as its moral uses. I cannot say that all those who 
 cultivate a taste for natural history, cultivate in 
 conjunction religious affections and convictions. 
 Men will sometimes perversely separate those 
 things which God intends to unite, and which al 
 ways flourish better when that intention is fulfilled. 
 Nor do I mean to say that men cannot be religious 
 and pious unless they study nature and natural 
 history. Piety has more sources and supports 
 than one. If one source fails, piety does not ne 
 cessarily dry up, because it is still fed from other 
 fountains. If one support is deficient, yet piety 
 may not fall, because there are other foundations 
 to hold it up. Happy for us that it is so. It is 
 nevertheless true, most true, that the study and 
 contemplation of nature leads directly and by an 
 easy and excellent way to the adoration and love 
 of nature s God ; that the examination of the liv 
 ing, varied and exquisite mechanism about us, 
 constructed not by human hands, may be the daily 
 means of our beholding and acknowledging the 
 planning, forming, ruling hand of the Almighty. 
 Testimony to this truth has been borne abundantly 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 359 
 
 by the best and wisest of men ; by poets, natural 
 ists, philosophers. " To see all things in God" 
 say Kirby and Spence, in the preface to their val 
 uable and delightful work on Entomology, " has 
 been accounted one of the peculiar privileges of a 
 future state ; and in this present life to see God in 
 all things, in the mirror of the creation to behold 
 and adore the reflected glory of the Creator, is no 
 mean attainment ; and it possesses this advantage, 
 that thus we sanctify our pursuits, and, instead of 
 loving the creatures for themselves, are led by the 
 survey of them and their instincts to the love of 
 Him who made and endowed them." 
 
 The Poet of the Seasons has grown somewhat 
 old-fashioned, and though he still holds his rank 
 among poets, is not often quoted. Let him how 
 ever be a witness here. 
 
 " And yet was ever faltering tongue of man, 
 Almighty Father ! silent in thy praise, 
 Thy works themselves would raise a general voice, 
 E en in the depth of solitary woods, 
 By human foot untrod ; proclaim thy power, 
 And to the choir celestial Thee resound, 
 The eternal cause, support, and end of all ! " 
 
 There are many, I know, and belonging to the 
 opposite classes of men of the world and men of 
 religion, who are disposed to regard this alleged 
 connection between natural science and piety, be- 
 
360 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 tween the creation and the Creator, as a mere 
 matter of poetry, well enough for some to sing 
 about and show off a little enthusiasm, but as a 
 practical thing, not worth their attention as sensi 
 ble or as Christian persons. Now it is precisely 
 as a practical thing that its claims to attention are 
 to be pressed. And it is because it is not put into 
 a course of practice, that it is not regarded as 
 practical and is thus undeservedly slighted. Days 
 like those in which " Lady Glanville s will was 
 attempted to be set aside on the ground of lunacy, 
 evinced by no other act than her fondness for col 
 lecting insects, and Ray had to appear at Exeter 
 on the trial as a witness of her sanity ; " days too, 
 like those in which Bishop Horsely voted against 
 Sir Joseph Banks, as president of the Royal So 
 ciety, " because he was a collector of cockle-shells 
 and bugs," are probably gone by, both in England 
 and here ; but the days are not yet come when an 
 attentive and minute observation of nature shall 
 cease to be regarded by a large number of sensi 
 ble and good men, and by, perhaps, the majority 
 of society, as an undignified, frivolous, useless pur 
 suit; and instead of this, be generally considered, 
 what it really is, as an elevating, refining, religious 
 exercise of the mind and heart. When those days 
 do come, they will be happy days for religion, for 
 men will be more generally, more deeply, more 
 
STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 361 
 
 practically convinced than they now are, that they 
 are really living and moving in God s world and 
 among God s creatures. 
 
 I have already given two quotations in testi 
 mony of the strict connection between nature and 
 religion, the one from a naturalist, and the other 
 from a poet. In conclusion of the subject, I will 
 offer a third from a philosophic divine ; both be 
 cause the name of the cool and rational Paley 
 must be admitted as an authority by the cool and 
 rational, and because the argument is set forth 
 with his accustomed clearness and force. 
 
 " In a moral view, I shall not, I believe, be con 
 tradicted when I say, that if one train of thinking 
 be more desirable than another, it is that which 
 regards the phenomena of nature with a constant 
 reference to a Supreme Intelligent Author. To 
 have made this the ruling, the habitual sentiment 
 of our minds, is to have laid the foundation of 
 everything which is religious. The world thence 
 forth becomes a temple , and life itself one continual 
 act of adoration. The change is no less than this, 
 that whereas formerly God was seldom in our 
 thoughts, we can now scarcely look upon anything 
 without perceiving its relation to him. Every or 
 ganized natural body, in the provisions which it 
 contains for its sustentation and propagation, testi 
 fies a care on the part of the Creator, expressly 
 
 31 
 
362 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 directed to these purposes. We are on all sides 
 surrounded by such bodies ; examined in their 
 parts, wonderfully curious ; compared with one 
 another, no less wonderfully diversified. So that 
 the mind, as well as the eye, may either expatiate 
 in variety and multitude, or fix itself down to the 
 investigation of particular divisions of the science. 
 And in either case, it will rise up from its occupa 
 tion, possessed by the subject in a very different 
 manner, and with a very different degree of influ 
 ence, from what a mere assent to any verbal pro 
 position which can be formed concerning the 
 existence of the Deity at least, that merely com 
 plying assent with which those about us are satis 
 fied, and with which we are too apt to satisfy our 
 selves, will or can produce upon the thoughts." 
 
DUTIES OF WINTER. 
 
 ; In rich men s halls the fire is piled, 
 
 And ermine robes keep out the weather ; 
 In poor men s huts the fire is low, 
 Through broken panes the keen winds blow, 
 And old and young are cold together." 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 As each age of our life has duties belonging to 
 it, which are in a measure peculiar to itself; as 
 a child is bound to some acts, to which a man is 
 not equally bound ; so each season of the year has 
 duties, which differ in degree or kind from those 
 of the other seasons, and Spring, Summer, Au 
 tumn and Winter are distinctly marked by these 
 human duties, as well as by the signs of the zodiac. 
 
 The two principal duties, which, though belong 
 ing to all the seasons, seem to be peculiarly attend 
 ant on the season of winter, are those of instruction 
 and of charity ; and of these duties I would now 
 speak, 
 
364 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 First, of instruction. In the warm portion of 
 our year, when the sun reigns, and the fields are 
 carpeted with herbs and flowers, and the forests 
 are loaded with riches and magnificence, nature 
 seems to insist on instructing us herself, and in her 
 own easy, insensible way. In the mild and whis 
 pering air there is an invitation to go abroad which 
 few can resist ; and when abroad we are in a 
 school where all may learn, without trouble or 
 tasking, and where we may be sure to learn 
 if we will simply open our hearts. But stern 
 winter comes, and drives us back into our towns 
 and houses, and there we must sit down, and 
 learn and teach with serious application of the 
 mind, and by the prompting of duty. As we are 
 bidden to this exertion, so are we better able to 
 make it than in the preceding season. The body, 
 which was before unnerved, is now braced up to 
 the extent of its capacity ; and the mind which was 
 before dissipated by the fair variety of external at 
 tractions, collects and concentrates its powers, as 
 those attractions fade and disappear. The natu 
 ral limits of day and night, also, conspire to the 
 same end, and are in unison with the other inti 
 mations of the season. In summer, the days, glad 
 to linger on the beautiful earth, almost exclude the 
 quiet and contemplative nights, which are only 
 long enough for sleep. But in the winter the lat- 
 
DUTIES OF WINTER. 365 
 
 ler gain the ascendency. Slowly and royally 
 they sweep back with their broad shadows, and 
 hushing the earth with the double spell of dark 
 ness and coldness, issue their silent mandates, and 
 while the still snow falls, and the waters are 
 congealed call to reflection, to study, to mental 
 labor and acquisition. 
 
 The long winter nights ! Dark, cold and stern 
 as they seem, they are the friends of wisdom, the 
 patrons of literature, the nurses of vigorous, pa 
 tient, inquisitive and untiring intellect. To some, 
 indeed, they come particularly associated, when 
 not with gloom, with various gay scenes of amuse 
 ment, with lighted halls, lively music, and a few 
 (hundred) friends. To others, the dearest scene 
 which they present is the cheerful fireside, instruct 
 ive books, studious and industrious children, and 
 those friends, whether many or few, whom the 
 heart and experience acknowledge to be such. 
 Society has claims ; social intercourse is profitable 
 as well as pleasant ; amusements are naturally 
 sought for by the young, and such as are innocent 
 they may well partake of; but it may be asked, 
 whether, when amusements run into excess, they 
 do not leave their innocence behind them in the 
 career ; whether light social intercourse, when it 
 takes up a great deal of time, has anything valua 
 ble to pay in return for that time ; and whether 
 
 31* 
 
366 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the claims of society can in any way be better sat 
 isfied than by the intelligence, the sobriety and 
 the peaceableness of its members ? Such qualities 
 and habits must be acquired at home ; and not by 
 idleness even there, but by study. The winter 
 evenings seem to be given to us, not exclusively, 
 but chiefly, for instruction. They invite us to in 
 struct ourselves, to instruct others, and to do our 
 part in furnishing all proper means of instruction. 
 We must instruct ourselves. Whatever our age, 
 condition, or occupation may be, this is a duty 
 which we cannot safely neglect, and for the per 
 formance of which the season affords abundant 
 opportunity. To know what other minds have 
 done, is not the work of a moment ; and it is only 
 to be known from the records which they have 
 left of themselves, or from what has been recorded 
 of them. To instruct ourselves is necessarily our 
 own work ; but we cannot well instruct ourselves 
 without learning from others. The stores of our 
 own minds it is for ourselves to use for the best 
 effects and to the greatest advantage ; but if we do 
 not acquire with diligence, from external sources, 
 there would be very few of us who would have 
 any stores to use. Let no one undervalue intel 
 lectual means, who wishes to effect intellectual 
 ends. The best workman will generally want the 
 best tools, and the best assortment of them. 
 
