jp^^^^mc^or^O -o fc o 6 LIBRARY or CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE DO SCHOOL SUPPLIES THE o F A COLLECTION OF ELOQUENT >ND INTERESTING EXTRACTS FROM THE WRITINGS OF AMERICAN AUTHORS. *# fr* NEW YORK: & CO., 122 Nassau Street. C5- PREFACE BOOKS of common-place are the amusoments of literature. It is pleasant to have at one's side a well- selected volume, to which he may turn for meiitai 1 recreation, when the fatigue of preceding exertion Mas rendered him unequal to intellectual effort. It is [levant, also, to have before us the eloquent passages >f our favourite authors, so that we may occasionally dwakei. and prolong the delightful sensations with which we at first perused them. But the mere powei of conferring amusement is not that, which gives to publications of this sort their highest value. To all those, whose constant occupation precludes the possi bility of spending many leisure hours in the acquisi- tion of literary taste and knowledge, they maybe ren- dered eminently useful. The present volume is selected entirely from Ameri- can authors, and contains specimens of American lit- erature from its earliest period to the present day. li is hoped that it may not be found inferior in excellence or interest to any of those compilations which have hitherto embraced only the morceaux delicieuse of Eng- lish genius. When we say this, it is without any feeling of na- tional vanity or rivalry. Our wish is merely to furnish a volume which shall correspond m design and execu aon to those which are now so popular abroad, and which contribute so extensively to the improvement oi general and literary taste, by bringing the happier ef- forts of higher mind<9 within the reach of all classes of society. The volume now offered to the public may also, we frust, prove serviceable to the interests of education The selection contained in the following pa b 'es is such, it is hoped, as will ex*5it a favourable influence on the minds of youth, by ti/e predominating intellectual and literary character or' the pieces. The sentiments im- bibed from the peru^l of this compilation will be such as our most eminent writers have inculcated ; and the spirit infcscd by it will be that vivid admiration of nature ar d of human excellence, which forms a char acterip'.ic trait in American writings. EDITOR TABLE OF CONTENTS Goednew of the Deity displayed in the Beauty of Creation. Dwigkt. 9 Night Season favourable to Contemplation and Study. . . Denrtit. 10 Colloquial Powers of Or. Franklin Wvrt. 19 An Apparition Club-Room. 14 Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion. Buckminster. 19 Reciprocal Influence of Morals and Literature Fristne. 21 Evening Scenes on the St. Lawrence Silliman. 23 Franklin's first Entrance into Philadelphia Franklin. 23 Passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge. . . . Jefferson. 15 Mural and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred Scriptures. Jfayland. 26 Charicter of Washington . jimei. 29 Labours of periodical Composition Idle Man. 33 Industry necessary to the Attainment of Eloquence. . . . Ware. 34 Ingratitude towards the Deity .... Jlppltton. 36 Resistance to Upprennion J. Qui/ir?/, Jun. 37 Lafayette in the French Revolution Ticknor. 38 Poeta nascitur, Orator fit Monthly Anthologa. 42 Intellectual Qualities of Milton . . Cha.nrn.ng. 43 National Recollections the Foundation of national Character. E. Everett. 44 Extract from tne Legend of Sleepy Hollow. ... . Irving. 46 Reflections on the Settlement of New England. . . Webster 51 Forest Scenery. . . . . Paulding 53 Influence of Christianity in elevating the female Character J. O. Carter 55 Necessity of a pure national Morality. . Beecher 57 Value of religious Faith. . . . Buckminster 5'J Death of General Washington. . Marshall VA The Lessons of Death Jforton (K Character of Chief Justice Marshall . . Wvrt 68 Moral Sublimity illustrated Wayland 71 Eloquent Speech of Logan, Chief of the Mingoea. . . . Jefferson 74 Fox, Burke, and Pitt Jt. H. Everett 75 Surprise and Destruction of the Pequod Indians. . . Miss Sednaick. 81 Character of Fisher Ames . Kirkland. 3 Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jefferson. . . . Sergeant. 94 Indolence .. Dennie. 97 Escape of Harvey Birch and Captain Wharton. . . . Cooper. 99 Scenery in the Notch of the White Mountains. . . . Dwight. 107 Exalted Character of Poetry Chanmng. 1 1 1 Eloquent Appeal in Favour of the Greeks. JVorth. American Review. 115 Death of J. Uuincy, Jun. . . . . . . J. Qutncy 123 Danger of Delay in Religion . Buckminster. IxM Eceoei in Philadelphia during the Prevalence of the YelY>w Fe- TW, in 1793. .... C. B. Brown. 12e 6 TABLE OF CONTENTS. P Importance of Knowledge to the Mechanic. . . O. B. Emerjtn. 133 Humorous Description of the Custom of Whitewashing. Francis Hopkinsm. 135 May you die among your Kind.cd. . . . . Greenwood. 14i Description of a Death Ssno. . . . Miss Francis. I4J The Rose. M-t. figountey. 145 Influence of Female Character Tltac/ier. 14t Character of James Monroe. . Wvrt. 150 The Stout Gentleman. A Stage-coach Romance Irving'. 153 Patriotism and Eloquence of John Adams. . . . Webster. 161 Description of the Sj>eedwell Mine in England. . . . SUtiman. 166 Effects of the moilorn Diflusion of Knowledge. . . . Wayland. 168 The Love of human Estimation Buckmxnster . 172 Extract from an Address on retiring from the public Seivico of the United States of America Washington. 17> Speech over the Grave of Black Buffalo, Chief of the Teton Trioe of Indians Big F.Ik Maha. Ctaef. 17il Speech of Ho- na-yiir-wus, or Farmer's Brother . 180 AWication of Napoleon, and Retirement of Lafayette. . Ticknar. 181 Extract from" Hyperion." ... . .7. Qtoncw Jan. 185 The Sabbath in New England Mua Sfdficick. 190 Description of the Capture of a Whale Cooper. 192 Lake dcorge Club-Room. 197 llypucMoiiiliiasis and its Remedies. . ... ... Hush. 205 rfimato and Scenery of New England Tudor. 209 Firpt and second Death Greenwood. 215 Posthumous Influence of '.he Wise and Good JVurton. 217 Difficulties encountered by the Federal Convention. . . Madison. 218 Reflections on th Battle of l*>\ingtin E. Everett. 221 Purpose of the Monument on Bunker Hill Wobster. 223 Albums and tin; Alps Suekminster. 224 Interview with Robert Southey Oriscom. 226 Christmas. Irving. 228 Declaration of American Independence Jefferson. 230 Mementos of the Instability of human Existence Fitch. 234 Description of the Preaching of Whitficld. . . . Mas Francis. 238 Anecdote of Dr. Cbaunejr . T\idor. 240 Effects of a Dissolution of the Federal Union. . . Hamilton. 242 Sports on New Year's Day .... Paulding. 245 Conclusion of " Observations on the Boston Port Bill. 1 ' J. Qiuncy, Jun. 249 Necessity of Union Ixit ween the States. Jay. 53 Character of Hamilton . . jlmes 2f>6 Morality of Poetry O. Bancroft 259 The Congemioncft* of Atheism. ... . . Channina. 2u2 The blind Preacher .... Win 203 Tlie humble Man and the proud. . . ... Thactier 2oti ''fheSJon. From "The Idle Man." . . . . R. Dana. $* ^glect of foreign Literature in Arneric.n. dir.eriean Quarterly Review. 277 mth a sublime and universal Moralist. . . . Sparks. 270 -rattle of Banker HiU Cooper. 25*3 Autumn and Spring. Paulttinir. 2'JG The Storm rihip Irmna. 2!W Anecdote of Jami'a Otis /. Jldanus. 304 Interesting Passage in the Life of James Otis Tudor. 306 Close of the Lives of Adams and Jefferson ... . Webster 310 Horeis of Chess Franklin. 313 TABLE OF CONTENTS. ? Ttf The Hospital in Philadelphia during the Pestilence. C. B. Brown. Shipwreck of the Ariol Hooper. 3l't Destruction of a Family of the Pilgrims by the Savages. Mils Scdgwick. .--".< The Emigrant's Abode in Ohio Flint 33tj Melancholy Decay of the Indians Cast. 337 Object and Success of the Missionary Enterprise. . . Wayland. 339 Mont IHanc in the Gleam of Sunset . Griscom 343 Contrast in tho Characters of Cicero and Alticus. Bvckminster. 345 Scenery in the Highlands on the River Hudson. . . . Irving. 346 Eternity of (iod. Greenwood. 350 Philosophy and Morality of Tacitus Frisbie. 365 rhe Village Grave- Yard Greenwood. 359 Influence of the Habit of Gaming on tho Mind and Heart. . JVott. 363 The Preservation of the Church Mason. 367 Modern Facilities lor evangelizing tho World Jieectier. 368 Speech of tho Chief Sa-gu-yu-what-htih, called by tho white People Red Jacket 370 Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty Jlmts. 373 Appeal in Favour of the Union . . Madison. 378 Grand electrical Experiment of Dr. Franklin. . . . Siuber. 380 Extrication of a Frigate from the Shoals Cooper. 383 Lafayette's first Visit to America. Ticknor. 393 Goffe the Regicide Dwight. 396 General Washington resigning the Command of the Army. Ramsay. 397 Alexander Wilson. . . JVortA American Rejaiew. 403 Female education and Learning Story. 407 Poetical Character of Gray Jiuc.kminstcr. 409 Republics of Greece and Italy Hamilton. 414 Professional Character of William Pinkney. ... H. Wheaton. 41c External Appearance of England A. H. Everett. 417 Features of American Scenery Tudor. 421 Literary diameter of Jefferson and Adams. . . Webster. 422 Eloquence and Humour of Patrick Henry Win. 424 Valley of the Commanches Francis Berrian 425 Pleasures of tho Man of a refined Imagination. . . . Idle Man. 42~ Scene at Niagara . Miss Sedgwit.k. 429 Procession of Nuns in a Catholic Hospital. . Miss Francis. 430 Grandeur of astronomical Discoveries. . . .... Wtrt. 434 Scenes on the Prairies . Jlnonymma. 436 Eulogy on William Penn Du Ponceau. 430 Morbid Effects of Envy. Malice, and Hatred Rusk. 440 Appearance of the first Settlements of the Pilgrims. Miss Sedfvick. 442 Description of a Herd of Bisons Cooper. 444 The Character of Jesus .... Thacher. 448 Recollection* of J. Uuincy, Jun J. Quineg. 450 The true Pride of Ancestry Webster. 451 A Slide in the White Mountains. . . Mrs. Halt. 453 The Twins ... Token. 454 The lone Indian. JHi* Francis. 457 A Scene in the Catskill Mountains. . . G. Mellen. 459 The St. Lr *rence. . .... A". P. Wttlix. 460 I have seen an End of all Perfection. . JUri. Sigourney. 461 Neatness . . . Dennit. 464 Description of King's College Chapel . . SUliman. 467 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Pr>. Adanu.J. . ... 304 Am. 29, 256. Jay. 853 Jefferson. ... 95,74,230 Boccher 57 368 Hi" Elk Maha Chief. . . 179 flrown t C. B. ... 128,316 K 11 ?k minster. 19, 59 1S4, 172, 234, 345, 409 Norton 66,217 ('nrter, J. G 55 PauMlnf. . . 83,945,296 Charming. . . . 43,111,963 Club-Room 14, 197 Quincy, J.. Jon. 37, 185, 249 Quincy, J. . 133, 450 Cooper. 99,192,283,319,383,444 Dana, R 268 Red Jacket, (an Indian Chief.) 370 Dcnnie 10,97,464 Dwight 9, 107, 396 Rush. ..... 205, 440 Emerson, G. B 133 Everett, A. H 75, 417 E . 44 221 Scdgwick, Mis. &, 190, 329, 429, 442 Farmer 1 ! Brov^ir, (an Indian Chief.) 180 Sigourney Mn. . 145, 461 Siiliman. . . 93,166,467 Sparks. . . . . . 27 1 Fitch. . . .... 234 Story. 407 Flint. ... . . 336 S tuber, 380 Francis Berrian 435 Francis, Mia. 141, 238, 430, 457 Franklin. ... .23 312 Thacher. . 146,266,448 Ticknor 38, 131 393 Fri.bie. . SI, 355 Greenwood. . 141,215,350,359 Griicom. . . 236,343 Token. .... 454 Tudor . 909,940,908,491 Were 94 Hale. Mn. . . 453 Hamilton. . . 242, 414 Uopkinson F. . . 135 Idle Man. . . . 33, 427 Irring. 46. 153 223. 296. 346 Washington. . 178 WaylanU. . 95, 71, 169, 339 Webster. 51. 161,223,310,491,451 Whcaton, li 415 Willis, N P ... . 4trO \V,n. 12.68 150,963 494,434 PROSE WRITERS AMERICA Goodness of the Deity displayed in the Beauty qf Creation. D w i OHT WERE all the interesting diversities of colour and form to disappear, how unsightly, dull, and wearisome, would be the aspect of the world ! The pleasures, conveyed to us hy the endless varieties, with which these sources of beauty are presented to the eye, are so much things of course, and exist so much without intermission, that we scarcely think either of their nature, their number, or the great proportion which they constitute in the whole mass of our enjoyment. But, were an inhabitant of this country to be removed from its delightful scenery to the midst of an Arabian desert, a boundless expanse of sand, a waste, spread with uniform desolation, enlivened by the murmur of no stream, and cheered by the beauty of no verdure ; although he might live in a palace, and riot in splendour and luxury, he would, I think, find life a dull, wearisome, melancholy round of existence ; and, amid all his gratifi- cations, would sigh for the hills and valleys of his native land, the brooks, and rivers, the living lustre of the Spring, and the rich glories of the Autumn. The ever-varying brilliancy and grandeur of the landscape, and the magnifi- cence of the sky, sun, moon, and stars, enter more exten- sively into the enjoyment of mankind, than we, perhaps, ever think, or can possibly apprehend, without frequent and extensive investigation. This beauty and splendour of the objects around us, it is ever to be remembered, Is not necessary to their existence, nor to what we commonly in- tend by their usefulness. It is, therefore, to be regarded 10 CCMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 13 a source of pleasure gratuitously superinduced upon tin general nature of the objects themselves, and. iu ti.is light 13 a testimony of the divine goodness peculiarly affecting. Wight Season favourable to Contemplation and Study. DEN N IE. "Watchman, what of the night?" ISAIAH zzt. 11 To this query of Isaiah, the Tatchmau replies, that " The morning cometh, ai.d also the n.'ght." The brevity of this answer has left it involved in something of the ob- scurity of the season in which it was given. I think that night, however sooty and ill-favoured it may be pronounced by those who were born under a daystar, merits a more particular description. I feel peculiarly disposed to ar- range some ideas in favour of this season. I know that the majority are literally blind to its merits; they must be prominent, indeed, to be discerned by the closed eyes of the snorer, who thinks that night was made for nothing but sleep. But the student and the sage are willing to believe that it was formed for higher purposes ; and that it not only recruits exhausted spirits, but sometimes in- forms inquisitive and mends wicked ones. Duty, as well as inclination, urges the Lay Preacher to sermonize while others slumber. To read numero is vol- umes in the morning, and to observe various characters at noon, will leave but little time, except the night, to digest the one or speculate upon the other. The night, there- fore, is often dedicated to composition, and, while the light of the paly planets discovers at t;is desk the Preacher, more w*n than they, he may be heard repeating emphatically with Dr. Young, " Darkness has much Divinity for me.' He is then alone ; he is then at peace. No companions near, but the silent volumes on his shelf; no noise abroad but the click of the village clock or the bark of the vil- lage dog. The deacon has then smoked his sixth, and last pipe, and asks not a question mort concerning Josephus COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP /ROSE. 11 ;>r the church. Stillness aids study, and the sermon pro- ceeds. Such being the obligations to night, it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge them. As my watchful eyes can discern its dim beauties, my warm heart shall feel, and my prompt pen shall describe, the uses and pleas- ures of the nocturnal hour. " Watchman, what of the night ?" 1 can with propriety imagine this question addressed to myself; I am a professed lucubrator; and who so well qualified to delineate the sa- ble hours as " A meager, muse-rid mope, adust and thin ?" However injuriously night is treated by the sleepy mod- erns, the vigilance of the ancients could not overlook its benefits and joys. In as early a record as the book of Genesis, 1 find that Isaac, though he devoted his assiduous Jays to action, reserved speculation till night. " He went out to meditate in the field at eventide." He chose that sad, that solemn hour, to reflect upon the virtues of a be- loved and departed mother. The tumult and glare of tht day suited not with the sorrow of his soul. He had losi his most amiable, most genuine friend, and his unosterta- tious grief was eager for privacy and shade. Sincere SH-- row rarely suffers fts tears to be seen. It was natural for Isaac to select a season to weep in, that should resemble " the colour of his fate." The darkness, the solemnity, the stillness of the eve, were favourable to his melancholy purpose. He forsook, therefore, the bustling tents of his father, the pleasant " south country," and " well of La- hairoi ;** he went out and pensively meditated at even- tide. The Grecian and Roman philosophers firmly believed that the " dead of midnight is the noon of thought." One of them is beautifully described by the poet as soliciting knowledge from the skies in private and nightly audience, and that neither his theme, nor his nightly walks, were forsaken till the sun appeared, and dimmed his " nobler in- tellectual beam." We undoubtedly owe to the studious nights of the ancients most of their elaborate and immorta 1 productions. Among the-rn it wn necessary thpt. every inan <*( letters should trim the mi Inisht lamp. The da> 12 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. might be given to the forum or the circus, hut the night was the season for tr*e statesman to project his schemes, and for the poet to pour his verse. Night has, likewise, with great reason, been considered, in every age, as the astronomer's day. Young observes, with energy, that " An undevout astronomer is mad." The privilege of contemplating those brilliant and nu- merous myriads of planets which bedeck our skies is pe- culiar to night, and it is our duty, both as lovers of moral and natural beauty, to bless that season, when we are in- dulged with such a gorgeous display of glittering and use- ful light. It must be confessed, that the seclusion, calm- ness, and tranquillity of midnight, are most friendly to seri- ous, and even airy contemplations. I think it treason to this sable Power, who holds divided empire with Day, constantly to shut our eyes at her ap- proach. To long sleep I am decidedly a foe. As it is expressed by a quaint writer, we shall all have enough of 't in the grave. Those, who cannot break the silence of the night by vocal throat, or eloquent tongue, may be per- mitted to disturb it by a snore. But he, among my readers, who possesses the power of fancy and strong thought, should be vigilant as a watchman. Let him sleep abun- dantly for health, but sparingly for sloth. It is better, sometimes, to consult a page of philosophy than the pillow. Colloquial Powers of Dr. Franklin. WIRT. NEVER have I known such a fireside companion as he was ! Great as he was, both as a statesman and a philoso- pher, he never shone in a light more winning than when he was seen in a domestic circle. It was once my good fortune to pass two or three weeks with him, at the house of a private gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania; and we were confined to the house during the whole of that time, by the uninterniittinc constancy and depth of the snows. But confinement conlJ never he felt where Frank- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 13 Jo was an inmate. His cheerfulness and his colloquial powers spread around him a perpetual spring. When 1 speak, however, of his colloquial powers, I do not mean to awaken any notion analogous to that which Boswell ha? given us, when he so frequently mentions the colloquial powers of Dr. Johnson. The conversation of the latter continually reminds one of " the pomp and circumstance of glorious war." It was, indeed, a perpetual contest for victory, or an arbitrary and despotic exaction of homage u> his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt, splendid and vociferous ; as loud, stormy, and sublime, as those winds which he represents as shaking the Hebrides, and rocking the old castles that frowned upon the dark rolling sea beneath. But one gets tired of storms, however sublime they may be, and longs for the more orderly cur- rent of nature. Of Franklin no one ever became tired. There was no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine, in any thing which came from him. There was nothing which made any demand either upon your allegiance or your admiration. His manner was as unaffected as infancy. It was na- ture's self. He talked like an old patriarch ; and his plain- ness and simplicity put you, at once, at your ease, and gave you the full and free possession and use of all your fac- ulties. His thoughts were of a character to shine by their own light, without any adventitious aid. They required only a medium of vision like his pure and simple style, to exhibit, to the highest advantage, their native radiance and beauty. His cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as much the effect of the systematic and salutary exercise of the mind as of its superior organization. His wit was of the first order. It did not show itself merely in occa- sional coruscations ; but, without any effort or force on his rart, it shed a constant stream of the purest light over the whole of his discourse. Whether in the company of rommons or nobles, he was always the same plain man ; always most perfectly at his ease, his faculties in full play, and the full orbit of his genius forever clear and uncloud- ed. And then the stores of his mind were inexhaustible. He hat* commenced life with an attention so vigilant, thai 2 14 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF THOSE. nothing had escaped his observation, and a judgment M solid, that every incident was turned to advantage. His youth had not been wasted in idleness, nor overcast by in- temperance. He had been all his life a close and deep reader, as well as thinker ; and, by the force of his own powers, had wrought up the raw materials, which he had gathered from books, with such exquisite skill and felicity, that he had added a hundred fold to their original value, and justly made them his own. An Apparition. CLUB-ROOM. THE sun was hastening to a glorious setting as I gained the last hill that overlooks the forest ; and, late as it was, 1 paused to gaze once more on this most brilliant and touch- ing of the wonders of nature. The glories of the western sky lasted long after the moon was in full splendour in the east ; on one side all was rich and warm with departing day on the other how pure and calm was the approach of night! If 1 had been born a heathen, I think I could not have seen the setting sun, without believing myself immortal : who, that had never seen the morning dawn, could believe that wonderful orb, which sinks so slowly and majestically through a sea of light, throwing up beams of a thousand hues, melting and mingling together, touch- ing the crest of the clouds with fire, and streaming over the heavens with broad brilliancy, up to the zenith then retiring from sight, and gradually drawing his beams after him, till their last faint blush is extinguished in the cold, uniform tints of moonlight who could believe that source of light had perished ? Who then could believe that the being, who gazes on that magnificent spectacle with such emotion, and draws from it such high conclusions of his own nature and destiny, is even more perishable ? I remained absorbed in such reflections till the twilight was almost gone. I then began rapidly to descend, and, leaving the moon behind the hill, entered the long dark shadow it threw over the wood at its foot. It was gloomy ud chill the faint lingering of day was hidden by th C&MMON-PLACK BOOK OF PROSE. Ifl trees, and the moon seemed to have set again, throwing only a distant light on the rich volumes of clouds that hung over her. As I descended farther, the air became colder, (he sky took a deeper blue, and the stars shone with a wintry brightness. The thoughts which came tenderly over me, by the light of the setting sun, now grew dark and solemn ; and i felt how fleeting and unsatisfactory are the hopes built on the analogies of nature. The sun seta *o beautifully it seems impossible it should not rise again ; out in the gloom of midnight, where is the promise of the morrow ? In the cold, but still beautiful, features of the lead, we think we see the pledge of a resurrection; but what hope of life is there in the dust to which they crum- ble ? i arrived late at the inn. It was a large and ruinous struc ure, which had once been a castle, but the family of its owner had perished in disgrace : their title was extin- guished, their lands confiscated and sold, and their namo now almost forgotten. It stood on a small bare hill in the- midst ot the forest, which it overtopped, only to lose its shelter and shade, for from it the eye could not reach the extremity of the wood. I knocked long before I was admitted-, a" last an old man came to the door with a lan- tern, and, without a word of welcome, led my horse to the stable, leaving me to find my way into the house. The spirit of the place seemed to have infected its inhabitants I entered a kitchen, whose ejttent I could not see by the ilim fire-light, and, having stirred the embers, sat down to warm me. The old man sqon returned, and showed ma up the remains of a spacious staircase, to a long hall, in a corner of which was my bed. I extinguished the light, and .ay down without undressing ; but the thoughts and scenes of the evening had taken strong hold of my mind, and I could not sleep. I did not feel troubled, but there was an intensity of thought and feeling within me, that seemed waiting for some great object on which to expend itself. 1 rose, and walked to the window : the moon was shining beautifully bright, but the forest was so thick that her light only glanced on the tops of the trees, and showed nothing distinctly all was silent an'. 1 , motionless not a breeze, not .found, not a cloud the earth was dim and undistinguis) 16 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. able, the heavens were filled with a calm light, and th moon seemed to stand still in the midst. 1 know not how long I remained leaning against the window and gazing upward, for 1 was dreaming of things long past, of which I was then, though I knew it not, the only living witness; when uiy attention was suddenly recalled by the low but distinct sound ol some one breathing near me I turned with a sudden thriL of fear, but saw nothing ; and, as the sound had ceased, I readily believed it was fancy. I soon relapsed into ray former train of thought, and had forgot- ten the circumstance, when I was again startled by a sound I could not mistake there was some one breathing at my very ear so terribly certain was the fact that I did not move even my eyes; it was not the deep, regular breath of one asieep, nor the quick panting of g'uit, but a quiet, gentle respiration ; I remained listening till I could doubt no longer, and then turned slowly round, that I might not be overpowered by the suddenness of the sight, which 1 knew I must meet again there was nothing to be seen the moon shone broad into the long desolate chamber, and, though there was a little gathering of shadow in the cor- ners, I am sure nothing visible could have escaped the keenness of my gaze, as I looked again and again along the dark wainscot. My calmness now forsook me, and, a^ I turned fearfully back to the window, my hand brushed against the curtain, whose deep folds hid the corner near which I was standing the blood gushed to my heart with a sharp pang, and I involuntarily dashed my hands forward they passed through against the damp wall, and the tide of life rolled back, leaving me hardly able to support my- self. I stood a few moments lost in fear and wonder when the breathing began again, and there in the bright moonlight I felt the air driven against my face by a being I could not see. I sat down on the bed in great agitation, aui . was a considerable time before I could at all com- pose my mind the fact was certain, but the cause inscru- table. I rose, and walked across the chamber. I made three or four turns, and gradually recovered my tranquillity, though still impressed with the belief that what I bad heard was no natural sound. I was not now in a ftate to be easily deluded, for my senses were on the alert. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. IT but my mind perfectly calm. The old floor groaned under every tread, but the noise excited in me no alarm ; I did no* even turn when the planks sprung and cracked behind me long after my foot had left them. But, good God ! what were my feelings when I heard distinct footsteps fol- lowing my own ! the light tread of naked feet 1 stopped instantly, just a? I had made a step the tread ceased, and a moment after I heard a foot brought up is if to support the walker in this unexpected pause Could it be echo ? I struck my foot upon the floor the sound was short and sullen, and was not repeated I walked on, but the steps did not follow I turned, and paused again all was still. I walked back, and as I reached the spot where the sounds had ceased whether I heard or saw it I cannot tell but something passed me, and a soft sigh floated along with it, dying away in distance like the moaning of a gentle wind. It was indistinct as it passed, but as I listened to catch its last lingering, I knew the voice of Gertrude ! " Her- mann!" it said, in a tone so tender and mournful, that my eyes rilled with tears, and I seemed to hear it long after it had ceased. " Gertrude !" I cried aloud the same sweet sigh answered me, and for an instant I caught the dark beam of her eye there was no form,, but I saw her own look that deep melancholy gaze it was but a moment, >. from sight. Farewell, my friend! I am going to Rcm3 ?Vr 2 few months, for it is the seat of my religion, a\t. I would look once more before I die on the mightiest r-,niair.s of earth. I have watched the fall of the last l^uvos in Underwalden ; I shall return to see them put forth once more, but when they fall again, they will cover the grave of HERMANN Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion. BTTCKMINSTER. No situation in life is so favourable to established habit) of virtue, and to powerful sentiments of devotion, as a resi- dence in the country, and rural occupations. I am not speaking of a condition of peasantry, (of which, in this etuntry, we know little,) who are mere vassals of an ab- sent lord, or the hired labourers of an intendant, and who are therefore interested in nothing but the regular receipt of their daily wagos; but I refer to the honourable charac- ter of an owner of the soil, whose comforts, whoso weiglJ m the community, and whose very existence, depend upsa his personal labours, nnd the regular returns of the abun- 20 COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. Jance from the soil which he cultivates. No man, oce would think, would feel so sensibly his immediate depend- ence upon God, as the husbandman. For all his peculiar blessings he is invited to look immediately to the bounty of Heaven. No secondary cause stands between him ano his Maker. To him are essential the regular succession >f the seasons, and the timely fall of the rain, the genial warmth of the sun, the sure productiveness of the soil, and the certain operations of those laws of nature, which must appear to him nothing less than the varied exertions of omnipresent energy. In the cou;>try we seem 'to stand in the midst of the great theatre of God's power, and we feel an unusual proximity to our Creator. His blue and tranquil sky spreads itself over our heads, and ve acknowl- edge the intrusion of no secondary e^f f . jv, unfolding this vast expanse. Nothing but Omnipc-ts, *. '..in work up the dark horrors of the tempest, dart the Lodges of the light- ning, and roll the long- resounding ri!;iit,ur of the thunder. The breeze wafts to his senses the <-d',arj of God's benefi- cence ; the voice of God's power i j lien .'. in the rustling of the forest ; and the varied forms of life, activity, and pleasure, which he observes at ^vcry M.jp in the ndds. lead him irresistibly, one would tliifrk, lu the Source of be ng, and beauty, and joy. How auspicious such a life to the noble sentiments of devotion ! Besides, the situation of the husbandman is peculiarly favouraWe, it should seem, to nurity and simplicity of moral sentiment. He is brought acquainted chiefly with the real and native wants of mankind. Employed solely in bringing food out of the earth, he is not liable to be fascinated with the fictitious pleasures, the unnatural wants, the fashionable follies, and tyrannical vices of more busy and splendid life. Still more favourable to the religious character of the husbandman is the circumstance, that, from the nature of agricultural pursuits, they do not so completely engross the attention as other occupations. They leave much umo tor contemplation, for reading, and intellectual pleas- ures; aiid these are peculiarly grateful to the pesident in the country. Especially does the institution of H e Sabbath discover ail its value to the tiller of the earth, whose fa- tigue it solaces, whoie hard labours it interrupts, and who COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE, 21 feels, on that day, the worth of his moral nature, which cannot be understood by the busy man, who considers the repose of this day as interfering with his hopes of gam, or professional employments. If, then, this institution is o' any moral and religious value, it is to the country we mu&l look for the continuance of that respect and observance, which it merits. My friends, those of you, especially, who retire annually into the country, let these periodical retreats from business or dissipation bring you nearer to your God; let them restore the clearness of your judg- ment on' the objects of human pursuit, invigorate you* moral perceptions, exalt your sentiments, and regulate your habits of devotion ; and, if there be any virtue or simplici- ty remaining in rural life, let them never be impaired by the influence of your presence and example. Reciprocal Influence of Morals and Literature. FRISBIE. IN no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal in- fluence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than in those of the author of Childa Harold. His character produced the poems, and it cannot be doubted, that his po- ems are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes speak a languuge supplied not more by imagination than consciousness. They are not those machines, that, by a contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own ; but instruments, through which he breathes his very soul, in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sym- pathetic impulse to those who hear. The desolate misan- thropy of his mind rises, and throws its dark shade over his poetry, like one of his own ruined castles ; we feel it to be sublime, but we forget that it is a sublimity it cannot have til. it is abandoned by every thing that is kind, and peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready to become the haunts of outlaws and assassins. Nor are his morfe tender and affectionate passages those to which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. It ii not that we :an here and there select a proposition formally 22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. false and pernicious ; but he leaves an impression *.m fa- vourable to a healthful state of thought and feelic^, pcs:. liarly dangerous to the finest minds and most su3< cptiVe hearts. They are the scene of a summer evening, where all is tender, and beautiful, and grand ; but the damps of disease descend with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent vapours of night are breathed in with the fragrance and balm, and the delicate and fair are the surest victims of the exposure. Although I have illustrated the moral influence of liter- ature principally from its nmrhiefs, yet it is obvious, if what I have said be just, it may be rendered no less pow- erful as a means of good. Is it not true that within the last century a decided and important improvement in the moral character of our literature has taken place ? and, had Pope and Smollett written at the present day, would the former have published the imitations of Chaucer, or the latter the adventures of Pickle and Random ? Genius cannot now sanctify impurity or want of principle ; and our critics and reviewers are exercising jurisdiction not cnly upon the literary, but moral blemishes of the authors vho come before them. We notice with peculiar pleasure the sentence of just indignation which the Edinburgh tri- bunal has pronounced upon Moore, Swift, Goethe, and, in general, the German sentimentalists. Indeed, the foun- tains of literature, into which an enemy has sometimes in- fused poison, naturally flow with refreshment and health. Cowper and Campbell have led the muses to repose in the bowers of religion and virtue ; and Miss Edgeworth has so cautiously combined the features of her characters, that the predominant expression is ever what it should be. She has shown us not vices ennobled by virtues, but virtues de- graded and perverted by their union with vices. The suc- cess of this lady has been great ; but, had she availed her- self more of the motives and sentiments of religion, we think it would have been greater. She has stretched forth a powerful hand to the impotent in virtue ; and had she added, with the apostle, in the name of Jesus of Naz- areth, we should almost have expected miracles from itt touch. COMMON-PLACE IKOK OF PROSE. 23 Evening Scenes on the St. Lawrence. SJLLIMAIV. FROM the moment the sun is down, every thing becomes silent on the shore, which our windows overlook, and th murmurs of the broad St. Lawrence, more than two miles wide immediately before us, and, a little way to the right, spreading to fii e or six miles in breadth, are some- times for an hour the only sounds that arrest our attention. Every evening since we have been here, black clouds and splendid moonlight have hung over, and embellished this tranquil scene ; and on two of these evenings we have been attracted to the window, by the plaintive Canadian boat-song. In one instance, it arose from a solitary voya- ger, floating in his light canoe, which occasionally appear- ed and disappeared on the sparkling river, and in its distant course seemed no larger than some sportive insect. In another instance, a larger boat, with more numerous and less melodious voices, not indeed in perfect harmony, pass- ed nearer to the shore, and gave additional life to the scene- A few moments after, the moon broke out from a throne of dark clouds, and seemed to convert the whole expanse of water into one vast sheet of glittering silver ; and, in the very brightest spot, at the distance of more than a mile, again appeared a solitary boat, but too distant to admit of our hearing the song, with which the boatman was proba- bly solacing his lonely course. Franklin's first Entrance into Philadelphia.' FRANKLIN. I HAVE entered into the particulars of my voyage, and hall, in like manner, describe my first entrance into this city, that you may be able to compare beginnings so little auspicious with the figure I have since made. On my arrival at Philadelphia, I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come by sea. I was cover- ed with dirt ; my pockets were filled with shirts and stock- ing? ; I was unacquainted with a single soul in the place. 24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. and knew not where to seek a lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and having passed the night without sleep, I was extremely hungry, and all my money consist- ed of a Dutch dollar, and about a shilling's worth of cop- pers, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. As I had assisted them in rowing, they refused it at first ; but I insisted on their taking it. A man is sometimes more gen- erous when he has little than when he has much money , probably because, in the first case, he is desirous of con- cealing his poverty. I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly on both sides, till I came to Market Street, where I met with a child with a loaf of bread. Often had I made my dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he had bought it, and went straight to the baker's shop, which he pointed out to me. I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find such as we had at Boston ; but they made, it seems, none of that sort at Philadelphia. I then asked for a threepenny loaf. They made no loaves of that price. Finding myself igno- rant of the prices, as well as of the different kinds of bread, 1 desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of some kind or other. He gave me three large rolls. I was surprised at receiving so much : I took them, however, and, having no room in my pockets, I walked on with a roll under each arm, eating a third. In this manner I went through Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr. Read, the father of my future wife. She was standing at the door, observed me, and thought, with reason, that I made a very singular and grotesque appearance. I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut Street, eating my roll all the way ; and, having made this round, I found myself again on Market Street wharf, near the boat in which I arrived. 1 stepped into it to take a draught of the river water ; and, finding myself satisfied with my first roll, I gave the other two to a woman and her child, who had come down with us in the boat, and was waiting to continue her journey. Thus refreshed, I regained the street, which was now full of well-dressed people, all going the same way. I joined them, and was thus led to a large Quakers' meeting-house near the mar- ket place I sat down with the rest, and, after looking COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 25 round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being drowsy from jay last night's labour and want of rest, I fell into a sound sleep. In this state I continued till the as- sembly dispersed, when one of the congregation had the goodness to wak-e me. This was consequently the first house I entered, or in which I slept, at Philadelphia. Passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge- JEFFERSON. THE passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. YDU stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a passage also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion, that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first ; that the rivers began to flow afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley ; that, con- tinuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finish- ing, which Nature has given to the picture, is of a very dif- ferent character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It if as placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous. For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, invit- ing you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm be- low. Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that 8 26 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OF FROSE. way, too, the road happens actually to lead. You ctosa Jia Potomac above its junction, pass along its side through the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible preci- pices hanging in fragments over you, and within abat twenty miles reach Fredericktown, and the fine country round that. This scene is worth a voyage across the At- lantic. Yet here, as in the neighbourhood of the Natu- ral Bridge, are people who have passed their lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey these monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its centre. Moral and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred Scriptures. WAY LAND. As to the powerful, I had almost said miraculous, effect of the Sacred Scriptures, there can no longer be a doubt in the mind of any one on whom fact can make an impression. That the truths of the Bible have the power of awakening an intense moral feeling in man under every variety of character, learned or ignorant, rivilized or savage ; that they make bad men good, and send a pulse of healthful feeling through all the domestic, civil, and social relations; that they teach men to love right, to hate wrong, and to seek each other's welfare, as the children of one common parent ; that they control the baleful passions of the human heart, and thus make men proficients in the science of self-gov- ernment ; and, finally, that they teach him to aspire after a conformity to a Being of infinite holiness, and fill hin with hopes infinitely more purifying, more exalting, more mited to his nature, than any other, which this world has evei known, are facts incontrovertible as the laws of philoso- phy, or the demonstrations of mathematics. Evidence in support of all this can be brought from every age, in the history of man, since there has been a revelation from God en earth. We see the proof of it every where around ns. There is scarcely a neighbourhood in our country, where the Bible is circulated, in which we cannot point you to i very considerable portion of its population, whom its truths COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 27 nave reclaimed from the practice of vice, and taught the practice of whatsoever thiugs are pure, and honest, and just, and ef good report. That this distinctive and peculiar effect is produced upon every man to whom the Gospel is announced, we pretend not to affirm. But we do affirm, that, besides producing this special renovation, to wlrich we have alluded, upon a part, it, in a most remarkable degree, elevates the tone of moral feeling throughout the whole community Wherever the Bible is freely circulated, and its doctrines carried home to the understandings of men, the aspect of society is altered ; the frequency of crime is diminished ; men begin to love justice, and to administer it by law ; arid a virtuous public opinion, that strongest safeguard of right, spreads over a nation the shield of its invisible protection. Wherever it has faithfully been brought to bear upon the human heart, even under most unpromising circumstances, it has, within a single generation, revolutionized the whole structure of society ; and thus, within a few years, done more for man than all other means have for ages accom- plished without it. For proof of all this, I need only refer you to the effects of the Gospel in Greenland, or in South Africa, in the Society Islands, or even among the aborigi- nes of our own country. But, before we leave tnis part of the subject, it may be well to pause for a moment, and inquire whether, in addi- tion to its moral efficacy, the Bible may not exert a pow- erful influence upon the intellectual character of man. And here it is scarcely necessary that I should remark, that, of all the books with which, since the invention of writing, this world has been deluged, the number of those is very small which have produced any perceptible effect on the mass of human character. By far the greater part have been, even by their cotemporaries, unnoticed and unknown. Not many a one has made its little mark upon the genera- tion that produced it, though it sunk with that generation to utter forgetfulness. But, after the ceaseless toil of six thousand years, how few have been the works, the adaman- tine basis of whose reputation has stood unhurt amid the fluctuations of time, and whose impression can be traced through successive centjries, on the history of our species 28 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. When, however, such a work appears, its effects are ab- solutely incalculable ; and such a work, you are aware, is the ILIAD or HOMER. Who caii estimate the results produced by the incomparable efforts of a single nunu , Who can tell what Greece owes to this first-born of song ? Her breathing marbles, her solemn temples, her unrivalled eloquence, and her matchless verse, all poinl us to thai transcendent genius, who, by the very splendour of hi? own effulgence, woke the humaVi intellect from the slum- ber of ages. It was Homer who gave laws to the artist ; it was Homer who inspired the poet; it was Homer whc thundered in the senate ; and, more than all, it was Ho- mer who was sung by the people ; and hence a nation was cast into the mould of one mighty mind, and the laud of the Iliad became the region of taste, the birth-place of the arts. Nor was this influence confined within the limits of Greece. Long after the sceptre of empire had passeo. westward, Genius still held her court on the banks of the Ilyssus, and from the country of Homer gave laws to the world. The light, which the blind old man of Scio had kindled in Greece, shed its radiance over Italy ; and thus did he awaken a second nation into intellectual existence. And we may form some idea of the power which this one work has to the present day exerted over the mind of man, by remarking, that " nation after nation, and century after century, has been able to do little more than transpose his incidents, new-name his characters, and paraphrase his sentiments." But, considered simply as an intellectual production, who will compare the poems of Homer with the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testament ? Where in the Iliad shall we find simplicity and pathos which shall vie with the narrative of Moses, or maxims of conduct to equal in wisdom the Proverbs of Solomon, or sublimity which does not fade away before the conceptions of Job or Davjd, of Isaiah or St. John ? But I cannot pursue this comparison. I feel that it is doing wrong to the mind which dictated the Iliad, and to those other mighty intel- lects on whom the li^ht of the holy oracles never shine.l. Who that has read his poem has nc'.observed how he strove COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSB. 29 in vain to give dignity to the mythology of his time ? Who has not seen how the religion of his country, unab.'e to supj>ort the flight of his imagination, sunk powerless be- neath him ? It is the unseen world, where the master spir- its of our race breathe freely, and are at home ; and it is mournful to behold the intellect of Homer striving to free itself from the conceptions of materialism, and then sink- ing down in hopeless flespair, to weave idle tales about Jupiter and Juno, Apollo and Diana. But the difficulties under which he laboured are abundantly illustrated by the fact, that the light, which he poured upon the human intel- lect, taught other ages how unworthy was the religion of bis day of the man who was compelled to use it. " It seems to me," says Longinus, " that Homer, when he de- scribes dissensions, jealousies, tears, imprisonments, and other afflictions to his deities, hath, as much as was in his power, made the men of the Iliad gods, and the gods men. To man, when afflicted, death is the termination of evils ; but he hath made not only the nature, but the miseries, of the gods eternal." If, then, so great results have flowed from this one ef- fort of a single mind, what may we not expect from the com- bined efforts of several, at least his equals in power over the human heart? If that one genius, though groping in the thick darkness of absurd idolatry, wrought so glorious a transformation in the character of his countrymen, whal may we not look for from the universal dissemination of tbose writings, on whose authors was poured the full splen- dour of eternal truth ? If unassisted human nature, spell- bound by a childish mythology, have done so much, what may we not hope for from the supernatural efforts of pre- eminent genins, which spake as it was moved by the'Holy Ghost ' Character of Washington. AMES . THERE has scarcely appeared a really great man, whose character has been more admired in his life time, or less correctly understood by his admirers. When it is compre- 8" 50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. bended, it is no easy task to delineate its excellencies U such a manner as to give to the portrait both interest and resemblance ; for it requires thought and study to under-, stand the true ground of the superiority of his character over many others, whom he resjmbled in the principles cf action, and even in the manner of acting But perhaps he excels all the great men that ever lived in the steadiness of his adherence to his maxims of life, and in the uniformity of all his conduct to the same maxims. These maxims, though wise, were yet not so remarkable for their wisdom, as for their authority over his life ; for, if there were any er- rors in his judgment, (and he discovered as few as any man,) we know of no blemishes in his virtue He was the patriot without reproach ; he loved his country well enough to hold his success in serving it an ample recompense. Thus far self-love and love of country coincided ; but when his country needed sacrifices that no other man could, or per- haps would, be willing to make, he did not even hesitate. This was virtue in its most exalted character. More than once he put his fame at hazard, when he had reason to think it would be sacrificed, at least in this age. Two in- stances cannot be denied; when the army was disbanded, and again, when he stood, like Leonidas at the pass of Ther- mopylae, to defend our independence against France. It is, indeed, almost as difficult to draw his character, as the portrait of Virtue. The reasons are similar : our ideas of moral excellence are obscure, because they are com- plex, and we are obliged to resort to illustrations. Wash- ington's example is the happiest to show what virtu^ is; and, to delineate his character, we naturally expatiate on the beauty of virtue ; much must be felt, and much ima- gined. His pre-eminence is not so much to be seen in the display of any one virtue, as in the possession of them all, and in the practice of the most difficult. Hereafter, there- fore, his character must be studied before it will be strik- ing ; and then it will be admitted as a model, a precious one to a free republic. It is no less difficult to speak of his talents. They were adapted to lead, without daz/lin? mankind; and to draw forth and employ the talon'- of others, without being mis- led by them. Ii thU hr 'i-H- cer'ai' ly --perior, that ht COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. PI neither mistook nor misapplied his own. His great modesty and reserve would have concealed them, if great occasion* had not called them forth ; and then, as he never spoke from the affectation to shine, nor acted from any sinister motives, it is from their effects only that we are to judge of their greatness and extent. In public trusts, where men, acting conspicuously, are cautious, and in those private concerns where few conceal or resist their weaknesses, Washington was uniformly great, pursuing right conduct from right maxims. His talents were such as assist a sound judgment, and ripen w th it. His prudence was consum- mate, and seemed to take the direction of his powers and passions ; for, as a soldier, he was more solicitous to avoid mistakes that might be fatal, than to perform exploits that are brilliant; and, as a statesman, to adhere to just princi- ples, however old, than to pursue novelties; and therefore, in both characters, his qualities were singularly adapted to the interest, and were tried in the greatest perils of the country. His habits of inquiry were so far remarkable, that he was never satisfied with investigating, nor desisted from it, so long as he had less than all the light that he could obtain upon a subject, and then he made his decision without bias This command over the partialities that so generally stop men short, or turn them aside in their pursuit of truth, is one of the chief causes of his unvaried course of right conduct in so many difficult scenes, where every human actor must be presumed to err. If he had strong passions, ho had learned to subdue them, and to be moderate and mild. If he had weaknesses, he concealed them, which is rare, and excluded them from the government of his temper and conduct, which is still more rare. If he loved fame, he never made improper compliances for what is called popularity. The fame he enjoyed is of the kind that will last forever ; yet it was rather the effect, than the motive of his conduct. Some future Plutarch will search for a parallel to his character. Eparainondas is perhaps the brightest name of ell antiquity Our Washington resem- oled him in the purity and ardour of his patriotism ; and like him he first exalted the glory of his country. There, *t is to be hoped, the parallel ends ; for Thebes fell with Epam'tondas. But such comparisons cannot be pursued 32 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. far without departing from the similitude. For we shall tiud it as difficult to compare great men as great rivers. Some we admire for the length and rapidity of their cur- rent, and the grandeur of their cataracts; others for the majestic silence and fulness of their streams : we cannot bring them together to measure the difference of their waters. The unambitious life of Washington, declining fame, yet courted by it, seemed, like the Ohio, to choose its long way through solitudes, diffusing fertility ; or, like his own Potomac, widening and deepening his channel as he approaches the sea, and displaying most the useful- ness and serenity of his greatness towards the end of his course. Such a citizen would do honour to any country. The constant affection and veneration of his country will show, that it was worthy of such a citizen. However his military fame may excite the wonder of mankind, it is chiefly by his civil magistracy, that his ex- ample will instruct them. Great generals have arisen in all ages of the world, and perhaps most in those of despot- ism and darkness. In times of violence and convulsion, they rise, by the force of the whirlwind, high enough to ride in it, and direct the storm. Like meteors, they glare on the black clouds with a splendour, that, while it dazzles and terrifies, makes nothing visible but the darkness. The fame of herpes is indeed growing vulgar ; they multiply in every long war ; they stand in history, and thicken in their ranks, almost as undistinguished as their own soldiers. But such a chief magistrate as Washington appears, like the pole star in a clear sky, to direct the skilful statesman. His presidency will form an epoch, and be distinguished as the ,-.;re of Washington. Already it assumes its high place in (lie political region. Like the milky way, it whitens along its allotted portion of the hemisphere. The latest genera- tions of men will survey, through the telescope of history, the space where so many virtues blend their rays, and de- light to separate them into groups and distinct virtues. As the best illustration of them, the living monument to which the first of patriots would have chosen to consign his fame it is my earnest prayer to Heaven that our country may subsist, even to that late day, in the plenitude of its liberty and happiness, and mingle its mild glory with Washington's COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSB. 33 Labours of periodical Composition. IDLE MAN I KNOW that it is an arduous undertaking, for on wnose mind rarely feels the spring of bodily health bearing it up, whose frame is soon worn by mental labour, aud who can seldom go to his task with that hopeful sense sustaining him, which a vigorous and clear spirit gives to the soul. To kncT that our hour for toil is come, and that we are weak and unprepared ; to feel that depression or lassitude i^ weighing us down, when we must feign lightness and mirth ; or to mock our secret griefs with show of others not akin, must be the fate of him who labours in such a work. This is not all. When our work is done, and well done, the excitement which the employment had given us is gone, the spirits sink down, and there is a dreadful void in the mind. We feel as powerless as infancy till pushed to the exertion of our powers again ; even great success has its terrors. We fear that we shall never do so well again ; and know how churlishly the world receives from us that which will not bear a comparison with what we have given them before Yet these sufferings have their rewards. To bear up against ill health by a sudden and strong effort, to shake off low spirits, and drive away the mists which lie thick and heavy upon the mind, gives a new state of being to the soul cheerful as the light. To sit at home in our easy cnair, and send our gay thoughts abroad, as it were, on wings to thousands to imagine them laughing over the odd fancies and drolleries which had made us vain and happy in secret, multiplies and spreads our sympathies qui- etly and happily through the world. In this way, too, ^ve can pour out before the world thoughts which had never been laid open even to a friend ; and make it feel cur mel- ancholy, and bear our griefs, while we still sit in the secret of our ?ouls. The heart tells its story abroad, yet loses nof it* delicacy : it lays itself bare, but is still sensitive. 84 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Industry necessary to the Attainment of Eloquence WAR*. THE history of the world Is full of testimony to bow much depends upon industry ; not an eminent orator has lived but is an example of it. Yet, in contradiction ta all this, the almost universal feeling appears to be, that in- dustry can effect nothing, that eminence is the result of accident, and that every one must be content to remain just what he may happen to be. Thus multitudes, who come forward as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be sat- isfied with the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable mediocrity, without so much as inquiring how they may rise higher, much less making any attempt to rise. For *ny other art they would have served an apprenticeship, and would be ashamed to practise it in public before they had learned it. If any one would sing, he attends a mas- ter, and is drilled in the very elementary principles ; and only after the most laborious process dares to exercise his voice in public. This he does, though he has scarce any thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lies in sensible forms before the eye. But the extempore speak- er, who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an opera- tion of the mind as well as to produce sound, enters upon the work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders that he fails ! If he were learning to play on the flute for pub- lic exhibition, what hours and days would he spend in giv- ing facility to his fingers, and attaining the power of the sweetest and most eypressive execution ! If he were de- voting himself to the organ, what months and years would he labour, that he might know its compass, and be master of its keys, and be able to draw out, at will, all its various combinations of harmonious sound, and its full richness ace. delicacy of expression ! And yet he will fancy that the grandest, the most various and most expressive of all instru- ments, which the infinite Creator has fashioned by the union of an intellectual soul with the powers of speech, may be played upon without study or practice ; he comes to it a mere uninstructed tyro, and thinks to manage all its stops, .and comitann the whole compass of its var*d and coin- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRO8E. 35 frehensive power ! He finds himself a bungler in the at- tempt, is mortified at his failure, and settles it in his mind forever, that the attempt is vain. Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, is always the reward of industry and pains. But the in- stances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, whose beginning has promised much, but who have de- generated wretchedly as they advanced, because they trusted to their gifts, and made no efforts to improve. That there have never been other men of equal endowments with Demosthenes and Cicero, none would venture to sup- pose ; but who have so devoted themselves to their art, or become equal in excellence ? If those great men had been content, like others, to continue as they began, and had never made their persevering efforts for improvement, what would their countries have benefited from their genius, or the world have known of their fame ? They would have been lost in the undistinguished crowd that sunk to oblivion around them. Of how many more will the same remark prove true ! What encouragement is thus given to the industrious ! With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negligence, which suffers the most interesting and important truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffec- tual to the ground, through mere sluggishness in their de- livery ! How unworthy of one, who performs the high functions of a religious instructor, upon whom depend, in a great me?sure, the religious knowledge, and devotional sentiments, and final character, of many fellow-beings, to imagine, that he can worthily discharge this great con- cern, by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not now, and in a manner which he has taken no pains to ren- der correct, impressive, and attractive ; and which, simply through want of that command over himself, which study would give, is immethodical, verbose, inaccurate, feeble, trifling It has been said of the good preacher, that " truths divine come mended from his tongue." Alas ' they come ruined and worthless from such a man as this. They lose that holy energy, by which they are to convert the soul and purify man for heaven, and sink, in interest and efficacy below the level of those principles, which govern the ordi nary affairs of this lower world 36 CiMM<>N-PLArE BOOK Ingratitude towards the Deity. APPLBTOW. PERHAPS there is no crime which finds fewer advocate* than ingratitude. Persons accused of this may deay thr charge, but they never attempt to justify the dispositioc They never say that there is no obliquity and demerit ic being unmindful of benefits. If a moral fitness is discern- ible on any occasion, it is so on an occasion of favours be- stowed and received. In proportion to these favours is the degree of cemerit attached to ingratitude. Agreeable to this is the set tence so often quoted from Publius Syrus, ' Oinne uixeris t \aledictum, quum ingratum hominep dix- eris." With what fee. Ings do we receive and enjoy favours bestowed by our C. eator ! Our dependence on him is ab- solute and universal Existence is not more truly his gift, than are all those objects, which render existence valuable. To his munificence are we indebted for intellectual powers, and the means for their cultivation ; for the sustenance daily provided ; for the enjoyments derived from the ac- >e and varying scenes of the day, and from the rest and tranquillity of the night. His gifts are the relations and friends, whom we love, and from whose affection to us so considerable a part of the joy of life is derived. His are the showers which moisten, and the sun which warms the earth. From Him are the pleasures and animation of spring, and the riches of harvest all, that satisfies the ap- petite, supports or restores the animal system, gratifies the ear, or charms the eye. With what emotions, let it be a?ked, are all these objects viewed, and these blessings en- oye'l ? Is it the habit of man to acknowledge God in his works, and to attribute all his pleasures and security of life ug been on horseback from before ca/lighl a tu earning, and having made, during ;he vfhole interval, both 40 COMMON-PLACE BUUK OF PROSE. at Paris and on the road, incredible exertions to control tb multitude and calm the soldiers. " The Marquis de La- fayette at ast entered the Chateau," says Madame de Stael, " and, passing through the apartment where we were, went to the I ing. We all pressed round him as if he were the master of events, and yet the popular party was already more powerful than its chief, and principles were yielding to factions, or rather were beginning to serve as their pre- texts. M. de Lafayette's manner was perfectly calm ; no- body ever saw it otherwise ; but his delicacy suffered from the importance of the part he was called to act He asked for the interior posts of the Chateau, in order that he might ensure their safety. Only the outer posts were granted to him." This refusal was not disrespectful to him who made the request. It was given simply because the etiquette of the court reserved the guard of the royal person and family to another body of men. Lafayette, therefore, an- swered for the National Guards, and for the posts commit- ted to them ; but he could answer for no more ; and his pledge was faithfully and desperately redeemed. Between tw> and three o'clock, the queen and the royal family went to bed. Lafayette, too, slept after the great fatigues of this fearful day. At half past four, a portion of the populace made their way into the palace by an ob- scure, interior passage, which had been overlooked, and which was not in that part of the Chateau intrusted to Lafajotte. They were evidently led by persons who well knew the secret avenues. Mirabeau's name was after- wards strangely compromised in it, and the form of the infa- mous Duke of Orleans was repeatedly recognised on the great staircase, pointing the assassins the way to the queen's cham- ber. They easily found it. Two of her guards were cut down in an instant, and she made her escape almost naked. Lafayette immediately rushed in with the National troops, protected the guards from the brutal populace, and saved the lives of the royal family, which had so nearly been ,- rificed to the etiquette of the monarchy. The day dawned, as this fearful sceae of guilt and blood- ritd was passu.g in the magnificent palace, whose r.cn- svrac.ion had exhausted the revenues of Louis Fourteen ta. aod wnich, for a cen'ury, had been the most splendid reA COMMON-PLACi; BOOK OF PROSE. 