DUTIES OF WINTER. 367 
 
 We must instruct others. This duty belongs 
 most especially to parents. All who have child 
 ren, have pupils. The winter evening is the cho 
 sen time to instruct them, when they have past the 
 tenderest years of their childhood. Those who 
 have school-tasks to learn, should not be left to 
 toil in solitude ; but should be encouraged by the 
 presence, and aided by the superior knowledge, of 
 their parents, whose pleasure as well as duty it 
 should be to lend them a helping hand along the 
 road, not always easy, of learning. While the 
 child is leaning over his book, the father and the 
 mother should be nigh, that when he looks up in 
 weariness or perplexity, he may find, at least, the 
 assistance of sympathy. They need not be abso 
 lutely tied to the study-table, but they should not 
 often hesitate between the calls of amusement 
 abroad, and the demands for parental example, 
 guidance and companionship at home. They will 
 lose no happiness by denying themselves many 
 pleasures, and will find that the most brilliant ot 
 lustres are their own domestic lamp, and the cheer 
 ful and intelligent eyes of their children. 
 
 But all have not children ; and the children of 
 some are too young to be permitted to remain 
 with their parents beyond the earliest hours of 
 evening ; and the children of others are old enough 
 to accompany their parents abroad. For all those 
 
368 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 who think they could pleasantly and profitably 
 receive instruction of a public nature, and for this 
 purpose spend an hour or two away from their 
 homes, there is, happily, a plenty of instruction 
 provided. Winter is the very season for public 
 instruction, and it must be said to their honor, that 
 our citizens have excellently improved it as such. 
 Opportunities for gaining useful knowledge have 
 been provided, and they have not been neglected 
 by those for whom the provision has been made. 
 The fountains of waters have been opened, and 
 the thirsty have been refreshed. Though home 
 instruction is to be placed at the head of all instruc 
 tion, yet there are numbers who have not instruc 
 tion at home, and numbers who have none at home 
 to whom they may communicate instruction ; and 
 there are numbers who find it convenient and use 
 ful to mingle public and domestic instruction to 
 gether, or alternate the one with the other. And 
 when it is considered that the public lectures re 
 ferred to are charged with little expense to the 
 hearers ; that they are delivered by the best and 
 ablest men among us ; that hundreds of youth re 
 sort to them, many of whom are in all probability 
 saved from idleness, and some from vice and 
 crime ; and that to all who may attend them they 
 afford a rational employment of time, we may look 
 to the continuance of such means of knowledge 
 
DUTIES OF WINTER. 369 
 
 and virtue as one of the most inestimable of ben 
 efits. 
 
 I come now to the second great duty of winter, 
 that of charity. Winter is the peculiar season of 
 charity. The sun, that generous friend of the 
 poor, is summoned to withdraw his heat, and 
 seems to say to us that we must keep our hearts 
 the warmer toward them till he returns with it 
 again. The piercing cold finds an easy entrance 
 through the broken panes and wide seams of the 
 day-laborer s room or hovel, and little fire on his 
 hearth to tame its severity. The price of fuel is 
 high. The children fall sick from cold, and scan 
 tiness of clothing, and insufficient food ; and by- 
 and-by the father or the mother is obliged to give 
 up labor and lie down on the bed of pain. This 
 is the season for charity. If they who are in plen 
 ty, think not now and act not for those who are 
 destitute, I believe that they will one day rue their 
 insensibility. I know that difficulties surround 
 this whole subject. I know that the benevolent 
 are frequently imposed upon by the most outrage 
 ous falsehoods ; I know that improvidence, intem 
 perance and multifold vices are the prolific causes 
 of pauperism and misery. I know all this well, 
 because I have seen it. I know that if we give 
 ever so cautiously, we shall sometimes give to the 
 undeserving. I have been imposed upon myself, 
 
370 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and perhaps laughed at by the objects of my pity. 
 Every one has been imposed upon who has lis 
 tened to the suggestions of his heart ; and if he 
 has not been imposed upon at all, I believe that 
 he has greatly imposed upon himself. I would 
 rather be deceived once, twice, thrice, than to 
 know that through my neglect, or my excessive 
 caution, a fellow-being had been frozen or starved, 
 or had suffered severely through cold and hunger. 
 It is certainly our duty to examine as well as to 
 give, and make a wide difference, both in our re 
 gards and donations, between laziness and crip 
 pled industry, between the vicious poor and the 
 virtuous poor. But when the most degraded cry 
 out for food and clothing and fire, shall they be 
 refused ? Surely they err in every point of view, 
 when they forsake the path of honesty and truth ; 
 for they inevitably lose by it. But ignorance, dark 
 ignorance, is some excuse, and pinching want is a 
 strong and present temptation. And then how 
 stands our own account with Heaven ? Are we 
 ready that our own offences should be strictly 
 marked, and severely visited ? 
 
 These circumstances are all worthy of consid 
 eration, as are others connected with the same 
 subject, which I have no time even to hint at. 
 And after all our views on this side and on that, 
 after all our doubts, and weighings, and balanc- 
 
DUTIES OF WINTER. 371 
 
 ings, the prevailing arguments for immediate ac 
 tion are in the season, on the duties of which we 
 are speaking. Frost, and ice, and snow, and sick 
 ness make forcible appeals. When the loud winds 
 preach of charity, and the frequent storms call for 
 alms, they must be heard. 
 
 And they are heard. There are many who 
 hear them. Witness the large number of chari 
 table associations which have been formed, and 
 are pleading for means with those who possess 
 means, almost every week through the winter, by 
 addresses, and sermons, and circulars ; and wit 
 ness, too, those more private societies and circles, 
 who make no public appeals, but carry on their 
 work of charity in God s domestic temples, their 
 own homes. Some are wont to complain of this 
 multiplication of societies ; but how is it to be 
 \vell avoided in a large and increasing population ? 
 The subdivision of charities becomes, like the sub 
 division of labor, necessary ; it is a subdivision of 
 labor ; and while the widows and the fatherless 
 are both numerous and both to be visited, there is 
 no reason why the wants and the sufferings of the 
 one should not be attended to by one society, and 
 those of the other by another. No doubt these 
 charities also are sometimes abused ; but perhaps 
 not so often as some vexatious instances we have 
 known or heard of, may lead us to suppose. 
 
372 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 What good thing should we attempt, if the pro 
 bability of its abuse were to stop our proceedings ? 
 What good thing should we receive from the 
 Source of good, if that consideration should stop 
 the blessings which are flowing down to us in per 
 petual streams ? Certainly it is very bad that a 
 poor self-forsaken being should take the pittance 
 which is given to him for food or clothing, and 
 purchase with it the intoxicating draught. It is 
 almost too bad for charity herself to bear did 
 not charity bear all things. But there are greater 
 abuses than this. I must say it plainly, though 
 with no sentiment, I trust, stronger than that of 
 sorrow, that a case of far greater abuse is the case 
 of him who is in the possession of every comfort 
 and luxury, and who devotes them all to the pam 
 pering of self, and bestows little or no thought on 
 those who would bless him for his crumbs and 
 leavings, and are shivering and sickening for the 
 want of them. As I am in the presence of God, 
 I had rather be the former than the latter to stand 
 before him in judgment. 
 
 I have no immediate purpose in these remarks. 
 I am writing for no charitable occasion. My only 
 object is to lead feeling and sober reflection to the 
 general duty of charity at this season. 
 
 Is it asked, where will be the end of all these 
 efforts and of the demands for them ? " The poor 
 
DUTIES OF WINTER. 373 
 
 ye have always with you." Heaven and earth 
 will pass away before that word. Poverty will 
 always exist ; and yet its amount in comparison 
 with population, may be constantly decreasing in 
 extent, or severity, or both. It must decrease in 
 some proportion with the diffusion of knowledge, 
 and the judicious efforts of charitable men. More 
 is to be hoped for from the diffusion of knowledge, 
 particularly of religious knowledge, than from any 
 thing else whatever. But this is too wide a field 
 to enter upon now. One position may safely be 
 assumed. that were not aid extended in the 
 mean time to the poor ; were not food and fuel 
 bought for them, and clothing made for them, and 
 medicines and medical attendance provided for 
 them ; there would be a scene of desperation, vio 
 lence and death around us too terrible to think of. 
 It would be well for those who sneer at societies, 
 and at the same time will make no personal exer 
 tion or sacrifice, to consider this, and admit the 
 possibility, to say the least, that those whose efforts 
 they are deriding, are contributing not a little to 
 secure to them the possessions which they love so 
 dearly. 
 
 If some things are dark and perplexing in rela 
 tion to this subject, one thing seems to be very 
 clear, which is that we should help one another 
 through the short season of this our life. The 
 32 
 
374 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 winter of death will soon shut in upon the bright 
 est and warmest prospects of the gayest and most 
 flourishing. " The grass withereth, the flower 
 fadeth, but the word of the Lord endureth for 
 ever." If we look for a renovating and perpetual 
 spring to chase the gloom, it must be in sole reli 
 ance on the word and power of God. The ice of 
 that winter is so fast that nought but his breath 
 may loosen it. " He sendeth out his word and 
 melteth them ; he bloweth with his wind, and the 
 waters flow." What will procure us the enjoy 
 ment of that eternal spring ? What will bring our 
 souls into the full and gladdening beams of life s 
 Source and Sun ? What can it be, but obedience 
 to his great law of charity ? 
 
THE HOLY LAND. 
 
 THE land which is spoken of by the prophet 
 Ezekiel, as " the glory of all lands," still retains 
 its preeminent character in the eyes of those who 
 thoroughly consider its claims. It may not now 
 flow so plentifully with milk and honey, as it then 
 did, though there is no reason to suppose that its 
 natural fertility is impaired ; but while its climate 
 probably, and its extraordinary geographical posi 
 tion certainly, remain as they were, spiritual associ 
 ations of the sublimest character have been added 
 to those which it possessed in the days of the 
 prophet, and a glory encircles it, higher than earth 
 ly, toward which the hearts of men are turned in 
 homage, and so will be turned, till the end of the 
 world. This supremacy is not affected by the 
 character of its inhabitants, and cannot be over 
 thrown by any future revolutions. The people 
 of God have been driven from the land which he 
 promised and gave them ; but still it is the Holy 
 Land. The people of other lands have become 
 
376 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 civilized and refined, while barbarians have been 
 roaming over Palestine ; but Palestine is still, and 
 ever must be, reverenced, as the country in which 
 refinement and civilization had their most copious 
 and effectual source. The wild Arab may lurk 
 for plunder among the ruined cities of Judea, and 
 the Turk may rule on Mount Sion, and give the 
 law in the city of the great king ; but they cannot 
 rob Bethlehem of its cradle, or Calvary of its 
 cross, or one hill, or stream, or wilderness, of its 
 sacred story ; neither can they interfere with the 
 authority of that divine law which goes forth from 
 Israel, or touch with a finger that spiritual sceptre 
 which is stretched out from the land of patriarchs, 
 prophets, and Christ, over the most enlightened 
 portions of the globe. 
 
 Most peculiarly is the land of Canaan the land 
 of the soul ; the land which seems to be nearest 
 heaven of any spot on earth, to those whose 
 hopes are in heaven as the destination and rest of 
 souls. How can it be otherwise, when it is recog 
 nized as the land in which the great dispensations 
 of God were made known to men ; on which the 
 Son of God descended from heaven, and from 
 which he ascended to his Father again ? But 
 look at it with a view to its geographical position 
 alone, and see what a conspicuous place it occu 
 pies on the map of the world. Washed by the 
 
THE HOLY LAND. 377 
 
 ultimate waves of the Mediterranean, the very 
 name of which sea denotes its central locality, 
 Palestine looks down over the long extent of its 
 surface, glancing at the whole southern coast of 
 Europe on the right, and the whole northern 
 coast of Africa on the left. Near, on the right 
 hand, are the shores and islands of classical 
 Greece. Near, on the left hand, are the plains 
 and pyramids of Egypt, wrapped in the clouds of 
 ancient mystery, and never shadowed by the rain- 
 clouds of heaven. Above, on the north, lies the 
 great Syrian domain. Behind, toward the east, 
 are the countries which are watered by the Eu 
 phrates and Tigris. Below, to the south, is the 
 expanse of the Red Sea, cleaving its way through 
 Egypt and Arabia, up within sight almost of the 
 walls of Jerusalem, as if to offer a passage down its 
 length to the whole Oriental world. Look on a 
 map of the world as known to the ancients, and 
 you perceive that the Holy Land occupies nearly 
 the mathematical centre of that world. Look on 
 a map of the round world as known to us, and 
 you perceive that the Holy Land stands at the 
 very threshold, by the avenues of the Mediterra 
 nean and Red Seas, between the European and 
 American continents and the rich empires of the 
 East. 
 
 As Palestine lies between the thirty-first and 
 
 32* 
 
378 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 thirty-fourth degrees of north latitude, its climate 
 is favorable to many of the vegetable productions 
 of both temperate and tropical countries. The 
 districts lying on each side of the river Jordan, 
 which flows through nearly its whole length, join 
 ing the Lake of Gennesareth with the Dead Sea, 
 are almost spontaneously fertile. The whole 
 country might be made at any time as productive 
 as it once was, under the hands of industrious 
 cultivators ; and ancient history, profane as well 
 as sacred, bears abundant witness to its former 
 productiveness. The principal character, how 
 ever, which seems stamped on the surface of this 
 land, is that of solemnity, as if it were intended 
 from the first to be a Holy Land. Mountains, 
 which are God s altars, mountains, rocky, precip 
 itous, and stern, rise up in all its extent. The 
 majestic sweeps and summits of Lebanon guard 
 its northern border ; Tabor and Hermon and Car- 
 mel, with other hills of holy name, stand on their 
 everlasting foundations among the tribes of Israel ; 
 and Jerusalem, built upon hills, is encompassed 
 by them, as by a second and heaven-built wall. 
 The beauty of the Lake of Galilee is also made 
 solemn by the mountains which hang over it and 
 shut it in ; the stream of Jordan flows through a 
 succession of rich but silent plains, and deep, twi 
 light wildernesses of forest, such as that in which 
 
THE HOLY LAND. 379 
 
 John urged a nation to repent ; while the Dead 
 Sea, in svhich the sacred stream is lost, tells by its 
 name alone, the story of buried cities, forever 
 hidden in its awful beds, and by the stillness, the 
 weight, and the bitterness of its waters, and the 
 intense solitariness of its shores, of the abiding 
 judgments of God. 
 
 But what a history has this land ! What an 
 important portion of man s spiritual history is 
 concentrated within its not extensive borders ! 
 Originally settled by the sons of Canaan, from 
 whom it derives one of its appellations, Canaan, 
 the son of Ham, and the grandson of Noah, it 
 afterwards became the adopted country of Abra 
 ham, the father of the Jewish family, to which he 
 emigrated from Chaldea, and in which he ob 
 tained possessions. It was the native country of 
 Isaac, of Jacob, and of the sons of Jacob, the 
 patriarchs of the twelve tribes. Here they had 
 their dwellings, and altars, and pastures, and 
 wells, and tombs. From this land, when a sore 
 famine was in it, Jacob and his sons, with their 
 families and their flocks and herds, went down in 
 to Egypt. Back again towards this land did their 
 descendants return, under the conduct of Moses 
 and Aaron, and a mightier Hand than theirs. 
 " Thou leddest thy people like a flock, by the hand 
 of Moses and Aaron," journeying through the 
 
380 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 intervening wilderness, and sojourning in it for the 
 period of forty years ; and, finally, under the cap 
 tainship of Joshua, did they enter this land, and 
 establish their separate tribes in their ancient 
 home. 
 
 Then came the times of the judges ; and then 
 the splendid reigns of the shepherd-king and 
 monarch-minstrel David, and of his son Solo 
 mon, so wise in his youth, so foolish in his age. 
 During these periods the divine institutions of 
 Moses were in full operation ; the bounds of Isra 
 el s possessions were enlarged ; his commerce ex 
 tended to remote India ; and his name was known 
 and respected among the nations. The glorious 
 temple was built at Jerusalem, whither all the 
 tribes went up to worship Jehovah ; and those un 
 equalled Psalms were sung there, which are now 
 sung in so many languages and in so many 
 lands. 
 
 Next we have the decline of morals and of 
 power ; the revolt and separation of the ten tribes ; 
 those mournful captivities ; the country ravaged ; 
 Jerusalem overthrown and desolate ; the temple 
 profaned, its walls shattered, its altar cold, its 
 courts empty, its music silent. Yet through this 
 period it is, that we hear those wonderful strains 
 of prophecy, modulated according to the demands 
 of the times, now persuading, encouraging, and 
 
THE HOLY LAND. 381 
 
 blessing in tones of sweetest poetry ; now threat 
 ening and denouncing in Heaven s voice of thun 
 der ; now wailing and lamenting like a funeral 
 dirge ; and ever and anon uttering intimations of 
 a happy time to come, when Israel should be re 
 deemed and comforted, and a Prince and Saviour 
 should rise up, and establish a sacred kingdom of 
 righteousness, glory, and peace. 
 
 The fortunes of the Jewish nation go on un 
 folding themselves in mingled colors of restless 
 subjection and partial restoration, till they are 
 overshadowed by the Roman sway in the time of 
 the early Roman empire. And now it is, that her 
 star of eternal dominion rises, not red and baleful, 
 but serene and full of light ; not seen or acknowl 
 edged by herself, but enlightening and healing the 
 world. Now it is, that Bethlehem acquires a lus 
 tre greater than even the birth of David could 
 confer upon it, for now it becomes the birth-place 
 of a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. Now it is, 
 that the secluded town of Nazareth, at the other 
 extremity of the kingdom, out of which it was said 
 that no good thing could come, shelters in one of 
 its cottages, and educates amidst its surrounding 
 solitudes, the Son of man and of God, and, at 
 the expiration of thirty years, sends him forth, the 
 Teacher and Redeemer of the human race. Now 
 it is, that a King rides meekly into Jerusalem, 
 
382 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 who is greater than David or Solomon, and a High 
 Priest is seen in the temple, entering into the 
 holy of holies by his own blood, and obtaining 
 not an annual, but eternal redemption. 
 
 The essential features of that land are un 
 changed, through which Jesus travelled on his 
 divine mission, marking his way with miracles of 
 power, of wisdom, and of love. How has he in 
 vested with more than double sanctity, every path 
 and spot where patriarch and prophet had already 
 travelled and rested ! How full of thrilling inter 
 est is the country which everywhere presents 
 us with names, in its towns, its streams, and its 
 mountains, with which his name is connected ! 
 Are not the words of the Prophet now most per 
 fectly accomplished, and is not the land of Canaan 
 11 the glory of all lands ? " If we cannot journey 
 over it in the body, we can make a pilgrimage 
 to it in spirit ; and indeed we must become ac 
 quainted with its localities, if we would gain an 
 accurate knowledge of the journeys and works of 
 our Lord. 
 
 The Holy Land lies spread before us. Jordan 
 flows on as it did, and the tall reeds on its banks 
 are shaken by the wind as they were, when John 
 stood there, and baptized with water Him who 
 was to baptize with the Holy Spirit and with fire. 
 It flows out from the beautiful lake or sea, on 
 
THE HOLY LAND. 383 
 
 the shores of which he passed so large a portion 
 of his ministry, and performed so many of his 
 wonderful works. Behold it, as it stretches far up 
 into Galilee, and glitters in the sun. Just here, 
 on its border, he selected his apostles. On its 
 waves he has often been borne by night and by 
 day. There, out in its midst, the angry storm 
 heard his voice of power, and was hushed ; and 
 there he stretched forth his ready hand to uphold 
 his sinking disciple. There are the silent hills 
 where he was wont to pray alone. Among these 
 villages did he pursue his way, clad in the folded 
 robes of the East, accompanied by his disciples, 
 often thronged by the people ; now stopping to 
 convey instruction in a parable, the outward ma 
 terials of which he gathered easily from the objects 
 before him ; now yielding to the entreaty of a fa 
 ther, whom grief had made humble, and speaking 
 the word which was to heal his child ; at the gates 
 of this town, restoring to a widow her only son 
 from his bier ; by the side of this ancient well, offer 
 ing to a Samaritan woman the water of life. And 
 now rise the towers and snowy temple of that city, 
 within which he was so often heard, but in vain. 
 O Jerusalem, fallen Jerusalem! the hills and 
 the lake, and the river, are unchanged ; but how 
 changed art thou, since the days of thy pride, and 
 of his humiliation ! Thy temple, where is it, ex- 
 
384 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 cept in the mind s vision ? According to his sure 
 word, it is utterly ruined ! We see the dome and 
 minarets of a mosque on mount Moriah ! And 
 yet thou canst not lose thy holiness, desolate city, 
 for in spirit we behold within thy walls the anointed 
 of God and rejected of men. Here, by his fear 
 less rebukes, he sent dismay into the hearts of a 
 perverse generation. Here is the site of that de 
 secrated judgment-hall, in which he was con 
 demned to a cruel death. Just without the walls 
 to the east, and on the ascent of the Mount of 
 Olives, is the garden where he passed the mid- 
 watches of the preceding night in agony ; and on 
 the opposite side, to the west, is the rising ground, 
 where, suspended between thieves, and surround 
 ed by the thoughtless crowd, he suffered and died. 
 Land of Canaan ; land of the Saviour ; land of 
 the old dispensation, and of the new ! it is for no 
 light cause that men call thee Holy. However 
 we may question the wisdom, we may not wonder 
 at the zeal, of that strong movement, through 
 which the chieftains and multitudes of Europe 
 rushed to the shores of Palestine, and expended 
 their treasure and their blood in the wars of the 
 Crusades. They could not bear, that the tomb in 
 which their Redeemer was laid with sorrow, and 
 from which he arose in triumph, should be in the 
 hands of infidels ; and therefore without regard to 
 
THE HOLY LAND. 385 
 
 consequences, and without regard to the peaceful 
 laws of that Redeemer himself, they established 
 through violence and crime a nominal and tem 
 porary Christian dominion on Mount Sion. Ter 
 ribly were they rebuked, as by the voice of the 
 living Saviour. They took the sword, and they 
 perished by the sword. 
 