41 deuce in Europe. As soou as it was light, the same furi- ous multitude filled the space, which, from the rich mate- rials of which it was formed, passed under the name of the Court of Marble. They called upou the king, in tones i.ol to be mistaken, to go to Paris ; and they called for the queen, who had but just escaped from their daggers, to come out upon the balcony. The king, after a short con- Eultaiion with his ministers, announced his intention to set out for the capital ; but Lafayette was afraid to trust the queen in the midst of the blood-thirsty multitude. He went to her, therefore, with respectful hesitation, and ask- ed her if it v- are her intention to accompany the king to Paris. " Yes," she replied, " although I am aware of the . danger." " Are you positively determined ?" " Yes, sir." " Condescend, then, to go out upon the balcony, and suffer me to attend you." " Without the king ?" she replied, hesitating " Have you observed the threats ?" " Yes, rnadam, I have ; but dare to trust me." He led her out upon the balcony. It was a moment of great responsibility and great delicacy ; but nothing, he felt assured, could be so dangerous as to permit her to set out for Paris, surround- ed by that multitude, unless its feelings could be changed The agitation, the tumult, the cries of the crowd, rendered it impossible that his voice should be heard. It was neces- sary, therefore, to address himself to the eye, and, turning towards the queen with that admirable presence of mind which never yet forsook him, and with that mingled grace and dignity, which were the peculiar inheritance of the ancient court of France, he simply kissed her hand before the vast multitude. An instant of silent astonishment fol- owed, but the whole was immediately interpreted, and the air was rent with cries ot "Long live the queen!" " Long live the general !" from the same fickle and cruel populace, that, only two lours before, had imbrued their bands in the blood of the guards who defended the life of thii same queen. 4" 42 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Poeta natcitur, Orator Jit. MONTHLY ANTHOLOGY POETRY ia the frolic of invention, the dance of words, ind the harmony of sounds. Oratory consists in a judi- cious disposition of arguments, a happy selection of terms, and a pleasing elocution. The object of poetry is to de light, that of oratory to persuade. Poetry is truth, but it is truth in her gayest and loveliest robes, and wit, flattery, hyperbole, and fable, are marshalled in her train. Oratory has a graver and more majestic port, and gains by slow ad- vances and perseverance what the poet takes by sudden- ness of inspiration, and by surprise. Poetry requires ge nius; eloquence is within the reach of talent. Serious- ness .becomes one, sprightliness the other. The wittiest poets have been the shortest writers ; but he is often the best orator, who has the strongest lungs, and the firmr i legs. The poet sings for the approbation of the wise ai.d the pleasure of the ingenious ; the orator addresses th - multitude, and the larger the number of ears, the better for his purpose ; and he who can get the most votes most thoroughly understands his art. Bad verses are ahvay < abominable : but he is a good speaker who gams his cause. Bards are generally remarkable for generosity of nature; orators are as often notorious for their ambition. Thnse ei>- joy most influence while alive ; those live longest after death. Poets are not necessarily poor ; for Theocritus and Anacreon, Horace and Lucian, Racine and Boileau, Pope and Addison, rolled in their carriages, and slept in palaces yet it must be confessed, that most of the poetical tribe have rather feared the tap of the sheriff, than the damnation of critics. The poverty of a poet takes nothing from the richness and sweetness of his lines ; while an orator's suc- cess is not infrequently promoted by his wealth. Never- theless, were I poor, I would study eloquence, that I might be rich ; had I riches, I would study poetry, that I might give a portion of immortality to both. Could I write no better than Blackciore, I would sometimes versify ; but were I privileged to soar upon the daring wing of Dryden's muse, T would not keep my pinions continually spread. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 43 Intellectual Qualities of Milton. CHANNINO Iw speaking of the intellectual qualities of Milton, we may begin by observing that the very splendour of his poetic fame has tended to obscure or conceal the extent of his mind, and the variety of its energies and attainments. To many he seems only a poet, when in truth he was a pro- found scholar, a man of vast compass of thought, imbued thoroughly with all ancient and modern learning, and able to master, to mould, to impregnate with his own intellectu- al power, his great and various acquisitions. He had not learned the superficial doctrine of a later day, that poetry flourishes most in an uncultivated soil, and that imagination shapes its brightest visions from the mists of a superstitious age ; and he had no dread of accumulating knowledge, lest he should oppress and smother his genius. He was conscious of that within him, which could quicken all knowledge, and wield it with ease and might; which could give freshness to old truths, and harmony to discordant thoughts ; which could bind together, by living ties and mysterious affinities, the most remote discoveries ; and rear fabrics of glory and beauty from the rude materials which other minds had collected. Milton had that universality which maiks the highest order of intellect. Though ac- customed, almost from infancy, to drink at the fountains of classical literature, he had nothing of the pedantry and fas- tidiousness, which disdain all other draughts. His heal- thy mind delighted in genius, in whatever soil, or in what- ever age il I as burst forth, and poured out its fulness. He understood too well the right, and dignity, and pride of cre- ative imagination, to Ly on it the laws of the Greek or Ro- man school. Parnassus was not to him the only holy ground of genius He felt that poetry was a universal presence, Great minds were every where his kindred. He felt th* enchantment of oriental fiction, surrendered himself to the strange creations of " Araby the blest," and delighted still more in the romantic spirit of chivalry, and in the tales of wonder in which it was imbodied. Accordingly, his poetry reminds us of the ocean, which adds to its own boundlessness contributions from all regions under heavca. 44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Nor was it only in the department of imagination, that hi acquisitions were vast. He travelled over the whole field of knowledge, as far as it had then been explored. His various philological attainments were used to put him in possession of the wisdom stored in all countries where the inte.'lect had been cultivated. The natural philosophy, metaphys. ics, ethics, history, theology and political science of hia own and former times were familiar to him. Never was there a more unconfined mind ; and we wc/uld cite Milton as a practical example of the benefits of that universal cul- ture of intellect, which forms one distinction of our times, 'but which some dread as unfriendly to original thought. Let such remember, that mind is in its own nature diffusive. Its object is the universe, which is strictly one, or bound together by infinite connexions and correspondencies ; and, accordingly, its natural progress is from one to another field of thought ; and, wherever original power or creative ge- nius exists, the mind, far from being distracted or oppressed by the variety of its acquisitions, will see more and more bearings, and hidden and beautiful analogies in all the objects of knowledge, will see mutual light shed from truth to truth, and will compel, as with a kingly power, whatever it understands to yield some tribute of proof, or illustration, or splendour, to whatever topic it would unfold. National Recollections the Foundation of national Chat acter. EDWARD EVERETT. AND how is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and animated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its historic recollections ? Are we to be eternally ringing r .he changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and going back to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin of the exemplars of patriotic virtue ? I thank God that we can find tl.em nearer home, in our own country, on our own soil ; tliit strains of the noblest sentiment that ever swelled in the breast of man, are breathing to us out of every page of our country's history, in the native eloquence of our motliar tongue ; that the colonial and provincial councils COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 45 of America exhibit to us models of the spirit and charac- ter, which gave Greece and Rome their name and theii praise among the nations. Here we ought to go for our in- struction ; the lesson is plain, it is clear, it is applicable. When we go to ancient history, we are bewildered with the difference of manners and institutions. We are willing to pay our tribute of applause to the memory of Leonidas, who fell nobly for his country in the face of his foe. Hut when we trace him to his home, we are confounded at the reflection, that the same Spartan heroism, to which he sacri- ficed himself at Thermopylae, would have led him to tear his own child, if it had happened to be a sickly babe, the very object for which all that is kind and good in mar, rises up to plead, from the bosom of its mother, and carry it out to be eaten by the wolves of Taygctus. We feel a glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at Marathon, by the ten thousand champions of invaded Greece ; bu we cannot forget that the tenth part of the number were slaves, unchained from the work-shops and door-posts of their masters, tc go and fight the battles of freedom. I dc not mean that these examples are to destroy the interest with which we read the history of ancient times ; they possibly increase that interest by the very contrasts they exhibit. But they do warn us, if we need the warning, l o seek our great practical lessons of patriotism at home ; out of the exploits and sacrifices of which our own country is the theatre ; out of the characters of our own fathers. Them we know, the high-souled, natural, unaffected, the citizen heroes. We know what happy fires'des they left for the cheerless camp. We know with what pacific habits the^ dared the perils of the field. There is no mystery, no romance, no madness, under the name of chivalry, about them. It is all resolute, manly resistance for conscience' and liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power, but of all the force of long- rooted habits and native love of order and peace. Above all, their blood calls to us Itom the soil which wo tread ; it beats in our veins ; it cries to us not merely in the thrilling words of one of the first victims in this cause, " My sons, scorn to be slaves !" but it cries with a still more moving eloquence " My sons, forget not your fa- 46 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. thers!" Fast, oh! too fast, with all our efforts to preven it, their precious memories are dying away. Notwithstand- ing our numerous written memorials, much of what is known of those eventful times dwells but in the recollec- tions of a few revered survivors, and with them is rapidly perishing unrecorded and irretrievable. How many pru- dent counsels, conceived in perplexed times ; how many heart-stirring words, uttered when liberty was treason , how many brave and heroic deeds, performed when the halter, not the laurel, was the promised meed of patriotic daring, are already lost and forgotten in the graves of their authors ! How little do we, although we have been per- mitted to hold converse with the venerable remnants ol that day, how little do we know of their dark and anx- .ous hours ; of their secret meditations ; of the hurried and perilo\is events of the momentous struggle ! And while they are dropping around us like the leaves of autumn, while scarce a week passes that does not call away some member of the veteran ranks, already so sadly thinned, vhall we make no effort to hand down the traditions of their day to our children ; to pass the torch of liberty, which we received in all the splendour of its first enkindling, bright and flaming, to those who stand next us on the line ; so that, when we shall come to be gathered to the lust where our fathers are laid, we may say to our sons and our grandsons, " If we did not amass, we have rot squandered your inheritance of glory ?" Extract from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. ^ Ow a fine autumnal morning, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on a lofty stool, from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic pow- er ; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk be- fore him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohib- ited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins; such LP balf-munched apples, popguns, wMrligigs, flycages, and -FLA^E HOOK O? .'UUiSE. I / legion* of rampaut litt 1 * paper game-cocks. Ajijni i.iitly '.here Lad been stuot aor of justice recently intact- eU , for his scholar* wpr all bufily intent upon their books, or slyly wbieperug, belr.ml them, nith one eye kept upon t'.e mastery ind a kind of buzzing stillness reigned thru; ;nout the school-room It was suddenly interrupted by the appei-diice 01 a negro hi tew-cloth jacket and trow sefj. i round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap o f Mercury, aid mo^iied OP a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he man aged with a rope, by way of halter. He r9r.,e c'ii> nj'ing up to the school-door, will) an invitation to Ir.iabod to attend a merry-making, or " quilting frolic," t-> be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and, hav- ing delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort of fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hoLlow, full of the im- portance and hurry of his mission. All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skip- ped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quick- en their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were thrown aside without being put away.on the shelves ; iuk- itands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time ; bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early eman- cipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half- hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only, suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by abil of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school house That he might make his appearance before his mis- tress in the true spirit of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse front the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a chol- eric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, tlr-'p gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight errant itt qi:est of adventures. But it is fit that I should, in the tru t spirit of romantic story, give some account of th 48 COMMON-TLACE BOOK OF PROSE. looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The .-.. mal he bestrode was a broken-dcwn plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with an ewe neck, and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knot ted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had are and mettle in his day , if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. \\<- had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his master's, the chole- ric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the mo- tion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of a forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat flirted out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as he shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is rarely to be me with in broad day-light. It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery, which we always associate with the idea of abun- dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nip- ped by the frocts into brilliant dyes of oringe, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air ; the bark if the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech und hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neigh- bouring stubble field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping tod frolicking from bush to bush and tree to tree, capri- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP . ROSB. 4S cious from the very abundance around them. There WM the honest cock-robin, the favourite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud, querulous note ; and the twitter- ing blackbirds Hying in sable clouds; and the golden-wing- el woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gor- get, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its red-t'pped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and its little montero cap of fepthers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pre- tending to be on good terms with every songster of the strove. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opwlence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar- -els for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider- press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty puddings ; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros- pects of the most luxurious pies ; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odour of ths bee- hive, and, as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over Ins mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Kiitrina Van Tassel. Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest M-nes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheel- er his broad disk down HHV 'he west; the wide bosom of the Tapaan Zee lay motionless .' f'assy, excepting that, hf re ana there, a gentle undulation waved and prolonged ne blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber ciouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing prradually into a pure apple green, and from that Into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the 5 60 CCMMCr-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. woody crests of the precipices, that overhung some parti of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail nanging uselessly against the mast ; and, as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. It was towards evening that Ichabod arrived at the cas- tle of Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country Old farmers, a spare, leatherned-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except- ing where a straw hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons in short -square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nour- isher and strengthener of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- ing come to the gathering on his favourite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was in fact noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, wellbroken horse as unworthy a lad of spirit. Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he en- tered the state parlour of Van Tassel's mansion : not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost Indescri- bable kinds, known only to the experienced Dutch house- wives ! There was the doughty dough-nut, the tender oly kok, and the crisp and crumbling cruller, sweet cakes and COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF I ROSE. 51 short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the who/e family of cakes. And then there were apple es, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and, moreover, delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, ana quinces ; not to men- tion broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea- pot pending up its clouds of vapour from the midst. Hea- ven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. Reflections on the Settlement of New England. WEBSTER. THE settlement of New England, by the colony whica landed here on the twenty-second of December, sixteen hun- dred and twenty, although not the first European establish- ment in what now constitutes the United States, was yet so. peculiar in its causes and character, and has been followed, and must still be followed, by such consequences, as to give it a high claim to lasting commemoration. On these causes and consequences, more than on its immediately at- tendant circumstances, its importance, as an historical event, depends. Great actions and striking occurrences, having excited a temporary admiration, often pass away and are forgotten, because they leave no lasting results, affecting the prosperity of communities. Such is frequently the for- tune of the most brilliant military achievements. Of the ten thousand battles which have been fought ; of all the fie'ds fertilized with carnage ; of the banners which havo been bathed in blood; of the warriors wno have hoped that they had risen from the field of conquest to a glory as bright and as durahle as the stars, how few that continue Amg to interest mankind ! The victory of yesterday is re- versed by the defeat of to-day ; the star of military glory rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen ; disgrace and 52 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE disaster hang on the heels of conquest and return.., vfctw and vanquished presently pass away to oblivion, and the world holds on its course, with me loss only of i\o many lives, and so much treasure. But if this is frequeutly , or generally, the fortune of military achievements, it is not always so. There are enterprises, mili tary as well as civil, that sometines check the current of events, give a new turn to human affairs, and transmit theii consequences through ages. We see their importance in their results, and call them great, because great things follow There have been battles which have fixed the fate of na- tions. These come down to us in history with &. solid and permanent influence, not created by a display of glittering armour, the rush of adverse battalions, the sinking and ris- ing of pennons, the flight, the pursuit, and the victory , but by their effect in advancing or retarding human knowl- edge, in overthrowing or establishing despotism, in extend- ing or destroying human happiness. When the traveller pauses on the plains of Marathon, what are the emotiona which strongly agitate his breast ? what is that glorious re- collection that thrills through his frame, and suffuses his eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill and Grecian valour were here most signally displayed ; but that Greece herself was saved. It is because to this spot, and to the event which has rendered it immortal, ,he refers all the succeeding glories of the republic. It is because, if that day had gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It is be- cause he perceives that her philosophers and orators, her poets and painters, her sculptors and architects, her gov- ernment and free institutions, point backward to Mara- thon, and that their future existence seems to have been suspended oh the contingency, whether the Persian or Gre- cian banner should wave victorious in the beams ci" that day's setting sun. And, as his imagination kindles at the retrospect, he is transported back to the interesting mo- ment ; he counts the fearful odds of the contending hosts ; kis interest for the result overwhelms him; he trembles as If it were still uncertain, and seems to doubt whether he may consider Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes, Sopho- cles, and Phidias, as secure, yet, to himself and tu the world. COMMON-PL AC li 11UOK OF PROSE. 