 More pleasant for a Christian to contemplate, is 
 the use which Christian poetry has made of the 
 associations which spring up from the Land of 
 Promise, and the dominion which Christian affec 
 tions have asserted in it. We have only to re 
 member that the land of Abraham, Isaac, and Ja 
 cob is also the land of Christ ; that the descendant 
 of David reigns spiritually on his father s throne 
 in Mount Sion ; that the places, which were con 
 secrated to the Jews by the remembrance of the 
 saints and prophets of their dispensation, are re 
 consecrated to us by the steps of the Mediator of 
 a new and better covenant ; and we shall under 
 stand and feel the beauty of that imagery which 
 Christian poetry and devotion have borrowed from 
 that land, and which is one of the links between 
 the Old and the New. We shall regard it, not as 
 affectation or cant, but as easy appropriateness, 
 for a Christian poet to sing of the heavenly Canaan 
 and the new Jerusalem, when he lifts up his heart 
 from the present world to the country of the saints 
 33 
 
386 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and the city of God. We are the adopted people 
 of God, brought into his family by his Son, and 
 we are journeying through a wilderness compared 
 with that land of promise and repose. The same 
 God who preceded the Israelites by cloud and by 
 pillared fire, conducts us through its perils, pro 
 vides us food, shows us his wonders, and gives us 
 his law. For us, there is at last a river to pass, 
 the Jordan of death. Safely shall they be con 
 ducted through it, who trust in Him, and with joy 
 and singing shall they be brought into the inherit 
 ance of his children, the land of heavenly abund 
 ance and everlasting rest. 
 
SPRING 
 
 THE name of the season in which the sun re 
 turns to us from his cold recess, rising higher and 
 higher above our heads, and bringing warmth and 
 verdure with him for his welcome, is most expres 
 sively denominated by the pure English word 
 Spring. For it is now that everything in nature, 
 to which life or motion belongs, the herbs and 
 plants and trees, the fountains, the beasts and birds, 
 the reptile and the insect tribes^ are springing up 
 from the bonds of frost, and stillness, and sleep, 
 and death. It is now that a fresh impulse seems 
 to be communicated to the whole creation, and a 
 spirit of youth to be infused throughout all the 
 works of God. Spring is come ; the springing of 
 the earth ; the spring-time of the year. And so 
 great and manifest is the joy which we feel at this 
 general renovation, and so vivid the delight which 
 appears to possess even senseless and material 
 creatures in this the springing and bounding sea 
 son of their existence, that the blessing of the Cre- 
 
388 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ator may be said to rest upon it peculiarly ; and 
 we are reminded of the time when that blessing 
 first came down upon the springing things of our 
 young world, and pronounced them good. 
 
 It is only in the temperate zones that the word 
 Spring, as denoting a season of the year, can have 
 any significancy. Within the tropics, and near 
 them, Summer holds a constant and oftentimes an 
 oppressive sceptre. Growth and vegetation are 
 indeed perpetual, but they have no spring, because 
 they have no rest ; they have no awakening, be 
 cause they have no sleep ; they do not burst forth 
 in the gladness of an annual jubilee, because they 
 have never been bound or restrained. 
 
 In our own climate the signs of Spring do not 
 appear so early as they do iasome others. Even 
 the month of May is not generally to be recog 
 nized, in this part of our country, as the same 
 which poetry has loved to draw with its brightest 
 colors. And yet the three months which are called 
 the spring months, deserve their name here as truly 
 as in any other part of the world ; for it is within 
 their term that the real springing of the year takes 
 place. Our breezes are not so soft and balmy, 
 nor do our flowers bloom so soon or so profusely, 
 as in some other climes ; but the winds are sensi- 
 bly changed from the blasts of winter, and the 
 rudiments of flowers and fruits are sprouting and 
 
SPRING. 389 
 
 budding everywhere around us. Our Spring is 
 really the opening and leading season ; that season 
 of preparation and renewed growth and activity, 
 which tells of the commencement of nature s year, 
 and speaks the newly-uttered blessing of nature s 
 God. 
 
 Let us contemplate for a few moments, the ani 
 mated scene which is presented by our Spring. 
 
 The earth, loosened by the victorious sun, springs 
 from the hard dominion of winter s frost, and, no 
 longer offering a bound-up, repulsive surface to 
 the husbandman, invites his cultivating labors. 
 The streams are released from their icy fetters, 
 and spring forward on their unobstructed way, 
 full of sparkling waters, which sing and rejoice as 
 they run on. " The trees of the Lord are full of 
 sap," which now springs up into their before 
 shrunk and empty vessels, causing the buds to 
 swell, and the yet unclothed branches and twigs 
 to lose their rigid appearance, and assume a fresher 
 hue, and a more rounded form. Beneath them, 
 and in every warm and sheltered spot, the wild 
 plants are springing. Some of these are just push 
 ing up their tender, crisp, and yet vigorous sprouts, 
 thrusting aside the dead leaves with their folded 
 heads, and finding their sure way out into the 
 light ; while others have sent forth their delicate 
 foliage, and hung out their buds on slender stems ; 
 
 33* 
 
390 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and others still have unfolded their flowers, which 
 look up into the air unsuspectingly and gayly, like 
 innocence upon an untried world. The grass is 
 springing for the scythe, and the grain for the 
 sickle ; for they grow, by commandment, for the 
 service of man, and death is everywhere the fate 
 and issue of life. 
 
 But it is not only senseless things, which are 
 thus visibly springing at this their appointed sea 
 son. The various tribes of animated nature show- 
 that it is Spring also with them. The birds rise 
 up on elastic wing, and make a joyous music for 
 the growing plants to spring to. Animals, that 
 have lain torpid through the benumbing winter, 
 spring up from their secret beds and dormitories, 
 and resume their habits of activity once more. 
 Innumerable insects spring up from the cells which 
 they had formed beyond the reach of frost, and 
 in new attire commence their winged existence. 
 The hum of happy life is heard from myriads of 
 little creatures, who, born in the morning, will die 
 ere night. In that short term, however, they will 
 have accomplished the purposes of their living ; 
 and, if brought to this test, there are many human 
 lives which are shorter and vainer than theirs ; and 
 what is any life, when past, but a day ? 
 
 Let us go abroad amidst this general springing 
 of the earth and nature, and we shall see and feel 
 
SPRING. 391 
 
 that God s blessing is there. The joy of recovery, 
 the gladness of escape, the buoyancy of youth, the 
 exultation of commencing or renewed existence, 
 these are the happiness and blessing which are 
 given from above, and the praise and the hymn 
 which ascend from beneath. Another and a milder 
 order of things seems to be beginning. The gales, 
 though not the warm breathings of Summer, flow 
 to us as if they came from some distant summer 
 clime, and were cooled and moderated on their 
 way ; while, at no distant intervals, the skies, in 
 their genial ministry, baptize the offspring of earth 
 with their softest and holiest showers. " Thou 
 visitest the earth and waterest it ; thou inakest it 
 soft with showers ; thou blessest the springing 
 thereof." 
 
 Surely we cannot stand still in such a scene, and, 
 when everything else is springing, let it be winter 
 in our souls. Let us rather open our hearts to the 
 renovating influences of Heaven, and sympathize 
 with universal nature. If our love to God has 
 been chilled by any of the wintry aspects of the 
 world, it is time, it is time, that it should be resus 
 citated, and that it should spring up in ardent 
 adoration to the Source of light and life. It is 
 time, that our gratitude should be waked from its 
 sleep, and our devotion aroused, and that all our 
 pious affections, shaking off their torpor, should 
 
392 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 come out into the beams of God s presence, and re 
 ceive new powers from their invigorating warmth. 
 It is time, too, that^our social charities, if any 
 "killing frost" has visited them, should be cured 
 of their numbness and apathy, and go forth among 
 the children and brethren of the great family, and 
 feel, as they rise and move, that the blessing of the 
 Almighty Father is upon their springing. 
 
 We should be reminded, also, at this vivifying 
 season, of that Spring which succeeded the spirit 
 ual winter of the world, when Jesus Christ, the 
 Sun of righteousness, burst from the cold, dark 
 tomb. The resurrection of our Saviour took place, 
 as we know, during the term of the Jewish feast 
 of the Passover, which was celebrated at this time. 
 It was then, at the advancing of that immortal 
 Spring, that the seeds of hope and of life, which 
 had slept deep in the earth, or been checked by 
 the freezing air, if they dared to rise above the 
 surface, sprang up greenly and put forth blossoms, 
 and promised much fruit. It was then, that the 
 divine part of man gathered to itself increased 
 force, and sprang with a new consciousness of its 
 origin, toward its native skies. It was then that 
 the cold mists of doubt were dissipated, and the 
 frosts of infidelity were dissolved, and the ice of 
 death was melted, which had encased and stiffened 
 the poor human heart. 
 
SPRING. 393 
 
 Let us then enjoy the season spiritually. Let 
 it be Spring in our bosoms ; the spring of gener 
 ous faith which looks up confidingly to God, even 
 as the flowers do to the sun ; of hope which is 
 warmed and animated by gales from the heavenly 
 plains ; of desires and aspirations which rise up 
 like odors into the holy air. This, the spiritual, 
 is the only eternal Spring. The buds, which are 
 filling the atmosphere with their delicate fragrance, 
 will presently burst forth into leaves and flowers ; 
 and presently those flowers and leaves will fall and 
 wither. The seasons move round obediently in 
 their circle, and the Summer will soon be here 
 with its maturing heat, and the Autumn with its 
 sweet and foreboding melancholy, and then 
 Winter will come and shut the scene again. But 
 the Spring, which is produced within us by the 
 influences of Christian faith and piety, knows no 
 such changes as these. The Sun which gives to 
 it its light and warmth never recedes or sets. It 
 will continue to send forth its fragrant hopes and 
 verdant promises, the harbinger of that Spring 
 which is the perpetual climate of the Eden of God, 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 November IQf/i, 1840. 
 
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 Shakspeare s Dramatic Art, and his relation to Calderon and 
 
 Goethe. Translated from the German of Dr. HERMANN ULRICI. 8vo. 12s. 
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 Outline of Contents. 
 
 iv. Criticism of Shakspeare s Plays. 
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 i. Sketch of the History of the Eng 
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 R. Greene and Marlowe. 
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 of fancy Here there are treated, 
 
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 Our author has not only spoken 
 
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 Tait s Magazine. 
 
 " A good translation of Dr. Ulrici s 
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 welcome to the English thinker. It is, 
 in fact, a vindication of our great poet 
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 brought against him by critics on both 
 sides of the Atlantic. Dr. Ulrici boldly 
 claims for him the rank of an emi 
 nently Christian author The pre 
 sent work is the least German of all 
 
 vi. Calderon and Goethe in their rela 
 tion to Shakspeare. 
 
 German books, and contains remark 
 able novelty in its views of the subject 
 and the arrangement of its topics. The 
 plan adopted by Dr. Ulrici of contem 
 plating each play in the light of a 
 central idea is especially deserving of 
 all praise .... We recommend the entire 
 criticism to the perusal of the judicious 
 reader." Athenceum. 
 
 " We welcome this work as a valu 
 able accession to Shaksperian litera 
 ture. It is the principal object of Dr. 
 Ulrici s criticisms of the several plays, 
 to trace and bring to light the funda 
 mental and vivifying idea of each. In 
 this difficult task we think he has 
 been eminently successful We can 
 not dismiss this very valuable work, 
 which breathes a tone of pure and ex 
 alted morality, derived from a mind 
 truly religious, and whose holy and 
 chastening influence expresses itself 
 throughout, without remarking how 
 much we admire the excellent manner 
 in which it is translated." Inquirer. 
 
 " Excellencies of a higli order per 
 vade this performance, which, in our 
 judgment, entitle it to the grateful re 
 ception of all who are desirous of be 
 coming better acquainted with the 
 
 mind of Shakspeare The sketch 
 
 of the modern dramatic art with which 
 the book opens, as well as of the life of 
 Shakspeare, is well drawn ; indeed, the 
 historical sketches throughout are ad 
 mirably executed "The author s 
 
 views are ingenious, and the criticisms 
 on the several dramas are admirable, 
 and will fully repay the reader s study." 
 No n con formist. 
 
 "Ulrici s Admirable Shakspeare s 
 Dramatic Art has been lately trans 
 lated with considerable skill. We re 
 commend the work as an addition to 
 our higher critical literature, and we 
 should like to recur to it more fully." 
 L7i ristian Remembrancer. 
 
 The Life of Jesus, Critically Examined. 
 
 By Dr. DAVID FRIEDRICH STRAUSS. 3 vols. 8vo. 1 IGs. cloth, 
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.tan, Brothers, 121, Net? gate-street. 
 
 English style. But he will be still more 
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 tence for sentence. The style of 
 B, indeed, unlike that of many of 
 the German theological writers, is, for 
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 volved, and in so far it is favourable to 
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 lish of a Greek quotation, where there 
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 German in the original. Indeed, 
 Strauss may well sav, as lie does in the 
 notice, which he writes for this English 
 edition, that as far as he has examined 
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 " In regard to learning, acuteness, and 
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 ^, 1846. 
 
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12 Works published by 
 
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 far as it goes, is one of the most valuable confutations of the 
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 and great importance; and fortunately it has been examined with much 
 thoroughness, caution, and independence. The conclusions arrived at are those 
 of one who thinks for himself, not created by early prepossessions, nor restricted 
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 and loveful nature, and the serene, spiritual beauty, always associated in our 
 noblest conception of the character it portrays -to imply the necessity of 
 aspiration and progress, in order to unfold and realise the nature which the 
 artist has essayed to express in this ideal image ; and thus to typify the object 
 that will be invariably kept in view, by those whose writings may form a part 
 of the Catholic Series, and which each volume composing it may be expected 
 to promote. 
 
Chapman, Brothers, 121, Swfjaie-sireet. 15 
 
 CHARACTERIZATION OP THE CATHOLIC SERIES 
 BY THE PRESS. 
 
 "Too much encouragement cannot be given to enterprising publications 
 like the present. They are directly in the teeth of popular prejudice and 
 popular trash. They are addressed to the higher class of readers those who 
 think as well as read. They are works at which ordinary publishers shudder 
 as unsaleable, but which are really capable of finding a very large public." 
 Foreign Quarterly. 
 
 " The works already published embrace a great variety of subjects, and 
 display a great variety of talent. They are not exclusively nor even chiefly 
 religious ; and they are from the pens of German, French, American, as well 
 as En dish authors. "Without reference to the opinion which they contain, we 
 may safely say that they are generally such as all men of free and philoso 
 phical minds would do well to know and ponder." Noncomformut. 
 
 " This series deserves attention, both for what it has already given, and for 
 what it promises." Taifs Magazine. 
 
 " It is highly creditable to Mr. Chapman to find his name in connexion 
 with so much well-directed enterprise in the cause of German literature and 
 philosophy. He is the first publisher who seems to have proposed to himself 
 the worthy object of introducing the English reader to the philosophic mind 
 of Germany, uninfluenced by the tradesman s distrust of the marketable nature 
 of the article. It is a very praiseworthy ambition ; and we trust the public 
 will justify his confidence. Nothing could be more unworthy than the at 
 tempt to discourage, and indeed punish, such unselfish enterprise, by attaching 
 a bad reputation for orthodoxy to every thin? connected with German philo 
 sophy and theology. This is especially unworthy in the student, or the 
 scholar, to borrow Fichte s names, who should disdain to set themselves the 
 task of exciting, by their friction, a popular prejudice and clamour on matters 
 on which the populace are no competent judges, and have, indeed, no judgment 
 of their own, and who should feel, as men themselves devoted to thought, 
 that what makes a good book is not that it should gain its reader s acquiescence, 
 but that it should multiply his mental experience ; that it should acquaint him 
 with the ideas which philosophers and scholars, reared by a training different 
 from their own, have laboriously reached and devoutly entertain ; that, in a 
 word, it should enlarge his materials and his sympathies as a man and a 
 thinker." Prospect ice Review. 
 
16 Works published by 
 
 This day is Published, in two vols., post 8vo, cloth, 12s. 
 extra cloth, gilt edyes, 14s. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 OF 
 
 MEN OF GENIUS; 
 
 A 8EBIES OP 
 
 i3to graphical, $tetorical, ant) Critical 
 
 ESSAYS, 
 
 SELECTED, BY PERMISSION, CHIEFLY FROM THE NORTH AMERICAN 
 REVIEW, WITH PREFACE, 
 
 BY JOHN CHAPMAN. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 ECCLESIASTICS. 
 
 Gregory VII v and his Age. 
 
 Loyola, the Founder of the Jesuits. 
 
 Pascal, and his Writings. 
 
 POETS. 
 
 Dante Shelley Goethe 
 
 Petrarch Byron Wordsworth 
 
 Milton Scott 
 
 The German Poets, 
 
 (A recapitulation of Prof. G. G. Gervinus s "Geschichte der Poetischen 
 National-Literatur der Deutschen.") 
 
 ARTISTS. 
 
 Michael Angclo 
 
 CanoTa 
 
 STATESMEN. 
 
 lachiayelli 
 Louis IX. 
 Peter the Great. 
 
Clapuan, Brothm, 121, Newgate-street. 
 
 17 
 
 THE CATHOLIC SERIES continued. 
 
 Works already Published. 
 The Worship of Genins ; 
 
 Being an Examination of tlie Doctrine announced by D. F. Straw, viz. 
 " That to our Aire of Uelisrious Disorganization nothing is left but a Worship 
 of Genius ; that is, a Reverence lor those great Spirits who create Epochs in 
 the Progress of the Human Race, and in whom, taken collectively, the God 
 like manifests it-. If t-j us m -t fully," and thus having reference to the views 
 unfolded in the work entitled, " Heroes and Hero-icomhip," by Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 AND 
 
 The Distinctive Character or Essence of Christianity : 
 
 An Essay relative to Modern Speculations and the present State of Opinion. 
 Translated, from the German of Prof. C. Ullmaun, by Lucv SANFORD. 1 vol. 
 
 post >vo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 1. General view of the object of the 
 
 v,-ork. 
 
 2. TI."_- different stages of development 
 
 through which Christianity itself 
 has passed. The same phases 
 perceptible in the views wiacli 
 have been successively taken of it. 
 
 3. Christianity as Doctrine. Under 
 
 this head are comprised both 
 Super-naturalism and Natu 
 ralism. 
 
 4. Christianity as a Moral Law. The 
 
 philosophy of Kaiit. nation 
 alism. 
 
 5. Christianity as the Religion of Re 
 
 demption, 
 finitiou. 
 
 rmacher s de- 
 
 6. The peculiar significance and in 
 
 fluence of Christ s individual 
 character. 
 
 7. The views of Hegel and his school. 
 
 8. Christ as the exemplification of the 
 
 union of the Divine and Human 
 in one character. 
 
 9. Importance of this truth for the de 
 
 finition of the distinctive Charac 
 ter of Christianity. 
 
 10. Christianity as the Perfect Religion. 
 
 1 1 . Inferences from the preceding. 
 
 12. Retrospect and epitome of the 
 
 argnrnent. 
 
 13. Application of the preceding to the 
 
 idea of Faith. 
 
 14. Application to the Church. 
 ** The above two works are comprised in one volume, post Svo. 3s. Gd. cloth. 
 
 There is in it much important and 
 original thought. Intelligent British 
 
 /~M : ,*i E_ i:V. i - *.!_- 
 
 " There are many just and beautiful 
 conceptions expressed and developed, 
 
 and the mode of utterance and illustra 
 tion is more clear and simple than that 
 adopted often by our German brethren 
 in treating such topics." Xvnconformitt. 
 
 Christians, who are inclined to take | 
 philosophical views of the Christian 
 faith, will find much to delight and in 
 struct them." Baptist Magazine. 
 
 The Mission of the German Catholics. 
 
 By Prof. G. G. GERVINCS, Author of the " Geschichte der Poetischen 
 Xational-Literatur dtr Deutschen." Post 8vo. Is. 4d. 
 