63 "If we conquer," said the Athenian commander on the morning of that decisive day, " if we conquer, vrr shall make Athens the greatest city of Greece." A proph- ecy how well fulfilled! "if God prosper us," rnigb' have been the more appropriate language of our fathers, when they landed upon this rock, " if God prosper us we shall here begin a work that shall last for ages ; w e shall plant here a new society, in the principles of the fullest liberty, and the purest religion ; we shall subdue this wilderness which is before us ; we shall fill this re- gion of the great continent, which stretches almost from pole :o pole, with civilization and Christianity ; the temples of the irue God shall rise where now ascends the smoke of idola- trous sacrifice ; fields and gardens, the flowers of summer, and the waving and golden harvests of autumn, shall ex- tend over a thousand hills, and stretch along a thousand valleys, never yet, since the creation, reclaimed to the use of civilized man. We shall whiten this coast with the can- vass of a prosperous commerce ; we shall stud the long and winding shore with a hundred cities. That which we sow in weakness shall be raised in strength. From our sincere, but houseless worship, there shall spring splendid temples to record God's goodness ; from the simplicity of our social union, there shall arise wise and politic constitu- tions of government, full of the liberty which we ourselves bring and breathe ; from our zeal for learning, institutions shall spring, which shall scatter the light of knowledge throughout the land, and, in time, paying back what they have borrowed, shall contribute theif" part to the great ag- gregate of human knowledge ; and our descendants, through all generations, shall look back to this spot, and this hour, with unabated affection and regard." Forest Scenery. PAULDING BY degrees, as custom reconciled me more and more to fasting and long rambles, I extended my excursions farther from home, and sometimes remained out all day without tasting food, or resting myself, except for a few mu.iites 5' 64 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. upon the trunk of some decayed old tree or moss-covered rock. The country, though in a great degree in its native state of wildness, was full of romantic beauties. The Mo- hawk is one of the most charming of rivers, sometime! brawling among ragged rocks, or darting swiftly through long, narrow reaches, and here and there, as at the Little Falls, and again at the Cohoes, darting down high perpendicular rocks, in sheets of milk-white foam ; but its general charac- ter is that of repose and quiet. It is no where so broad, but that rural objects and rural sounds may be seen and heard distinctly from one side to the other ; and in many places the banks on either hand are composed of rich mead- ows, or fiats, as they were denominated by the early Dutch settlers, so nearly on a level with the surface of the water, as to be almost identified with it at a distance, were it not for the rich fringe of water willows, that skirt it on either side, and mark the lines of separation. In these rich pas- tures may now be seen the lowing herds, half hidden in the luxuriant grass, and, a little farther on, out of the reach of the spring freshets, the comfortable farm-houses of many a sanguine country squire, who dreams of boundless wealth from the Grand Canal, and, in his admiration of the works of man, forgets the far greater beauty, grandeur, and utility of the works of his Maker. But I am to de- scribe the scenery as it was in the days of my boyhood, when, like Nimrod, I was a mighty hunter before the Lord. At the time 1 speak of, all that was to be seen was of the handy work of nature, except the little settlement, over which presided the patriarch Veeder. We were the ad- vance guard of civilization, and a few steps beyond us was the region of primeval forests, composed of elms and ma- ples, and oaks and pines, that seemed as if their seeds had been sown at the time of the deluge, and that they had been growing ever since. I have still a distinct recollec tion, I might almost say perception, of the gloom and dsmps which pervaded these chilling shades, where the summer sun never penetrated, and in whose recesses the very light was of a greenish hue. Here, especially along the little itreams, many of which are now dried and the objects of the latter rise to view, in all their vast and solemn mag- nificence. There is, I well know, an anguish which may preclude this calmness of reflection and hope. Our resolution may be prostrated to the earth ; for he, on whom we are accuu- tomed to rely for strength and support, has been taken away. We return to the world, and there is bitterness in all it presents us ; for every thing bears impressed upon it a remembrance of what we have lost. It has one, and but one, miserable consolation to offer : " That anguish will be wearied down, I know. What pang is permanent with man ? From th' highwt, An from the vilest thing of every day, He learns to wean himself. For the strong hour* Conquer him." It is a consolation, which, offered in this naked and of- fensive form, we instinctively reject. Our recollections and our sorrows, blended as they are together, are far too dear to be parted with upon such terms. But God giveth not as the world giveth. There is a peace which comes from him, and brings healing to the heart. His religion would 68 COMMON-PLACE IJOUK OF PUOft not have us forget, but cherish, our affections ft t for it makes known to us, that these affections s> \\l be in. mortal. It gradually *akes away the bitterness >f our re collections, and changes them into glorious hopes ; for i teaches us to regard the friend, who is with us uo longer, not as one whom we have lost on earth, but as one whom w> shall meet, as an angel, in heaven. Character of Chief Justice Marshall. WIRT. THK chief justice of the United States is in his peion tall, meager, emaciated; his muscles relaxed, and his joints so loosely connected, as not only to disqualify him, apparently, for any vigorous exertions of body, but to de- stroy every thing like elegance and harmony in his air am' movements. Indeed, in his whole appearance and demea- nour, dress, attitudes, and gesture sitting, standing, or walking, he is as far removed from the idolized graces of Lord Chesterfield, as any other gentleman on earth. To continue the portrait : his head and face are small in pro- portion to his height ; his complexion swarthy ; the mus- cles of his face, being relaxed, give him the appearance of a man of fifty years of age, nor can he be much younger. His countenance has a faithful expression of great good- humour and hilarity ; while his black eyes that unerring index possess an irradiating spirit, which proclaims the imperial powers of the mind that sits enthroned within. This extraordinary man, without the aid of fancy, with- out the advantages of person, voice, attitude, gesture, or any of the ornaments of an orator, deserves to be consid- ered as one of the most eloquent men in the world ; if elo- quence may be said to consist in the power of seizing the attention with irresistible force, and never permitting it to elude the grasp until the hearer has received the convic- tion which the speaker intends. As to his person, it hw already been described. His voice is dry and hard ; his at tituue, in his most effective ora- tions, was often extremely awkward, as it was not unusual for him to stand with his left foot in advance ; while all lis COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK PROSE. 69 gesture proceeded from his right am*, and consisted mere- ly in a vehement, perpendicular swing of it, from aboci the elevation of his heaa to the bar, behind which he \\ a* accustomed to stand. As to Fancy, if she hold a seat in his mind at all, which t very auich doubt, his gigantic Genius tramples with dis- dain on all her flower-decked plats and blooming parterres. How, then, you will ask, with a look of incredulous curios- ity, how is it possible that such a man can hold the atten- tion of an audience enchained through a speech of even or- dinary length ? I will tell you. He possesses one original, and almost supernatural facul- ty, the faculty of developing a subject by a single glance of his mind, and detecting at once the very point on which every controversy depends. No matter what the question; though ten times more knotty than ' the gnarled oak," the lightning of heaven is not more rapid nor more resistless than his astonishing penetration. Nor does the exercise of it seem to cost him an effort. On the contrary, it is as easy as vision. I am persuaded that his eyes do not fly over a landscape, and take in its various objects with more promptitude and facility, than his mind embraces and ana- lyzes the most complex subject. Possessing while at the bar this intellectual elevation, which enabled him to look down and comprehend the whole ground at once, he determined, immediately, and withoutdiffi- cn Ity , on which side the question might be most advantageous- ly appi oached and assailed. In a bad cause, his art consisted in laying his premises so remotely from the point directly in debate, or else in terms so general and specious, that the hearer, seeing no consequence which could be drawn from them, was just as willing to admit them as not ; but, his premises once admitted, the demonstration, however dis- tant, followed as certainly, as cogently, and as inevitably, as any demonstration of Euclid. All his eloquence consists in the apparently deep self- conviction and emphatic earnestness of his manner ; the correspondent simplicity and energy of his style ; the cl^se and logical connexion of his thoughts ; and the easy gra- dations by which he opens his light? jn the attentive mlndi f his hearers. 70 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The audience are never permitted to pause for moment. There is no stopping to weave garlands ff flowers to be hung in festoons around a favourite argument On the contrary, every sentence is progressive; every idea sheds new light on the subject ; the listener is kept per- petually in that sweetly pleasurable vibration, with which the mind of man always receives new truths ; the dawn advances in easy but unremitting pace ; the subject opens gradually on the view ; until, rising in high relief in all its native colours and proportions, the argument is consum- mated by the conviction of the delighted hearer. His political adversaries allege that he is a mere lawyer ; that his mind has been so long trammelled by judicial pre- cedent, so long habituated to the quart and tierce of foren- sic digladiation, (as Dr. Johnson would probably have call- ed it,) as to be unequal to the discussion of a great ques- aon of state. Mr. Curran, in his defence of Rowan, seems to have sanctioned the probability of such an effect from such a cause, when he complains of his own mind as hav- ng been narrowed and circumscribed by a strict and tech- nical adherence to established forms ; but, in the next breath, an astonishing burst of the grandest thought, and a power of comprehension, to which there seems to be no earthly limit, proves that his complaint, as it relates to him- self, is entirely without foundation. Indeed, if the object/on to the chief justice mean any thing more than that he has not had the same illumination and exercise in matters of state as if he had devoted his life to them, I am unwilling to admit it. The force of a cannon is the same, whether pointed at a rampart or a man of war, although practice may have made the engineer more expert in one case than in the other. So it is clear that practice may give a man a greater command over one class of subjects than another ; but the inherent energy of his mind remains the same whithersoever it may be di- rected. From this impression, I have never seen any cause to wonder at what is called a universal genius : it proves only that the man has applied a powerful mind to a great variety of subjects, and pays a compliment rather to his superior industry than his superior intellect. I am rry certain that the gentleman O f whom we are speaking COMMON-PLACE IJOOK OK I'KOSE. 71 possesses the acumen which might constitute him a uu -FT- n> i genius, according to the usual acceptation of that phrase, rfut if he be the truant, which his warmest friends repre- sent him to be, there is very little probability that he will ever reach this distinction. Moral Sublimity illustrated. WAYL.AND. PHILOSOPHERS have speculated much concerning a pro- cess of sensation, which has commonly been denominated the emotion of sublimity. Aware that, like any other sin- ple feeling, it must be incapable of definition, they have seldom attempted to define it ; but, content with remarking the occasions on which it is excited, have told us that it arises in general from the contemplation of whatever is vast in nature, splendid in intellect, or lofty in morals : or, to express the same idea somewhat varied, in the language of a critic of antiquity, " That alone is truly sublime, of which the conception is vast, the effect irresistible, and the remembrance scarcely, if ever, to be erased." But, although philosophers alone have written about this emotion, they are far from being the only men who have felt it. The untutored peasant, when he has seen the au- tumnal tempest collecting between the hills, and, as it ad- /anced, enveloping in misty obscurity village and hamlet, forest and meadow, has tasted the sublime in all its reality ; and, whilst the thunder has rolled and the lightning flashed around him, has exulted in the view of Nature moving forth in her majesty. The untaught sailor-boy, listlessly hearkening to the idle ripple of the moonlight wave, when on a sudden he has thought upon the unfathomable abyss be- neath him, and the wide waste of waters around him, and the infinite expanse above him, has enjoyed to the full the emotion o.:' sublimity, whilst his inmost soul has trem- bled at the vastness of its own conceptions. But why need I multiply illustrations from nature ? Who does not recollect the emotion he has felt while surveying augnt. ID the material world, of terror or of vastness ? 72 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. And this sensation is not produced by grandeur in mate- rial objects alone. It is also excited on most of those occa- sions ia which we see man tasking to the uttermost the ener- gies of his intellectual or moral nature. Through the long lapse of cent'iries, who, without emotion, has read of Leoni- das and his three hundred's throwing themselves as a bar- rier before the myriads of .Xerxes, and contending unto death for the liberties of Greece ? But we need not turn to classic story to find all that is great in human action ; we find it in our own times, and in the history of our own country. Who is there of us that, even in the nursery, has not felt his spirit stir within him, when, with child-like wonder, he has listened to the story of Washington? And although the terms of the narrative were scarcely intelligible, yet the young sou! kindled at the thought of one man's working out the delivery of a nation. And as our understanding, strengthened by age, was at last able to grasp the detail of this transaction, we saw that 4ui infantile conceptions had fallen far short of its grandeur. Oh! if an American citizen ever exults in the contempla- tion of all that is sublime in human enterprise, it is when, bringing to mind the men who first conceived the idea of this nation's independence, he beholds them estimating the power of her oppressor, the resources of her citizens, de- ciding in their collected might that this nation should be free, and, through the long yean; of trial that ensued, never blenching from their purpose, but freely redeeming the pledge they had given, to consecrate to it " their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honour." "Patriots have toiled, and, in their country's cause, Bled nobly, and their deeds, as thpy deserve, Receive proud recompense. \Ve give in chargf Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic MUM, Proud of her treasure, marches with it down To latest times : and Sculpture in her turn Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass, To guard them, and immortali/.e her trust." It is not in the field of patriotism alone that deeds have been achieved, to which history has awarded the palm of moral sublimity. There have lived men, in whom the name of patriot has been merged in that of philanthropist; COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 7 who, looking with an eye of compassion over the face of the earth, have felt for the miseries of our race, and have put forth their calm might to wipe off one blot from the marred and stained escutcheon of human nature, to strike off one form of suffering from the catalogue of human wo. Sucb a man was Howard. Surveying our world like a spirit of the blessed, he beheld the misery of the captive- he heard the groaning of the prisoner. His determination was fixed. He resolved, single-handed, to gauge and to measure one form of unpitied, unheeded wretchedness, and, bringing it out to the sunshine of public observation, to work its utter extermination. And he well knew what this undertaking would cost him. He knew what he had to hazard from the infection of dungeons, to endure from the fatigues of inhospitable travel, and to brook from the insolence of legalized oppression. He knew that he was devoting him- self to the altar of philanthropy, and he willingly devoted himself. He had marked out his destiny, and he hasted forward to its accomplishment, with an intensity, " which the nature of the human mind forbade to be more, and the character of the individual forbade to be less." Thus he commenced a new era in the history of benevolence. And hence, the name of Howard will be associated with all that is sublime in mercy, until the final consummation of all things. Such a man is Clarkson, who, looking abroad, beheld the miseries of Africa, and, looking at home, saw his country stained with tier blood. We have seen him, laying aside the vestments of the priesthood, consecrate himself to the holy purpose of rescuing a continent from rapine and mur- der, and of erasing this one sin from the book of his iia- tion's iniquities. We have seen him and his fellow phi- lanthropists, for twenty years, never waver from their pur- pose. We have seen them persevere amidst neglect and obloquy, and contempt, and persecution, until, the cry of the oppressed having roused the sensibilities of the nation, the " Island Empress" rose in her might, and said to this foul traffic in human flesh, Thus far dhalt thon go, and to farther 74 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FROSK. Eloqutnt Speech uf Logan, Chief of :*.c Mingou. JEFFERSON I MAV challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes anc Cicero, and of any more eminent orator, if Europe has fur- nished more eminent, to produce a single passage superiot to the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to Lord Dunmore, when governor of this state.* And, as a testimony of their talents in this line, I beg leave to introduce it, first stating the incidents necessary for understanding it. In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was commit- ted by some Indians on certain land adventurers on the riverofOhio. The whites in thatquarter, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary way. Captain Michael Cresap and acertain Daniel Great- house, leading on these parties, surprised, at different times, travelling and hunting parties of the Indians, having their women and children with them, and murdered many. Among these were unfortunately the family of Logan, a chief celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished as the friend of the whites. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance. He accordingly signalized himself iii the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanhaway, be- tween the collected forces of the Shawanese,Mingoes, and Delawares, and a detachment of the Virginia militia. The Indians were defeated, and sued for peace. Logan, how- ever, disdained to be seen among the suppliants. But, lest the sincerity of a treaty should be distrusted, from which BO distinguished a chief absented himself, he sent, by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore ' ; I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that mv countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of white men.' 1 had even thought to have lived with you, but for the inju ~ COMJJON-PLACJE BOoK OF PROSE. 