 "This work well deserves an intro 
 duction to an English public. It con- 
 
 Reriew says : " He exhibits the ex 
 tensive and profound erudition, the 
 
 tains the reflections of a German philo- historical faculty of bringing past and 
 sopher on the extraordinary religious remote states of society near, and pro- 
 movement which is now agitating his jecting the present into the distance; 
 countrymen ; his anticipations, and his and the philosophical insight into the 
 wishes respecting its results " Inquirer, distinguishing features of individuals, 
 In an article upon the Author s communities, and epochs, which so 
 " History of the Poetical Literature of favourably characterize the recent liis- 
 the Germans," the North American toriography of the Germans." 
 
 The Destination of flan. 
 
 By Jo H ANN GOTTLIEB FICTITE. 
 PERCY S.IXNETT. 3s. Gd. cloth. 
 " This is the most popular exposition 
 of Ficiite s philosophy which exists." 
 Memoir of Fic/tt", ,>f H". Smith. 
 " The Destination of Man is, as 
 
 Translated from the German, by Mrs. 
 
 Fichte truly says, intelligible to all 
 readers who are really able to under 
 stand a book at all ; arid as the history 
 of the mind in its various phases of 
 
18 
 
 Works 
 
 THE CATHOLIC SERIES 
 
 doubt, knowledge, and faith, it is of 
 interest to all. Agree with Fichte, or 
 disagree with him, you cannot help 
 being carried along by his earnestness ; 
 you cannot help being struck with his 
 subtlety and depth. Argument, in such 
 a matter, we take to be wholly in- 
 di He rent. A book of this stamp is sure 
 to tench you much, because it excites 
 thought. If it rouses you to combat 
 his conclusions, it has done a good 
 work ; for in that very effort you are 
 stirred to a consideration or points 
 which have hitherto escaped your in 
 dolent acquiescence. Of the transla 
 tion, we must, on the whole, speak very 
 highly. It is accurate in the best 
 seir-e." l <,rci^n (iuarterly. 
 
 " The Destination of Man is Fichte s 
 most popular work, and is every way 
 
 remarkable. Aware that the great 
 public was fully competent to grapple 
 with the most arduous problems of 
 philosophy, when lucidly stated, how 
 ever it might sin-ink from the jargon 
 of the schools, Fichte undertook to 
 present his opinions in a popular 
 
 form Mrs. Percy Sinnett lias 
 
 thoroughly mastered the meaning of 
 her author, presents it clearly before 
 the reader, and that without perpetually 
 murdering our language by the intro 
 duction of barbarous neologisms." 
 Mat. 
 
 " It appears to us the boldest and 
 most emphatic attempt that has yet 
 been made to explain to man his rest 
 less and unconquerable desire to win 
 the true and the eternal." Sentinel. 
 
 Charles Elwood 5 or, the Infidel Converted. 
 
 By 0. A. UUOWNSON. Post 8vo. 4s. cloth ; 3s. Gd. paper cover. 
 
 " Charles Elwood is an attempt to pre 
 sent Christianity so that it shall satisfy 
 the philosophic element of our nature. 
 In this consists its peculiar merit and 
 its distinctive characteristic. Such a 
 book was certainly very much needed. 
 We have no doubt that it will add many 
 a doubter to a cheerful faith, and con 
 firm many a feeble mind in the faith it 
 has already professed. Mr. Brownson 
 addresses the philosophic element, and 
 the men in whom this element is pre 
 dominant ; and, of course, he presents 
 the arguments that would be the most 
 striking and satisfactory to this class of 
 men. In so far as he has succeeded, he 
 must be considered to have done a meri 
 torious work. We think Mr. Urownson 
 eminently qualified for this task, and 
 that his success is complete. The work 
 will, doubtless, be the means of giving 
 composure and serenity to the faith of 
 many who are as yet weak in the laith, 
 or halting between two opinions." 
 C/tristi/iti ExatmtnsT. 
 
 " In a series of chapters, Mr. Morton 
 explains the nature of the Christian 
 faith, and replies to the objections 
 raised by Elwood as the discussion pro 
 ceeds, and the argument we take to be 
 conclusive, though of course every one 
 may differ as to details. The mighty 
 theme is handled in a most masterly 
 style, and the reasoning may fairly be 
 called " mathematical." There is nei 
 ther rant nor cant, hypothesis or dog 
 matism. Christianity is proved to be 
 a "rational religious system," and the 
 prieat is exhibited in his true character. 
 
 We can cordially recommend the vo 
 lume, after a very careful perusal, to the 
 layman who desires to think for him 
 self, and to the clergy, as eminently 
 calculated to enlarge their views and 
 increase their usefulness, by showing 
 them the difference between sectarian 
 ism and Christianity." Sentinel. 
 
 " The purposes, in this stage of his 
 progress, which Mr. Brownson has in 
 view are, the vindication of the reality of 
 the religious principle in the nature of 
 man ; the existence of an order of senti 
 ments higher than the calculations of 
 the understanding and the deductions 
 of logic ; the foundation of morals on 
 the absolute idea of right in opposition 
 to the popular doctrine of expediency ; 
 the exposition of a spiritual philosophy ; 
 and the connexion of Christianity with 
 the progress of society. 
 
 " The work presents the most profound 
 ideas in a simple and attractive form. 
 The discussion of these principles, 
 which in their primitive abstraction are 
 so repulsive to most minds, is carried 
 on, through the medium of a slight fic 
 tion, with considerable dramatic effect. 
 We become interested in the final 
 opinions of the subjects of the tale, as 
 we do in the catastrophe of a romance. 
 A slender thread of narrative is made 
 to sustain the most weighty arguments 
 on the philosophy of religion; but the 
 conduct both of the story and of the 
 discussion is managed with so much 
 skill, that they serve to relieve and for 
 ward each other." Dial. 
 
Chap MI n, Brothers, 121, Newgate-street. 
 
 19 
 
 THE CATHOLIC SERIES (continued. ) 
 
 On the Nature of the Scholar, and its Manifestations. 
 
 By JOIIANN GOTTLIEB FITCIIE. Translated from the German ; with a 
 Memoir of the Author, by WILLIAM SMITH. Post svo. 6s. cloth. 
 
 perfect novelty These orations 
 
 are admirably fitted for their purpose ; 
 so grand is the position taken by the 
 lecturer, and so irresistible their elo 
 quence. To his excellent, translation 
 Mr. Smith lias prefixed a biography of 
 Fichte, abridged, though still copious, 
 from the one written by Fichte, junior." 
 Examiner. 
 
 " A pure and exalted morality and 
 deep religious feeling breathes through 
 out the whole The memoir 
 
 prefixed to this volume, of which it fills 
 alxmt half, contains a concise and in 
 teresting account of Fichte s bfe and 
 philosophical system." Irish Monthly 
 Magazine. 
 
 "We state Fichte s character as it is 
 known and admitted by men of all 
 parties among the Germans, when we 
 say that so robust an intellect, a soul so 
 calm, so lofty, massive, and immove- 
 able, has not mingled in philosophical 
 discussion since the time of Luther. 
 .... Fichte s opinions may be true 
 or false; but his character as a thinker 
 can be slightly valued only by such as 
 know it ill ; aiid as a man, approved by 
 action and suffering, in his life and in 
 his death, he ranks with a class of men 
 who were common only in better ages 
 than ours." State of German Litera 
 ture, by Thomas Cartyle. 
 
 " This work consists of two parts ; 
 a Life of Fichte full of nobleness :nui 
 instruction, of grand purpose, tender 
 feeling, and brave effort ; and a scries 
 of ten lectures on the Vocation and 
 Functions of the Scholar. 
 
 " The memoir, the compilation of 
 which is executed with great judgment 
 and fidelity, is the best preparation or 
 prelection for a full and profitable com 
 prehension of the somewhat vague 
 loftiness of these eloquent addresses." 
 Pnixjiectire /tV ?<>/-. 
 
 " The material trials that Fichte en 
 countered in the body are lost sight of 
 in the spiritual contest which he main 
 tained with his own mind. The page 
 that keeps the record of incidents is 
 dignified throughout by the strong 
 moral light that falls everywhere upon j 
 it, like a glory, and sweetened by a i 
 living episode that flo\ys through its 
 dark and bright places like a stream of 
 music." Athenaeum. 
 
 " With great satisfaction we welcome 
 this first English translation of an ; 
 author who occupies the most exalted i 
 position as a profound and original 
 thinker; as an irresistible orator in the 
 cause of what he believed to be truth ; 
 as a thoroughly honest and heroic man. 
 .... The appearance of any of his 
 works in our language is, we believe, a 1 
 
 The Philosophical and Esthetic Letters and Essays of Schiller. 
 
 Translated, with an Introduction, by J. WEISS. Post Svo. 7s. 6d. cloth. 
 
 " These Letters stand unequalled in < 
 the department of ^Esthetics, and are so i 
 esteemed even in Germany, which is so i 
 fruitful upon that topic. Schiller is 
 Germany s best JEsthetician, and these 
 letters contain the highest moments of 
 Schiller. Whether we desire rigorous 
 logical investigation or noble poetic ex 
 pression, whether we wish to stimulate j 
 the intellect or inflame the heart, we 
 need seek no further than these. They ] 
 are trophies won from an unpopular, j 
 metaphysical form, by a lofty, inspiring, i 
 and absorbing subject." Introduction. 
 
 "It is not possible, in a brief notice 
 like the present, to do more than inti 
 mate the kind of excellence of a book 
 of this nature. It is a profound and 
 beautiful dissertation, and must be dili 
 gently studied to be comprehended. 
 After all the innumerable efforts that the 
 present age has been some time making 
 to cut a Koyal road to everything, it is 
 beginning to find that what sometimes 
 seems the longest way round is the 
 
 shortest way home ; and if there be a 
 desire to have truth, the only way is to 
 work at the windlass one s self, and 
 bring up the buckets by the labour of 
 one s own good arm. Whoever works 
 at the present well, will find ample 
 reward for the labour they may bestow 
 on it ; the truths he will draw up are 
 universal, and from that pure elemen 
 tary fountain that maketh wise he that 
 drinketh thereat. " Douglas Jen-old s 
 Mtnffiz>tie. 
 
 " It is difficult, if not impossible, to 
 give a brief, and at the same time faith 
 ful, summary of the ideas affirmed by 
 I Schiller in this volume. Its aim is to 
 develop the ideal of humanity, and to 
 define the successive steps which must 
 be trodden to attain it. Its spirit 
 aspires after human improvment, and 
 ! seeks to indicate the means of realiza- 
 tion. Schiller insists upon the necessi- 
 ; ty of aesthetic culture as preliminary to 
 moral culture, and in order to make 
 the latter possible. According to the 
 
20 
 
 Works published ly 
 
 THE CATHOLIC SERIES (continued. ) 
 
 doctrine here set forth, until man is 
 aesthetically developed, he cannot be 
 morally free, hence not responsible, as 
 there is no sphere for the operation of 
 the will. 
 
 " The stylein which the whole volume j 
 is written is particularly beautiful, there i 
 is a consciousness of music in every page 
 we read ; it it remarkable for the con- i 
 densation of thought and firm consist- | 
 ency which prevails throughout; and. 
 so far as we are able to judge, the 
 translation is admirably and faithfully 
 rendered. The twenty-seven letters 
 upon the Esthetic Culture of Man, 
 form the most prominent, and by far 
 the most valuable, portion of the work ; 
 they will be found full of interest and 
 the choicest riches, which will abund 
 antly repay any amount of labour 
 bestowed upon them." Inquirer. 
 
 " This is a book which demands and 
 deserves study. Either to translate or 
 to appreciate it requires a somewhat 
 peculiar turn of mind. Not that any 
 body could read it without profit, but to 
 
 The Philosophy of Art. 
 
 gain from it all that it is capable of 
 yielding, there must be some aptitude 
 for such studies, and some training in 
 
 them too To be appreciated it 
 
 must be studied, and the study will be 
 well repaid." Christian Examiner. 
 
 " Here we must close, unwillingly, 
 this volume, so abounding in food for 
 thought, so fruitful of fine passages, 
 heartily commending it to all of pur 
 readers who desire to make acquaint 
 ance with the philosophy of art. The 
 extracts we have taken will prove what 
 a treasure is here, for they are but a 
 fraction of the gems that are to be 
 gathered in every page. We make no 
 apology for having so long lingered over 
 this book ; for, albeit, philosophy is 
 somewhat out of fashion in our age of 
 materialism, it yet will find its votaries, 
 fit though few ; and even they who care 
 not for the higher regions of reflection, 
 cannot fail to reap infinite pleasure 
 from the eloquent and truthful passages 
 we have sought to cull for their mingled 
 delight and edification." Critic. 
 
 An Oration on the Relation of the Plastic Arts to Nature. Translated from 
 the German of F. W. J. VON SCIIELLING, by A. JOHNSON. Post 8vo. Is. 
 paper cover ; Is. Gd. cloth. 
 
 " This excellent oration is an appli 
 cation to art of Schelling s general 
 philosophic principles. Schelling takes 
 the bold course, and declares that what 
 is ordinarily called nature is not the 
 summit of perfection, but is only the 
 inadequate manifestation of a high 
 idea, which it is the office of man to 
 penetrate. The true astronomer is not 
 he who notes down laws and causes 
 which were never revealed to sensuous 
 organs, and which are often opposed to 
 the prima facie influences of sensuous 
 observers. The true artist is not he who 
 merely imitates an isolated object in 
 nature, but he who can penetrate into 
 the unseen essence that lurks behind 
 the visible crust, and afterwards re 
 produce it in a visible form. In the 
 surrounding world means and ends are 
 
 clashed and jarred together ; in the 
 work of art the heterogenous is ex 
 cluded, and an unity is attained not to 
 be found elsewhere. Schelling, in his 
 oration, chiefly, not exclusively, regards 
 the arts of painting and sculpture; but 
 his remarks will equally apply to 
 others, such as poetry and music. This 
 oration of Schelling s deserves an exten 
 sive perusal. The translation, witli the 
 exception of a few trifling inaccurrcies, 
 is admirably done by Mr. Johnson ; 
 and we know of no work in our language 
 better suited to give a notion of the turn 
 which German philosophy took after it 
 abandoned the subjectivity of Kant and 
 Fichte. The notion will, of course, be 
 a faint one; but it is something to know 
 the latitude and longitude of a mental 
 position." Examiner. 
 
 The Life of Jean Paul Fr, Richter. 
 
 Compiled from various sources. Together with his Autobiography. Transla 
 ted from the German. 2 vols. paper cover, 7s. ; cloth, 8s. 
 
 " The autobiography of Richter, which 
 extends only to his twelfth year, is one 
 of the most interesting studies of a true 
 
 poet s childhood ever given to the 
 world." Lowers Edinburgh Magazine. 
 
 " Richter lias an intellect vehement, 
 rugged, irresistible, crushing in pieces 
 the hardest problems ; piercing into the 
 most hidden combinations of things, 
 and grasping the most distant; an 
 
 imagination vague, sombre, splendid, 
 or appalling, brooding orer the abysses 
 of being, wandering through infinitude, 
 and summoning before us, in its dim 
 religious light, shapes of brilliancy, 
 solemnity, or terror; a fancy of exu 
 berance literally unexampled, for it 
 pours its treasures with a lavishness 
 which knows no limit, hanging, like 
 the sun, a jewel on every grass-blade, 
 
Chapman, Brothers., 121, Newgate-street. 
 
 21 
 
 THE CATHOLIC SERIES (continued.) 
 
 and sowing the earth at large with 1 
 orient pearls. But deeper than all j 
 these lies humour, the ruling quality j 
 of RICHTER as it were the central fire 
 that pervades and vivifies his whole 
 being. He is a humorist from his in 
 most soul ; he thinks as a humorist ; he 
 imagines, acts, feels as a humorist: 
 sport is the element in which his 
 nature lives and works." THOMAS j 
 CARLYLE. 
 
 " With such a writer it is no common | 
 treat to be intimately acquainted. In 
 the proximity of great and virtuous ! 
 minds we imbibe a portion of their na- ; 
 ture feel, as mesmerists say, a health- 
 ful contagion, are braced with the same 
 spirit of faith, hope, and patient en 
 durance are furnished with data for 
 clearing up and working out the intri 
 cate problem of life, and are inspired, 
 like them, with the prospect of immor 
 tality. Xo reader of sensibility can rise 
 from the perusal of these volumes with 
 out becoming both wiser and better. 
 Atiat. 
 
 " We find in the present biography 
 much that does not so much amuse 
 an I instruct, as, to adopt a phrase from 
 the religious world, positively edify tiie 
 reader. The life of Richter is indeed 
 a moral and a religious, as much as a 
 literary treat, to all who have a sense 
 exercised to discern religion and mora 
 lity as a thing essentially different from 
 mere orthodoxy and asceticism. The 
 two volumes before us cannot be se 
 riously read without stimulating the 
 reader, like a good sermon, to self-ame 
 lioration, and in this respect they are 
 invaluable. 
 
 " Richter is a thorough Christian, and 
 a Christian with alarge glowing human 
 heart. The appearance of his biography 
 in an English form cannot, therefore, 
 but be regarded as a great boon to the 
 best interests of the country." Tuft s 
 Magtuente. 
 
 " Apart from the interest of the work, 
 as the life of Jean Paul, the reader 
 learns something of German life and 
 German thought, and is introduced to 
 Weiinar during its most distinguished 
 period when Goethe, Schiller, Herder, 
 and Wieland, the great fixed stars of 
 Germany, in conjunction with Jean 
 Paul, were there, surrounded by beau 
 tiful and admiring women, of tlie most 
 
 Essays. By R. W. Emerson. 
 
 refined and exalted natures, and of 
 princely rank. It is full of passages so 
 attractive and valuable that it is dim- 
 cult to make a selection as examples of 
 its character." Inquirer. 
 
 " This book will be found very valu 
 able as an introduction to the study of 
 one of the most eccentric and difficult 
 writers of Germany. Jean Paul s writ 
 ings are so much the reflex of Jean Paul 
 himself, that every light that shines 
 upon the one inevitably illumines the 
 other. The work is a useful exhibition 
 of a great and amiable man, who, pos 
 sessed of the kindliest feelings, and the 
 most brilliant fantasy, turned to a high 
 purpose that humour of which Rabelais 
 is the great grandfather, and Sterne one 
 of the line of ancestors, and contrasted 
 it with an exaltation of feeling and a 
 rhapsodical poetry which are entirely 
 his own. Let us hope that it will com- 
 
 6lete the work begun by Mr. Carlyle s 
 ?says, and cause Jean Paul to be really 
 read in this country." Examiner. 
 
 " Richter is exhibited in a most ami 
 able light in this biography industri 
 ous, frugal, benevolgnt, with a child-like 
 simplicity of character, and a heart 
 overflowing with the purest love. His 
 letters to his wife are beautiful memo 
 rials of true affection, and the way in 
 which he perpetually speaks of his chil 
 dren shows that he was the most at 
 tached ami indulgent of fathers. Who 
 ever came within the sphere of his com 
 panionship appears to have contracted 
 an affection for him that death only 
 dissolved: and while his name was re 
 sounding through Germany, lie re 
 mained as meek and humble as if he 
 had still been an unknown adventurer 
 on Parnassus." The Apprentice. 
 
 " The life of Jean Paul is a charmfaur 
 piece of biosrraphy which draws and 
 rivets tiie Attention. The affections of 
 the reader are fixed on the hero with an 
 intensity rarely bestowed on an his 
 torical character. It is impossible to 
 read this biosrraphy without a convic 
 tion of its integrity and truth: and 
 though Ritcher s style is more difficult 
 of translation than that of any other 
 German, yet we feel that his golden 
 tiu iights have reached us pure from the 
 mine, to which he has given that impress 
 of genius which makes them current in 
 all countries." Christian Reformer. 
 
 (Second Series.) 
 3s. 6d. cloth. 
 
 With a Xotice by THOMAS CARLYLE. 3s. paper cover ; 
 
 " Among the distinguishing features 
 of Christianity we are ready to say XH;-: 
 distinguishing feature is its humanity, 
 its deep sympathy with human kind, 
 
 an 1 its strong advocacy of human wants 
 and rights. In this particular, few 
 have a better title to be ranked among 
 the followers of Jesus than the author 
 
Works published ty 
 
 THE CATHOLIC SERIES (continued.) 
 
 of this book." American Christian Ex 
 aminer. 
 
 " The difficulty we find in 
 proper notice of this volume, 
 from thepervadingness of its excellence, 
 and the compression of its matter. 
 With more learning than Hazlitt, more 
 perspicuity than Carlyle, more vigour 
 and depth of thought than Addison, and 
 with as much originality and fascination 
 as any of them, this volume is a bril 
 liant addition to the Table Talk of in 
 tellectual men, be they who or where 
 they may." Prospective Review. 
 
 " Mr. Emerson is not a common man, 
 and everything lie writes contains sug 
 gestive matter of much thought and 
 earnestness." Examiner. 
 