73 ries of one man Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Lo gan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it' I have killed many : I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace : but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear : Logan never felt fear: he will not turn on his heel to save hia life Who is there to mourn for Logan ? Not one." Fox, Burke, and Pitt. A. H. EVERETT IF the views of the opposition in parliament, in regard to some very important subjects, have received an apparent confirmation from the final result of the measures that were pursued, the party can also boast the honour of reck- oning upon its list of members some of the most distinguish- ed statesmen that ever appeared in England or the world Not to mention those now living, who would do credit to any parly or any nation, it may be sufficient to cite the illustrious names of Fox and Burke ; names that are hardly to be paralleled in the records of eloquence, philosophy, and patriotism ; and which will only be more closely associated in the respect and veneration of future ages, on account of the personal schism which grew up between them, and which forms one of the most interesting parts of their histo- ry. Their difference was rather in regard to policy than to principle, both being warm and strenuous friends of lib erty; and, when they differed, they were both partly right and partly wrong. That Burke was judicious and wise in discountenancing the too violent spirit of reform, which was then spreading through the nation, and threatening ruin to its institutions, and that Fox, in encouraging it, was rather influenced by a generous and unreflecting zeal for freedom, than by motivesof sound policy, will now hardly be denied; and the time, perhaps, is not very distant, if it has not already arrived, when it will be admitted, with equal unanimity, that the policy of making war upon France, 76 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSB. whether for the purpose of crushing the principles of liber ty, or, at a subsequent period, of checking the develope- ment of her power, was, throughout, not only unjust, but imprudent, and eminently un.brtunate for the ultimate in- terests of England; that Burke, by supporting this policy with his fervid and powerful eloquence, was unconscious- ly doing a serious injury to his country ; and that the sys- tem of Fox and his friends and successors, in this point, was as politic and prudent as it was generous and humane Af- ter thirty years of unheard-of exertion and unexampled success, the war seems to have ended by leaving ar open field to the ambition of another state, infinitely more formidable and dangerous than France. It may be re- marked, however, that this result does not appear to have been foreseen by the opposition any more than by the minis- try. It has generally been the fault of the British states- men, of all parties, to regard France merely as a rival stati-, instead of extending their views to the whole European system, of which France and England are only members, with interests almost wholly in unison. Fox and Burke, if I may be allowed to dwell a little ybnger on so pleasing a theme as the characters of these il lustrious statesmen, were no' less distinguished for amiable personal qualities, and intellectual accomplishments, than for commanding eloquence and skill in political science. The friends of Fox dwell with enthusiasm and fond regret up- on the cordiality of his manners and the unalloyed sweet- ness of his disposition. It is unfortunate that the pure lustre of these charming virtues was not graced by a suffi- cient regard to the dictates of private morality. Burke, on the contrary with an equally kind and social spirit, was a model of perfection in all the relations of domestic life ; his character being at once unsullied by the least stain of excess, and exempt from any shade of rigorism or defect of humour. While his private virtues made the- happiness of his family and friends, his conversation was the charm tnd wonder of the loftiest minds and the most enlightened circles of society He was the only man whom Dr. John- ion, a great master of conversation, admitted to be capable of tasking his powers. The only deduction from the uni- form excellence of Eurke is said to have been the small *t COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE. 77 traction of his manner in public speaking, a point ic which Fox was also not particularly successful, but was reckon* ed his superior. It would be too rash for an ordinary ob- server to undertake to give to either of these two mighty minds the palm of otiginal superiority It can hardly be denied that that of Burke was better disciplined and more accomplished ; and his intellectual reputation, being better supported than that of Fox by written memorials, will probably stand higher with posterity. Had Fox been permitted to finish the historical work which he had be- jiun, he might, perhaps, have bequeathck. to future ages a literary monument, superior in dignity and lasting value to any thing that remains from the pen of Burke. I3otl> possessed a fine and cultivated taste for the beauties of art and nature ; that of Fox seems to have been even more poetical than his illustrious rival's ; out he has left no writ- ten proofs of it equal to the fine philosophical Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful. It is but poor praise of this ele- gant performance, to say that it is infinitely superior to the essay of Longinus on the sublime, from which the hint seems to have been taken, and which nothing but a blind and ignorant admiration of antiquity could ever have exalt- ed into a work of great merit. A sagacious critic has advanced the opinion, that the merit of Burke was almost wholly literary ; but I confess I see little ground for this assertion, if literary excel- lence is here understood in any other sense than as an im- mediate result of the highest intellectual and moral endow- ments. Such compositions as the writings of Burke sup- pose, no doubt, the fine taste, the command of language, and the finished education, which are all supposed by eve- ry description of literary success. But, in the present state of society, these qualities are far from being uncom- mon ; and are possessed by thousands, who make no pre- tension to the eminence of Burke, in the same degree in ?hich they were by nim. Such a writer as Cumberland, for example, who stands infinitely below Burke on the icale of intellect, may yet be regarded as his equal or supe- rior in purely literary accomplishments, taken in this ex- clusive sense. The style of Burke is undoubtedly one of the most splendid forms, in which the English language 7" 78 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. hza ever bean exhibited. It displays the happy and diffl* cult union of all the richness and magnificence that good taste admits, with a perfectly easy construction. In Burke, we see the manly movement of a well-bred gentleman in Johnson, an equally profound and vigorous thinker, the measured march of a grenadier. We forgive the great moralist his stiff and cumbrous phrases, in return for the rich stores of thought and poetry which they conceal ; but we admire in Burke, as in a fine antique statue, the grace with which the large flowing robe adapts itself to the majestic dignity of the person. But, with all his litera- ry excellence, the peculiar merits of this great man were, perhaps, the faculty of profound and philosophical thought, and the moral courage which led him to disregard personal inconvenience in the expression of his sentiments. Deep thought is the informing soul, that every where sustains and inspires the imposing grandeur of his eloquence. Even in the Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, the only work of pure literature which he attempted, that is, the onlr one which was not an immediate expression of his views on public affairs, there is still the same richness of thought, the same basis of " divine philosophy," to support the har- monious superstructure of the language. And the moral courage, which formed so remarkable a feature in his character, contributed not less essentially to his literary success. It seems to be a law of nature, that the highest degree of eloquence demands the union of the noblest qualities of character as well as intellect. To think is the highest exercise of the mind ; to say what you think, the boldest effort of moral courage ; and both these things are required for a really powerful writer. Eloquence without thoughts is a mere parade of words; and no man can ex- press with spirit and vigour any thoughts but his own. This was the secret of the eloquence of Rousseau, which is not without a certain analogy in its forms to that of Burke. The principal of the Jesuits' college one day in- quired of him by what art he had been able to write so well ; " I said what I thought," replied the unceremonious Genevan , conveying, in these few words, the bitterest sat- \re on the system of the Jesuits, and the best exp!anatior of his own COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 79 If, by the criticism above alluded to, it be meant that Barke, though an eloquent writer and profound thinker was not an able practical statesman, the position may be more tenable, at least for the partisans of the school of Fox, but not, perhaps, ultimately more secure. To form correct conclusions in forms of practice, in opposition to the habitual current of one's opinions and prejudices, must be considered as the highest proof of practical abili- ty ; and this was done by Burke in regard to the French revolution. As a member of the opposition, and a uniform friend and supporter of liberal principles, he was led by all his habits of thinking, and by all his personal associations, to approve it ; and to feel the same excessive desire to introduce its principles in England, which prevailed among his political friends. But he had sagacity enough to see the true interest of his country through the cloud of illusions and associations, and independence enough t: proclaim his opinions, with the sacrifice of all his intimate connexions. This was at once the height of practical abili- ty and disinterested patriotism. If he pushed his ideas to exaggeration in regard to foreign affairs, it was still the ex- aggeration of a system essentially correct in its domestic operation. He was rather a British than a European statesman ; but the moment was so critical at home, that he may, perhaps, oe excused for not seeing quite clearly what was right abroad ; and it was also not unnatural that he should carry to excess the system to which he had sac- rificed his prejudices and his friendships. That his systen was not correct in all its parts may be easily admitted ; but I think that, in supporting it, under the circumstances, he proved great practical ability ; and what system was ever adopted, in which it was not possible, thirty years after, to point out faults? 83 the side of these celebrated patriots arose another not less distinguished, though his name is hardly surrounded, in public opinion, with so many amiable and lofty associations ; I mean the son of Chatham " the pilot that weathered the storm !" Prejudice itself can hardly refuse to this statesman the praise of transcendent endowments, both in- tellectual and moral. He had the natural gift j;es and under all circumstances; the contrariety between it.- divine principles and the conduct of its professors ; which, instead of always being a medium for the light that ema- nates from our holy law, is too often the darkest cloud that obstructs the passage of its rays to the hearts of heathen men. Everell had been carefully instructed in the princi- ples of his religion, and he felt Magawisca's relation to to an awkward comment on them, and her inquiry natural out, though he knew not what answer to make, he was sure there must be a good one, and, mentally resolving to refer the case to his mother, he begged Magawisca to proceed with her narrative. " The fragments of our broken tribe," she said, " were collected, and some other small dependant tribes persuaded to join us. We were obliged to flee from the open grounds, and shelter ourselves in a dismal swamp. The English sur- rounded us ; they sent in to us a messenger, and offered life and pardon to all who had not shed the blood of Eng- lishmen. Our allies listened, and fled from us, as fright- ened birds fly from a falling tree My father looked upon his warriors ; they answered that look with their battle- shout. ' Tell your people,' said my father to the messen- ger, that we have shed and drank English blood, and that we will take nothing from them but death.' The messen- ger departed, and again returned with offers of pardon, if we would come forth, and lay our arrows and our toma- hawks at the feet of the English. ' What say you, war- riors ?' cried my father ' shall we take pardon from those who have burned your wives and children, and given your homes to the beasts of prey ? who have robbed you of your hunting-grounds, and driven your canoes from their wa- ters " A hundred arrows were pointed to the messenger. Enough you have your answer,' said my father ; and COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF THOSE. 87 the messenger returned to announce the fate we had chosen." " Where was Sassacus ? had he abandoned his people '" asked Everell. '* Abandoned them ! No his life was in theirs ; but, ac customed to attack and victory, he could not bear to be th'is driven like a fox to his hole. His soul was sick with- in him, and he was silent, and left all to my father. All day we heard the strokes of the English axes felling the trees that defended us, and, when night came, they had ap- proached so near, that we could see the glimmering of their watch-lights through the branches of the trees. All night they were pouring in their bullets, alike on warriors, women, and children. Old Cushmakin was lying at my mother's feet, when he received a death-wound. Gasping for breath, he called on Sassacus and my father ' Stay not here,' he said ; ' look not on your wives and children, but burst your prison bound ; sound through the nations the cry of revenge ! Linked together, ye shall drive the Eng- lish into the sea. I speak the word of the Greajt Spirit obey it !' While he was yet speaking, he. stiffened in death. Obey him, warriors,' cried my mother ; ' see,' she said, pointing to the mist that was now wrapping itself around the wood like a thick curtain ' see, our friends have come from the spirit-land to shelter you. Nay, look not on us our hearts have been tender in the wigwam, but we can die before our enemies without a groan. Qr- forth and avenge us.' " ' Have we come to the counsel of old men and old women !' said Sassacus, in the bitterness of his spirit. " ' When women put down their womanish thoughts and counsel like men, they should be oheyed,' said my father ' Follow me, warriors.' " They burst through the enclosure. We saw nothing more, but we heard the shout from the foe, as they issuea from the wood the momentary fierce encounter and the cry, ' They have escaped !' Then it was that my mother, who had listened with breathless silence, threw herself down on the mossy stones, and, laying her hot cheek to mine ' Oh, my children my children !' she said, ' would that I could die for you ! But fear not death the blood 88 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE of a bundled chieftains, that never knew fear, runneth n your veins. Hark, the enemy comes nearer and nearer. Now lift up your heads, ray children, and show them that even the weak ones of our tribe are strong in soul.' " We rose from the ground all about sat women and children in family clusters, awaiting unmoved their fate. The English had penetrated the forest-screen, and were already on the little rising-ground where we had been in- trenched. Death was dealt freely. None resisted not a movement was made not a voice lifted not a sound es- caped, save the waitings of the dying children. " One of your soldiers knew my mother, and a com- mand was given that her life and that of her children should be spared. A guard was stationed round us. " You know that, after our tribe was thus cut off, we were taken, with a few other captives, to Boston. Some were sent to the Islands of the Sun, to bend their free limbs to bondage like your beasts of burden. There are among your people those who have not put out the light of the Great Spirit ; they can remember a kindness, albeit done by an Indian ; and when it was known to your sa- chems that the wife of Mononotto, once the protector and friend of your people, was a prisoner, they treated her with honour and gentleness. But her people were extinguished her husband driven to distant forests forced on earth to the misery of wicked souls to wander without a home ; her children were captives and her heart was broken." Character of Fisher jJm. KTRKLAN-D. MR. AMES, as a speaker and a writer, had the power ta enlighten and persuade, to move, to please, to charm, to astonish. He united those decorations, which belong to fine talents, to that penetration and judgment, that des- ignate an acute and solid mind Many of his opinions had the authority of predictions fulfilled and fulfilling. He had the ability of investigation, and, where it was neces- ary, did investigate with patient attention, going through COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 8! '. series of observation and deduction, and tracing the linki which connect on truth with another. When the result 3f his researches was exhibited in discourse, the steps of a logical process were in some measure concealed by the colouring of rhetoric. Minute calculation and dry details w ere employments, however, the leadv adapted to his pe culiar construction of mind. It was easy and del' utfu) for him to illustrate by a picture, but painful and laborious to prove by a diagram. It was the prerogative of his mind to discern by a glance, so rapid as to seem intuition, those truths which common capacities struggle hard to appre- hend ; and it was the part of his eloquence to display, ex- pand and enforce them. His imagination was a distinguishing feature of his mind. Prolific grand, sportive, original, it gave him the command of nature and of art, and enabled him to vary the disposi- tion and the dress of his ideas without end. Now it as- sembled most pleasing images, adorned with all that is soft and beautiful ; and now rose in the storm, wielding the ele- ments, and flashing in the most awful splendours. Very few men have produced more original combinations. He presented resemblances and contrasts, which none saw be- fore, but all admitted to be just and striking. In delicate and powerful wit he was pre-eminent. The exercise of these talents and accomplishments was guided and exalted by a sublime morality and the spirit of rational piety, was modelled by much good taste, and prompted by an ardent heart. He was more adapted to the senate than the bar. His speeches in congress, always respectable, were many of them excellent, abounding in argument and sentiment, having all the necessary information, embellished with rhetorical beauties, and animated by patdotic fires. So much of the skill and address of the orator do they exhibit, that, though he had little regard to the rules of the art, they are perhap? fair examples of the leading precepts for the several parts of an oration. In debates on impor- tant questions, he generally waited before he spoke till the discussion had proceeded at some length, when he was ure to notice every argument that had been offered. He was sometimes in a minor'ty, when he well considered the 8" 90 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. temper of a majority in a republican assembly, of contradiction, refutation, or detection, claiming to ba allowed sincere in their convictions, and disinterested in their views. He was not unsuccessful in uniting the pru- dence and conciliation, necessary in parliamentary speak- ing, with lawful freedom in debate, and an effectual use of those sharp and massy weapons, which his talents sup- plied, and which his frankness and zeal prompted him to eTiploy. He did not systematically study the exterior graces of speaking, but his attitude was erect and easy, his gestures manly and forcible, his intonations varied and expressive, his articulation distinct, and his whole manner animated and natural. His written compositions, it will be per- ceived, have that glow and vivacity which belong to his speeches. All the other efforts of his mind, however, were proba- bly exceeded by his powers in conversation. He appear- ed among his friends with an illuminated face, and, with peculiar amenity and captivating kindness, displayed all the playful felicity of his wit, the force of his intellect, and the fertility of his imagination. On the kind or degree of excellence which criticisir may concede or deny to Mr. Ames's productions, we do not undertake with accurate discrimination to determine He was undoubtedly rather actuated by the genius of ora- tory, than disciplined by the precepts of rhetoric ; was more intent on exciting attention and interest, and produc- ing effect, than securing the praise of skill in the artifice of composition. Hence critics may be dissatisfied, yet hear- ers charmed. The abundance of materials, the energy and quickness of conception, the inexhaustible fertility of mind, which he possess**, as they did not require, so they for- bade, a rigid adherence to artificial guides, in the dispo- sition and employment of his intellectual stores. To a cer- tain extent, such a speaker and writer may claim to be hU own authority. Image crowded upon image in his mind, yet he is not chargeable with affectation in the use of figurative lan- guage ; his tropes are evidently prompted by imagination, and not forced into service. Their novelty and variety COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 01 create constant surprise and delight. But they are per- haps too lavishly employed. The fancy of his hearers is sometimes overplied with stimulus, and the importance of the thought liable to be concealed in the multitude and beauty cf the metaphors. His condensation of expression may b thought to produce occasional abruptness. He aimed rather at the terseness, (strength, and vivacity of the short sentence, than at the dignity of the full and flowing period. His style is conspicuous for sententious bievity, for antithesis and point. Single ideas appear with so much prominence, that the connexion of the several parts of his discourse is not always obvious to the common mind, and the aggregate impression of the composition is not always completely obtained. In these respects, where his peculiar excellences came near to defects, he is rather to be ad- mired than imitated. Mr. Ames, though trusting much to his native resources, did y no means neglect to apply the labours of others to 'us own use. His early love of books he retained and cherished through the whole of his life. He was particu- larly fond of ethical studies ; but he went more deeplj into history than any other branch of learning. Here ht sought the principles of legislation, the science of politics, the causes of the rise and decline of nations, and the char- acters and passions of men acting in public affairs. He read Herodotus, Thucydides, Livy, Tac'tus, Plutarch, and the modern historians of Greece and Rome. The English his- tory he studied with much care. Hence he possessed a great fund of historical knowledge, always at command, both for conversation and writing. He contemplated the character of Cicero as an orator and statesman with fervent admiration. He never ceased to be a lover of