 " That Emerson is, in a high degree, 
 - - n of the faculty and vision of 
 
 the seer, none can doubt who will ear 
 nestly and with a kind and reverential 
 spirit peruse these nine Essays. He 
 deals only with the true and the eternal. 
 His piercing gaze at once shoots swiftly, 
 surely through the outward and the su 
 perficial, to the inmost causes and work 
 ings. Any one can tell the time who 
 looks on the face of the clock, but he 
 loves to lay bare the machinery and 
 show its moving principle. His words 
 and his thoughts are a fresh spring, 
 that invigorates the soul that is steeped 
 therein. His mind is ever dealing with 
 the eternal ; and those who only live to 
 exercise their lower intellectual facul 
 
 ties, and desire only new facts and new 
 images, and those who have not a feel 
 ing or an interest in the great question 
 of mind and matter, eternity and nature, 
 will disregard him as unintelligible and 
 uninteresting, as they do Bacon and 
 Plato, and, indeed, philosophy itself." 
 Douglas Jerrold s Magazine. 
 
 " Beyond social science, because be 
 yond and outside social existence, there 
 lies the science of self, the development 
 of man in his individual existence, 
 within himself and for himself. Of this 
 latter science, which may perhaps be 
 called the philosophy of individuality, 
 Mr. Emerson is an able apostle and 
 interpreter." League. 
 
 " As regards the particular volume of 
 EMEUSON before us, we think it an im 
 provement upon the first series of essays. 
 The subjects are better chosen. They 
 come more home to the experience of 
 the mass of makind, and are conse 
 quently more interesting. Their treat- 
 ; ment also indicates an artistic improve 
 ment in the composition." Spectator. 
 
 "All lovers of literature will read 
 Mr. Emerson s new volume, as the 
 most of them have read his former one ; 
 and if correct taste, and sober views of 
 life, and such ideas on the higher sub 
 jects of thought as we have been ac 
 customed to account as truths, are 
 sometimes outraged, we at least meet 
 at every step with originality, imagi 
 nation, and eloquence." Inquirer. 
 
 The Emancipation of the Negroes in the British West Indies. 
 
 An Address delivered at Concord, Massachusetts, on the 1st of August, 1844. 
 By II. W. EMERSON. Post 8vo. Gd. paper cover. 
 
 " It is really purifying to be able to i rica of a potential voice, who can utter 
 turn, at this moment, to anything these words of reproof to his country, of 
 righteous and generous from an Amcri- | justice to Great Britain." Pros. Her. 
 
 " We need not tell any one who has 
 the slightest acquaintance with his pre 
 vious writings that Mr. Emerson is elo 
 quent ; and here he has a i?oble subject, 
 into which he has thrown his whole 
 soul." Inquirer. 
 
 can on Slavery and Great Britain, 
 to be relieved from the scorn and loath 
 ing produced by Mr. Calhoun s Letter 
 to the American Minister at Paris. 
 Since Channing is no more, it is a satis 
 faction that there is one man in Anie- 
 
 The Roman Church and Modern Society. 
 
 By E. QUINET, of the College of France. Translated from the French Third 
 Edition (with the Author s approbation), by C. COCKS, B.L. 8vo. 5s. cloth. 
 
 We take up this enlightened volume, 
 which aims, in the spirit of history and 
 philosophy, to analyze the Romanist 
 principle, with peculiar pleasure. A 
 glance at the headings of the chapters 
 much interested ourselves, and we doubt 
 not will our readers : The Superlatively 
 Catholic Kingdom of Spain ; Political 
 Results of Catholicism in Spain ; The 
 Roman Church and the State ; The 
 Roman Church and Science ; The Ro 
 
 man Church and History ; The Roman 
 Church and Law ; The Roman Church 
 
 and 
 
 and Philosophy ; The Roman Church 
 and Nations ; The Roman Church 
 
 the Universal Church." Christian Re 
 former. 
 
 " The fourth lecture, entitled The 
 Roman Church and Science, appears to 
 us the most striking and luminous ex 
 position we have seen of the condition 
 of the Roman church, and of itsunavail- 
 
_ Chapman, Brothers, 121, Nevgate-street. 
 
 23 
 
 THE CATHOLIC SERIES (continued.} 
 
 ing hostility to the progress of mankind. 
 Our space precludes the possibility of 
 quoting the whole, or we should do so 
 with great pleasure. It delineates, in 
 vivid colours, the history of Galileo, his 
 character, his discoveries, his philo 
 sophical protest against the theology of 
 Rome, the horrible persecutions which 
 he suffered, and his effects upcii the 
 ecclesiastical power changing the rela 
 tive positions of science and the church, 
 unfolding a theology more profound 
 than that of Home, a code of laws more 
 infallible than that of the church, a 
 grand and comprehensive system of 
 ideas transcending in its Catholicity 
 Catholicism itself. 
 
 " The four remaining lectures are 
 severally entitled The Roman Church 
 and Law (in which the Inquisition is a 
 conspicuous subject) The Roman 
 Church and Philosophy The Roman 
 Church and Nations The Roman 
 Church and the Universal Church. We 
 cannot characterize each of these in 
 particular: suffice it to say that there is 
 a profound and expansive" philosophical 
 spirit breathing through the whole; 
 every subject is compelled to contribute 
 it; entire force of facts and illustration 
 for the construction of the one great 
 argument which is the object and com 
 plement of each viz., that the Roman 
 Church is no longer adequate to the 
 enlarged needs and aspirations of man 
 kind, that it has fulfilled the mission for 
 
 j which it was originated that the ener 
 gies it once put forth in the cause of 
 humanity are paralyzed, that its decre 
 pitude is manifest, and its vitality 
 threatened, that" it has shown itself in- 
 
 ; capable of continuing as the minister of 
 
 i 
 
 God s will, and the interpreter of those 
 divine laws whose incarnation in human 
 life is the pledge of man s spiritual ad 
 vancement and happiness, that it heeds 
 not the signs oi the times, refuses any 
 alliance with the spirit of progression, 
 clings tenaciously to the errors and 
 dead formulas of the past, recognizes 
 the accession of no new truths, and 
 hence prostrates the intellect, proscribes 
 the enlargement of our spiritual boun 
 daries, lays an inderdict on human pro 
 gress, compels us to look perpetually 
 backwards, and blights our hopes of the 
 future, and in the words of Quinet 
 represents the earth as a condemned 
 world formed for chastisement and evil. 
 
 " Considered as a whole, the book be 
 fore us is the most powerful and philo 
 sophically consistent protest against 
 the Roman Church which h;- 
 claimed our attention, and, as a strong 
 confirmation of its stirring efficiency, 
 we may mention that the excitement it 
 has created in Faris lias subjected the 
 author to a reprimand from both Cham 
 bers of the Legislature, and excommu 
 nication by the Pope. Inquirer. 
 
 " 31. Quiuet belongs to the movement 
 party, and has lately been conspicuous 
 in resisting the pretensions of the Jesuit 
 and French clergy to the exclusive edu 
 cation of the youth of France. He has 
 grappled with his theme both practi 
 cally, and in the philosophical spirit of 
 
 history Rare merits are comprised 
 
 in this volume a gemiine spirit 
 
 pervades it, and there are many pusa- 
 ges of great depth, originality aud elo 
 quence." Atlas. 
 
 " These eloquent and valuable 
 
 lectures." -Yew Church Adrocate. 
 
 The Rationale of Religions Inquiry $ 
 
 Or, the Question stated, of Reason, the Bible, and the Church. By JAMES 
 MARTINEAU. Thi d Edition, With a Critical Letter on Ration ali-m, Mira 
 cles, aud the Authority of Scripture, by the late Rev. JOSEPH BLANCO 
 WHITE. 4s. paper cover ; 4s. Gd. cloth. 
 
 Sermons of Consolation, 
 
 By F. W. P. GREENWOOD, D.D. 5s. cloth. 
 
 " This is a really delightful volume, 
 which we would gladly see producing 
 its purifying and elevating influences in 
 all our families." Inr/uirer. 
 
 " This beautiful volume we are sure 
 
 Self-Culture. 
 
 By WILLIAM ELLERY 
 
 Christianity, or Europe. 
 
 will meet with a grateful reception from 
 all who seek instruction on the topics 
 most interesting to a thoughtful mind. 
 There are twenty-seven sermons in the 
 volume." C/irisiiun E.i-a>. . 
 
 6d. paper cover ; Is. cloth. 
 
 Translated from the German of XOVALIS (Friedrich von Hardenberg), by 
 the Rev. J. DALTO>. Gd. paper cover. 
 
24 Works published by Chapman, Brothers. 
 
 Cfte Catftoltr &mt$. 
 
 (Uniform, in Post Octavo.) 
 
 For Prospectus, explaining the Principles and Object of the Scries, 
 and for the Opinions of the Press, see pages 15 and 16 of the 
 Catalogue. 
 
 The whole of the Works which have been published in the Scries appear 
 in the following list ; but for the prices of the different books, and criticisms 
 upon them, see the preceding pages from 17 to 23. 
 
 Works already Published. 
 
 1. The Philosophical and JEstlLetic letters 
 
 anil Essays of Schiller. 
 . The Philosophy of Art. By F. W. J. Von Schelling. 
 
 3. Tfiie destination of Man. By Jokami G. Fichte. 
 
 4. The Nature of the Scholar anil its Mani 
 
 festations. By Johann Gottlieb Fichte. 
 
 5. Essays. By R. W. Emerson. 
 
 6. The Emancipation of the Negroes. By 
 
 R. W. Emerson. 
 
 7. The Iiife of Jean Paul Fr. Michter. 2vols. 
 
 8. The Roman (Church and Modern So 
 
 ciety. By E. Quinet. 
 
 O. The Rationale of Iteligious Inquiry. By 
 James Martineau, 
 
 1O. Charles Elwood ; or, the Xiifttlel Con 
 verted. By 0. W. Brownson. 
 
 Ifi. Sermons of Consolation. By F. W. P. Green 
 wood, D.D. 
 
 1. Self-Culture. By William EUery Channing. 
 
 f . Christianity, or Europe. By Novalis. 
 
 4. The Mission of the &ennaii Catholics. 
 By Prof. G. G. Gcrviims. 
 
 15. The ^orship of Genius, and The Distinc 
 tive Character or Essence of Chris 
 tianity. By Prof. C. Ullmann. 
 
 f*. Characteristics of Men of Genius. 
 
 Morton & Chapman, Printers, 2, Crane-court, Fleet-street. 
 
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