the-pcets. Homer, in Pope, he often perused ; and he read Virgil in the original, within two years of his death, with increased delight. His knowledge of the French enabled him to read their authors, though not to speak their language. He was accustomed to read the Scriptures, not only as containing a system of truth and duty, but as displaying, in their poetical parts, all that is sublime, animate' a<>d affecting in composition 92 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. His learning seldom appeared as such, but was interwoven with his thoughts, and became his own. In public speaking he trusted much to excitement, and did little more in his closet than draw the outlines of his speech, and reflect on it till he had received deeply the impressions he intended to make ; depending for the turns and .figures of language, illustrations and modes of appeal to the passions, on his imagination and feelings at the time. This excitement continued when the cause had ceased to operate. After debate his mind was agitated, like the ocean after a storm, and his nerves were like the shrouds of i ship, torn by the tempest. He brought his mind much in contact with the minds of others, ever pleased to converse on subjects of public interest, and seizing every hint that might be useful to him in writing for the instruction of his fellow-citizens. He justly thought that persons below him in capacity might have good ideas, which he might em- ploy in the correction and improvement of his own. His attention was always awake to grasp the materials that came to him from every source. A constant labour was going on in his mind. He never sunk from an elevated tone of thought and action, nor suffered his faculties to slumber in indolence. The circumstances of the times, in which he was called to act, contributed to elicit his powers, and sup- ply fuel to his genius. The greatest interests were sub- jects of debate. When he was in the national legislature, the spirit of party did not tie the hands of the public func- tionaries ; and questions, on which depended the peace or war, the safety or danger, the freedom or dishonour, of the , country, might be greatly influenced by the covnsels and efforts of a single patriot. Mr. Ames's character as a patriot rests on the highest and firmest ground. He loved his country with equal pu- rity and fervour. This affection was the spring of all h.a efforts to promote her welfare. The glory of being a ben- efactor to a great people he could not despise, but justly valued. He was covetous of the fame purchased by des- ert ; but he was above ambition ; and popularity, except as an instrument of public service, weighed nothing in the balance by which he estimated good and evil. Had he sought power only, ho would have devoted himself to that COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 93 party, in whose gift he foresaw it would be placed. Hu first election, though highly flattering, was equally un- sought and unexpected, and his acceptance of it interrupt- ed his chosen plan of life It obliged him to sacrifice the advantages of a profession, which he needed, and placed in uncertainty his prospects of realizing the enjoyments ol domestic life, which he considered the highest species ol happiness. But he found himself at the disposal of others and did not so much choose, as acquiesce, in his destination to the national legislature. The objects of religion presented themselves with a strong interest to his mind. The relation of the world to its Author, and of this life to a retributory scene in another, could not be contemplated by him without the greatest so- lemnity. The religious sense was, in his view, essential n the constitution of man. He placed a full reliance on the divine origin of Christianity. If there ever was a time in his life wher the light of revelation shone dimly upon his understanding, he did not rashly close his mind against clearer vision ; for he was more fearful of mistakes to the disadvantage of a system, which he saw to be excellent and benign, than of prepossessions in its favour. He felt it his duty and interest to inquire, and discover on the side of faith, a fulness of evidence little short of demonstration. At about thirty-five he made a public profession of his faith in the Christian religion, and was a regular attendant on its services. In regard to articles of belief, his conviction was confined to those leading principles, about which Christians have little diversity of opinion. Subtile ques- tions of theology, from various causes often agitated, but never determined, he neither pretended nor desired to in- vestigate, satisfied that they related to points uncertain or unimportant. He loved to view religion on the practical ide, as designed to operate, by a few simple and grand truths, on the affections, actions and habits of men. His conversation and behaviour evinced the sincerity of his re- ligious impressions. No levity upon these subjects ever escaped his lips ; but his manner of recurring to them in conversation indicated reverence and feeling. The sublime, the affecting character of Christ, he never mentioned with- out emotion. 94 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. He was gratefully sensible of the peculiar felicity of hi* domestic life. In his beloved home his sickness found all the alleviation, that a judicious and unwearied tenderness could minister ; and his intervals of health a succession of every pleasing enjoyment and heartfelt satisfaction. The complacency of his looks, the sweetness of his tones, his mild and often playful manner of imparting instruction, evinced his extreme delight in the society of his family, who felt that they derived from him their chief happiness, and found in his conversation and example a constant ex- citement to noble and virtuous conduct. As a husband and father, he was all that is provident, kind, exemplary. He was riveted in the regards of those who were in his service. He felt all the ties of kindred. The delicacy, the ardour, and constancy, with which he cherished his friends, his readiness to the offices of eood neighbourhood, and his propensity to contrive and execute plans of public improvement, formed traits in his character, each of re- markable strength. He cultivated friendship by an active and punctual correspondence, which made the number of his letters very great, and which are not less excellent than numerous. Mr. Ames in person a little exceeded the middle height, was well proportioned, and remarkably erect. His features were regular, his aspect respectable and pleasing, his eye expressive of benignity and intelligence. In his man- ners he was easy, affable, cordial, inviting confidence, yet inspiring respect. He had that refined spirit of society, which observes the forms of real, but not studied polite- ness, and paid a most delicate regard to the propriety of conversation and behaviour. Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jeffert . SERGEANT. TIME in its course has produced a striking epoch in the history of our favoured country ; and, as if to mark with peculiar emphasis this interesting stage of our national ex- istence, it comes to us accompanied with incidents calm COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 95 lated to make a powerful and lasting impression. The dawn of the fiftieth anniversary of independence beamed upon two venerable and illustrious citizens, to whom, under Providence, a nation acknowledged itself greatly indebted for the event which the day was set apart to commemorate. The one was the author, the other was " the ablest advocate," of that solemn assertion of right, that heroic defiance of un just power, which, in the midst of difficulty and danger, proclaimed the determination to assume a separate and equal station among the powers of the earth, and declared to the world the causes which impelled to this decision. Both had stood by their country with unabated ardour and un- wavering fortitude, through every vicissitude of her for- tune, until the " glorious day" of her final triumph crown- ed their labours and their sacrifices with complete success. With equal solicitude, and with equal warmth of patriotic affection, they devoted their great faculties, which had been employed in vindicating the rights of their country, to con- struct for her, upon deep and strong foundations, the solid edifice of social order, and of civil and religious freedom. They had both held the highest public employment, and were distinguished by the highest honours the nation could confer. Arrived at an age when nature seems to demand repose, each had retired to the spot from which the public exigencies had first called him, his public labours ended, his work accomplished, his country prosperous and happy, there to indulge in the blessed retrospect of a well-spent life, and await that period which comes to all ; but not ta awa' 4 . it in idleness or indifference. The same spirit of active benevolence, which made the meridian of their lives resplendent with glory, continued to shed its lustre upon their evening path. Still intent upon doing good, still de- voted to the great cause of human happiness and improve- ment, neither of these illustrious men relaxed in his exer- tions. They seemed only to concentrate their energy, as age and increasing infirmity contracted the circle of action, bestowing, without ostentation, their latest efforts upon the etate and neighbourhood in which they resided. There, with patriarchal simplicity, they lived, the objects of a nation's grateful remembrance and affection; the living records of a nation's history ; the charm of an age whicb 96 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. they delighted, adorned and instructed by their vivid ^ketches of times that are past ; and, as it were, the im- bodied spirit of the revolution itself, in all its purity and force, diffusing its wholesome influence thro igh the gen- erations that have succeeded, rebuking every sinister de- sign, and invigorating every manly and virtuous resolution. The Jubilee came, the great national commemoration of a nation's birth, the fiftieth year of deliverance from a foreign rule, wrought out by exertions, and sufferings, and sacrifices of the patriots of the revolution. It found these illustrious aad venerable men, full of honours and full of years, animated with the proud recollection of the times in which they had borne so distinguished a part, and cheer- ed by the beneficent and expanding influence of their patriotic labours. The eyes of a nation were turned to- wards them with affection and.reverence. They heard the first song of triumph on that memorable day. As the voice of millions of freemen rose in gratitude an) joy, they both sunk gently to rest, and their spirits departed in the midst of the swelling chorus of national enthusiasm. Death has thus placed his seal upon the lives of these two eminent men with impressive solemnity. A gracious Providence, whose favours have been so often manifested in mercy to our country, has been pleased to allow them an unusual length of time, and an uncommon continuance of their extraordinary faculties. They have been, as it were, united in death; and they have both, in a most sig- nal manner, been associated in the great event which they so largely contributed to produce. Henceforward the names of Jefferson and Adams can never be separated from the Declaration of Independence. Whilst that venerated instrument shall continue to exist, as J^ng as its sacred spirit shall dwell with the people of this nation, or the free institutions that have grown out of it be preserved and respected, so long will our children, and our children's chil- dren, to the latest generation, bless the names of these our illustrious benefactors, and cherish their memory with reve- rential respect. The Jubilee, at each return, will bring hack, with renovated force, the lives and the deaths of these distinguished men; and History, with the simple penril of COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 97 Truth, sketching the wonderful coincidence, will, for one* at least, set at defiance all the powers of poetry and ro- mance. Indolence. D EN N i K. How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard ? When wilt tnou arise oat of sleep."' NOT until you have had another nap, you reply; not tiM there has been a little more folding of the hands ! Various philosophers and naturalists have attempted to define man. I never was satisfied with their labours : ab- surd to pronounce him a two-legged, unfeathcred animal, when it is obvious he is a sleepy one. In this world there is business enough for every individual : a sparkling sky over his head to admire, a soil under his feet to till, and innumerable objects, useful and pleasant, to choose. But such in general is the provoking indolence of our species, that the lives of many, if impartially journalized, might be truly said to have consisted of a series of slumbers. Some men are infested with day dreams, as well as by visions of the night : they travel a certain insipid round, like the blind horse of the mill, and, as Bolingbroke ob- serves, perhaps beget others to do the like after them. They may sometimes open their eyes a little, but they are soon dimmed by some lazy fog; they may sometimes stretch a limb, but its efforts are soon palsied by procrastination. Yawning, amid tobacco fumes, they seem to have no hopes, except that their bed will soon be made, and no fears, ex- cept that their slumbers will be broken by business clam- ouring at the door. How tender and affectionate is the reproachful question of Solomon, in the text, " When wilt thou arise out of 1< ep ?" The Jewish prince, whom we know to be an ac- tive one, from the temple which he erected and the books which he composed, saw, when he cast h's eyes around the city, half his subjects asleep. Though jn many a wise proverb he had warned them of the baneful effects of ki- 9 98 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. dolence, they were deaf to his charming voice, and blino to his noble example. The men servants and the maid servants, whom he had hired, nodded over their domestic duties in the royal kitchen, and when, in the vineyards he had planted, he looked for grapes, lo, they brough forth wild grapes, for the vintager was drowsy. At' the present time, few Solomons exist to preach against pillows, and never vas there more occasion for a sermon. Our country being *t peace, not a drum is heard to rouse the slothful. But, though we are exempted from the tu- mulid and vicissitudes of war, we should remember that there are many posts of duty, if not of danger, and at these we should vigilantly stand. If we will stretch the hand of exertion, means to acquire competent wealth, and honest fame, abound, and when such ends are in view, how shameful to close our eyes ! He who surveys the paths of active life, will find them so numerous and long, that he will feel the necessity of early rising, and late taking rest, to accomplish so much travel. He who pants for the shade of speculation, will find that literature cannot flourish in the bowers of in- dolence and monkish gloom Much midnighfoil must be consumed, and innumerable pages examined, by him whose object is to be really wise. Few hours has that man to sleep, and not one to loiter, who has many coffers of wealth to fill, or many cells in his memory to store. Among the various men, whom I see in the course of my pilgrimage through this world, I cannot frequently find those who are broad awake. Sloth, a powerful magician, mutters a witching spell, and deluded mortals tamely suffer this drowsy being to bind a fillet over their eyes. All their activity is employed in turning themselves like the door on a rusty hinge, and all the noise they make in the world is a snore. When I see one, designed by nature for noble purposes, indolently declining the privilege, and, heed- less, like Esau, bartering the birthright, for what is of less worth than his red pottage of lentils, for liberty to sit still and lie quietly, I think I see, not a man, but an oyster The drone in society, like that fish on our shores, might at .well be sunken in the mud, and enclosed in a shell, at stretched on a couch, or seated in a chimney-corner COMMON-PLACE BOOK Of PROSE. 99 The season is now approaching fast, when some of the ir.ost plausible excuses for a little more sleep must fail. En- ervated by indulgence, the slothful are of all men most im- patient of cold, and they deem it never more intense than in the morning. But the last bitter month has rolled away, and now, could I persuade to the experiment, the sluggard may discover that he may toss off the bed-quilt, and try the air of early day, without being congealed ! He may be assured that sleep is a very stupid employment, and differs very little from death, except in duration. He may receive it implicitly, upon the faith both of the physi- cian and the preacher, that morning is friendly to the health and the heart ; and if the idler is so manacled by the chains of habit, that he can, at first, do no more, he will do wise- ly and well to inhale pure air, to watch the rising sun, and mark the magnificence of nature. Escape of Harvey Birch and Captain Whai ton. COOPER. THE road which u was necessary for the pedler and the English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the hills, lay, for half a mile, in full view from the door of the building, that had so recently been the prison of the latter ; running for the whole distance over the rich plain, that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here vise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases; it then turned short to the right, and was obliged to follow the windings of nature, as it won its way into the bosom of the Highlands. To preserve the supposed difference in their stations, Harvey rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and maintained the sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his assumed character. On their right, the regiment ef foot, that we have already mentioned, lay in tents ; and the sen- tinels, who guarded their encampment, were to be seen moving, with measured tread, under the skirts of the hill* themselves The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, to urge the beast he rode to his greatest speed at once, and 100 COMMON-PLACE BOOK Of PROSE. by a coup-de-main, not only to accomplish his escape, bu relieve himself from the torturing suspense of his situation But the forward movement that the vouth made for thii ^urpose was instantly checked by the pedler. " Hold up!" he cried, dexterously reining his own horse across the path of the other; " would you ruin us both ' Fall into the place of a black following his master. Did you not see their blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled, standing in the sun before the house ? How 'ong do you think that miserable Dutch horse you are on would hold his speed, if pursued by the Virginians ? Every foot that \ve can gain without giving the alarm, counts us a day in our lives. Ride steadily after me, and on no account look back. They are as subtle as foxes, ay, and as rave- nous for blood as wolves." Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and follow- ed the direction of the pedler. His imagination, however, continually alarmed him with the fancied sounds of pursuit ; though Birch, who occasionally looked back under the pre- tence of addressing his companion, assured him that all continued quiet and peaceful. " But," said Henry, " it will not be possible for Caesar to remain long undiscovered : had we not better put our horses to the gallop ? and, by the time they can reflect OB the cause of our flight, we can reach the corner of the woods." " Ah ! you little know them, Captain Wharton," re- turned the pedler ; " there is a sergeant at this moment look- ing after us, as if he thought all was not right ; the keen- eyed fellow watches me like a tiger laying in wait for his leap ; when I stood on the horse block, he half suspected something was wrong ; nay, check your beast ; we must let the animals walk a little, for he is laying his hand on the pommel of his saddle ; if he mounts now, we are gone. The foot soldiers could reach us with their mus- kets." " What does he do ?" asked Henry, reining his horse u I walk, but, at the same time, pressing his heels into the tnitnal's sides, to be in readiness for a spring. " He turns from his charger, and looks the other way Now trot on gently ; not so fast, not so fast ; observe th COMMON-PLACE BOOB OF PROSE. 101 sentinel in the field a little ahead of us ; he eyes us keenly." " Never mind the footman," said Henry impatiently " he can do nothing but shoot us ; whereas these dragoons may make me a captive again. Surely, Harvey, there are horsemen moving down the road behind u. Do you see nothing particular ?" " Humph !" ejaculated the oedler ; " there is something particular, indeed, to be seen behind the thicket on your left; turn yourhead a little, and you may see and profit by it too." Henry eagerly seized his permisson to look aside, and his blood curdled to the heart as he observed they were passing a gallows, that had unquestionably been erected for his own execution. He turned his face fiom the sight in undisguised horror. " There is a warning to be prudent in that hit of wood," said the pedler, in that sententious manner that he often adopted. " It is a terrific sight indeed !" cried Henry, for a mo- ment veiling his face with his hands, as if to drive a vision from before him. The pedler moved his body partly around, and spoke with energetic but gloomy bitterness " and yet, Captain Whar- ton, you see it when the setting sun shines full upon you ; the air you breathe is clear, and fresh from the hills before you. Every step that you take leaves that hated gallows behind ; and every dark hollow, and every shapeless rock in (he mountains, offers you a hiding-place from the vengeance of your enemies. But I have seen the gibbet raised, when no place of refuge offered. Twice have I been buried in dungeons, where .fettered and in chains, Ihave passed nights in torture, looking forward to the morning's dawn that was to light me to a death of infamy. The sweat has started from limbs that seemed already drained of their moisture, and if I ventured to the hole, that admitted air through grates of .ron, to look cut upon the smiles of nature, which God has bestowed for the meanest of his creatures, the gibbet has glared before my eyes, like an evil conscience, harrowing the soul of a dying man. Four times have I been in their power, besides this last ; but twice twice did I think that my hour had come. It is hard to die at the besti 9 102 COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. Captain Wharton ; but to spend your last moments and unpiticd, to know that none near you so much as think of the late that is to you the closing- of all that is earthly to think that in a few hours you are to be led from th gloom which, as you dwell on what follows, becomes deal to you to the face of day, and there to meet all e.yei upon you, as if you were a wild beast ; and to lose sight of every thing amidst the jeers and scoffs of your fellow crea- tures ; that, Captain Wharton, that indeed is to die." Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered this speech with a vehemence altogether new to him , both seemed to have forgotten their danger and their dis- guises, as he cried " What! were you ever so near death as that?" " Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for three years past ?" resumed Harvey ; " and once they even led me to the foot of the gallows itself, and I escaped only by an alarm from the royal troops. Had they been a quar- ter of an hour later, I must have died. There was I placed, in the midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and children, as a monster to be cursed. When I would pray to God, my ears were insulted with the history of my crimes ; and when, in all that multitude, I looked around for a sin gle face that showed me any pity, I could find none no, not even one all cursed me as a wretch who would sell his country for gold. The sun was brighter to my eyes than common but then it was the last time I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant, and every thing seem- ed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh ! how sweet life was to me at that moment ! 'Twas a dreadful hour, Captain Wharton, and such as you have never known. You have friends to feel for you ; but I had none but a father to mourn my loss when he might hear of it ; there was no pity, no consolation near to soothe my anguish. Every thing seemed to have, deserted me, I even thought tha* He had forgotten that I lived." " What ! did you feel that God had forsaken you, Har- vey ?" crie<^ 'be youth, with strong sympathy " God never forsakes his servants," returned Birch, with everence, and exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto he had only assumed. COMMON-l'CACE BOOK OF I'ltOSE. 103 " And who did you mean by He ?" The pedler raised himself in his saddle to the stiff ana upright posture that was suited to the outward appearance. The look of fire, that, for a short time, glowed upon his countenance, disappeared in the solemn lines of unbend- ing self-abasement, and, speaking as if addressing a negro, he replied " In heaven, there is no distinction of colour, my broth- er ; therefore you have a precious charge within you, that you must hereafter render an account of," dropping his voice ; " this is the last sentinel near the road ; look not back, as you value your life." Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed the humble demeanour of his adopted character. The un- accountable energy of the pedier's manner was soon for- gotten in the sense of bis own immediate danger ; and with the recollection of his critical situation returned all the uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten. " What see you, Harvey ?" he cried, observing the ped- ler to gaze towards the building they had left, with omi- inus interest; " what see you at the house ?" " That which bodes no good to us," returned the pre- mled priest. " Throw aside the mask and wig you ill need all your senses without much delay throw i em in the road : there are none before us that I dread, but tuere are those behind us, who will give us a fearful race." " Nay, then," cried the captain, casting the implements of his disguise into the highway, " let us improve our time to the utmost ; we want a full quarter to the turn ; why not push for it at once ?" " Be cool they are in alarm, but they will not mount without an officer, unless they see us fly now he comes he moves to the stables trot briskly a dozen are in their saddles, but the officer stops to tighten his girths they hope to steal a march upon us he is mounted now ride, Cap- tain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my heels. If you quit tnc you will be lost," A second request was unnecessary. The instant that Harvey jmthis horse to his speed, Captain Wharton was at bis heels, urging the miserable animal that he rode to t'.j* 104 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK PROSE. almost. Birch had selected the beast on which he rode and, although vastly inferior to the high-fed and blooded chargers of the dragoons, still it was much superior to the little pony that had been thought good enough to carry Caesar Thompson on an errand. A very few jumps convinced the captain that his companion was fast leaving him, and a fear- ful glance that he threw behind informed the fugitive that his enemies were as speedily approaching. With that abandonment that makes misery doubly grievous, when it is to be supported alone, Henry called aljud to the pedler not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up, and suffer- ed his companion to run along-side of his own horse. The cocked hat and wig of the pedler fell from his head the moment that his steed began to move briskly, and this de- velopement of their disguise, as it might be termed, was witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their observa- tion by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the very ears of the fugitives so loud was the cry, and so short the distance between them. " Had we not better leave our horses," said Henry, "and make for the hills across the fields on our left ? the fence will stop our pursuers." "That way lies the gallows," returned the pedler " these fellows go three feet to our two, and would mind them fences no more than we do these ruts ; but it is a short quarter to the turn, and there are two roads behind the wood. They may stand to choose until they can take the track, and we shall gain a little upon them there." " But this miserable horse is blown already," cried Hen- ry, urging his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same time that Harvey aided his efforts by applying the lash of a heavy riding whip that he carried ; " he will never stand it for half a mile further." " A quarter will do i quarter will do," said the pedler, " a single quarter will save us, if you follow my direc- tions." Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident manner of his companion, Henry continued silently urging his horse forward. A few moments brought them to the desired turn, and, as they doubled round a point of low under-brush, the fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers scattered COMMON-PLACE BOOK )F PROSE. 105 along the highway. Mason and the sergeant, being better mounted than the rest of the party, were much nearer to their heels than even the pedler thought could be possible. At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the >!.ii-k valley that wound among the mountains, a thick uu- lierwood of saplings had been suffered to shoot up, when the heavier growth was felled for the sake of fuel At the sight of this cover, Henry again urged the pedler to dismount, and to plunge into the woods ; but his request was promptly refused. The two roads before mentioned met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance from the turn. and both were circuitous, so that but little of either could he seen at a time. The pedler took the one which led t . the left, but held it only a moment, for, on reaching a par- tial opening in the thicket, he darted across the right hand path, and led the way up a steep ascent, which lay direct- ly before them. This manoeuvre saved them. On reaching '.he fork, the dragoons followed the track, and passed the spot where the fugitives had crossed to the other road, be- fore they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud cries were heard by Henry and the pedler, as their weari- ed and breathless animals toiled up the hill, ordering their comrades in the rear to ride in the right direction. The captain again proposed to leave their horses, and dash into the thicket. " Not yet not yet," said Birch in a low voice ; the road falls from the top of this hill as steep as it rises first let us gain the top." While speaking they reached the desir- ed summit, and both threw themselves from their horses. Henry plunged into the thick underwood, which covered the side of the mountain for some distance above them. Har- vey stopped to give each of their beasts a few severe blows of his whip, that drove them headlong down the path on the other side of the eminence, and then followed his ex- ample. The pedler entered the thicket with a little caution, and avoided, as much as possible, rustling or breaking the branches in his way. There was but time only to shelter bis person from view, when a dragoon led up the ascent, and, on reaching tha height, he cried aloud 106 COMMON-PLACE 9OOK OF PROSE. " I saw one of their horses turning the hill this min ute." " Drive on spur forward, my lads," shouted Mason " give the Englishman quarter, but cut down the pedler, and make an end of him." Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard, as he lis- tened in a great tremour to this cry, which was followed by he passage of a dozen horsemen, with a vigour and speed that showed too plainly how little security their over-tired steeds could have afforded them. " Now," said the pedler, rising from his cover to recon- noitre, and standing for a moment in suspense, " all that we gain is clear gain ; for, as we go up, they go down. Let us be stirring." " But will they not follow us, and surround this moun- tain ?" said Henry, rising, and imitating the laboured but rapid progress of his companion ; " remember they have foot as well as horse, and at any rate we shall starve in the hills." " Fear nothing, Captain Wharton," returned the pedler with confidence ; " this is not the mountain that I would De on, but necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among these hills. I will lead you where no man will dare to fol- low. See, the sun is already setting behind the tops of the western mountains, and it will be two hours to the rising of the moon. Who, think you, will follow us far, on a November night, among these rocks and precipices ?" " But listen !" exclaimed Henry ; " the dragoons are shouting to each other they miss us already." " Come to the point of this rock, and you may see them," said Harvey, composedly setting himself down to rest. " Nay, they can see us notice, they are pointing up with their fingers. There ! one has fired his pistol, but the distance is too great for even a musket to carry upwards." " They will pursue us," cried the impatient Henry ; " let us be moving." " They will not think of such a thing," returned tha pedler, picking the chickerberries that grew on the thin soil where he sat, and very deliberately chewing them, leaves and all, to refresl his mouth. " What COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 107 could they make here, in their boots and spurs, with their long owords, or even pistols ? No, no they may go back aud sum out tht, foot but the horse pass through these defiles, when they can keep the saddle, with fear and trembling. Come, follow me, Captain Wharton ; we have a troublesome march before us, but 1 will bring you where nore will ihink of venturing this night." So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountain. Scenery in the Notch of the White Mountains. DwiGHT THE Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appro- printed to a very narrow defile, extending two miles in length between two huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earth- quakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or vol- cano in other countries, of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have been accomplished by these agents. The change appears to have been effected when the surface of the earth exten- sively subsided; when countries and continents assumed a new face ; and a general commotion of the elements pro- duced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less than this will account for the sundering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast mountains ; or for the exist- ing evidences of the immense force, by which the rup- ture was effected. The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks stand Ing perpendicularly at the distance of twenty-two feet from each other ; one about twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by the brook mentioned as the head stream of the Saco ; the other haJf 108 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of fragments, partly blown out of the road, and part- ly thrown down by some great convulsion. When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale, on which all the objects in view were formed, was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular m coi- ner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary vith a moss, which seemed the product of ages, recalling to the mind the saxum vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose to a mountainous height. Before us the view widened fast to the south-east. Behind us, it closed almost instanta- neously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassa- ble barrier of mountains. About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current; and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white. The sun shown with the clearest splendour, from a station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; and the cascade glittered down the vast steep, like a stream of burnished silver. At the distance of three quarters of a mile from the en- trance, we passed a brook, known in this region by the name of the flume; from the strong resemblance to that object exhibited by the channel, which it has worn for a considerable length in a bed of rocks ; the sides being per- pendicular to the bottom. This elegant piece of water we de- termined to examine farther; and, alighting from our horses, walked up the acclivity perhaps a furlong. The stream fell from a height of two hundred and forty or two hundred and fifty feet over three precipices; the second receding a smalJ distance from the front of the first, and the third from tha of the second. Down the first and second it fell in a sin- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 109 gie eirrent ; and down the third in three, which united their streams at the bottom in a fine basin, formed by the hand of nature in the rocks immediately beneath us. It is impossible for a brook of this size to be modelled into more diversified or more delightful forms ; or for a cascade to de- scend over precipices more happily fitted to finish its beau- ty. The cliffs, together with a level at their foot, furnish- ed a considerable opening, surrounded by the forest. The sunbeams, penetrating through the trees, painted here a great variety of fine images of light, and edged an equally numerous and diversified collection of shadows ; both dan- cing on the waters, and alternately silvering and obscuring their course. Purer water was never seen. Exclusively of its murmurs, the world around us was solemn and silent. Every thing assumed the characterof enchantment; and, had 1 been educated in the Grecian mythology, I should scarce- ly have been surprised to find an assemblage of Dryads, Naiads and Oreades, sporting workings ; but it observes higher laws than it transgresses, the laws of the immortal intellect; it is trying and developing its best faculties; and, in the objects which it describe i COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 113 or the emotions which it awakens, anticipates those states of progressive power, splendour, beauty and happiness, for which it was created. We accordingly believe that poetry, far from injuring society, is one of the great instruments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the con- sciousness of its affinity with what is pure and noble. In. its legitimate and highest efforts, it has the same ten- dency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize our nature. True, poetry has been made the instrumei-i of vice, the pander of bad passions ; but when genius thus stoops, it dims its fires, and parts with much of its power ; and even when Poetry is enslaved to licentiousness and misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation Strains of pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of innocent happiness, sympathies with what is good in our, nature, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hollowness of the world, passages true to our moral nature, often escape in an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is good. Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections It delights in the beauty and sublimity of outward nature and of the soul. It indeed portrays wun terrible energy the ex- cesses of the passk'.is, but they are passions which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which command awe, and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its great tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind beyond and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; to lift it into a purer element, and to breathe into it more profound and generous emotion. It reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthfu 1 feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps un- quenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our io*er- est in human nature by vivid delineations of its tenderer., tnd loftiest feelings, spreads our sympathies over all classes of society, knits us by new ties with universal being, and, tl rough the brightness of its prophetic visions, htips faith to lay hold on the future life. 10 * 114 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. We are aware that it is objected to poetry, that it gives wrong views, and excites false expectations of life, peoples the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagina tion on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom, against which poetry wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, and wealth the chief interest of life, we do not deny ; nor do we deem it the least service which poetry renders to .nankiud, that it redeems '.hem from the thraldom of this earthborn prudence. Bu., passing over this topic, we would observe, that the complaint against poetry as abound- ing in illusion and deception is, in the main, groundless. In many poems there is more of truth than in many histo- ries and philosophic theories. The fictions of genius are often the vehicles of the sublimest verities, and its flashes often open new regions of thought, and throw new light on the mysteries of our being. In poetry the letter is false- hood, but the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And if truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his delineations of life ; for the present life, which is the first stage of the immortal mind abounds in the materials of poetry, and it is the highest office of the bard to detect this divine element among the grosser pleasures and labours of o ir earthly being. The present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame and finite. To the gifted eye it abounds in the poetic. The affections which spread beyond ourselves, and stretch far into futurity ; the workings of mighty passions, which seem to arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the innocent and irrepressible joy of infancy; the bloom, and buoyancy, and dazzling hopes of youth ; the throbhings of the heart when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness too vast for earth ; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, and her blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which only a mother's heart can inspire ; these are all poetical. It is not true that the poet paints a life which does not exist. He only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life'* ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fra- grant** -rings together its scattered beauties, and prolongs COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 115 Its more refined but evanescent joys; and in this he doe well ; for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares for subsistence ;nd physical gratifications, but admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. This power of poetry to refine our views of life and happiness, is more and more needed as society advances. It is needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial i anners, which make civilization so tame and uninterest- ing. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physical science, which, being now sought, not, as formerly, for in- tellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts, requires a new developement of imagination, taste and poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, material, epicurean life. Our remarks in vindication of poetry have extended be- yond our original design. They have had a higher aim than to assert the dignity of Milton as a poet, and that is, to endear an^, recommend this divine art to all who reverence, and weald cultivate and refine their nature Eloquent Appeal in Favour of the Greeks. NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW.* THERE is an individual, who sits on no throne, in whose veins no aristocratic blood runs, who derives no influence from amassed or inherited wealth, but who, by the simple supremacy of mind, exercises, at this moment, a political sway, as mighty as that of Napoleon at the zenith of his power. Indebted for his own brilliant position to the lib- erality of the age, which is shaking off the fetters of an- cient prejudices, this literal ruler by the grace of God can feel no deference for most of the maxims, by which the * The article, from which this extract is taken, is ascribed to the pen of the Hon. Edward Everett. I/ittle did its author imagine, wlihe thus eloquently apostrophizing the prime minister of England, that he was so soon to be withdrawn by the mysterious hand of the Almighty from that wide sphere of power and benevolence, to which the " liberality of the age" had exalted him.- -Jta /16 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. neutrality of England in the wars of Grecian liberty n justified Haw devoutly is it to be wished, that the pure and undying glory of restoring another civilized region to the family ot Christendom, could present itself in vision to the mind of this fortunate statesman ; that, turning from his fond but magnificent boast, that he had called into exist- ence a new world in the Indies, he would appropriate to him- self the immortal fame, which could not be gainsaid, of hav- ing recalled to life the fairest region of Europe. He has but to speak the word within the narrow walls of St. Stephen's, and the sultan trembles on his throne. He has but to speak the word, and all the poor scruples and hypocritical sophis- tries of the continental cabinets vanish into air. Let him then abandon the paltry chase of a few ragamuffin Portu- guese malecontents, and follow a game, which is worthy of himself and the people whose organ he is. Let him pronounce the sentence of expulsion from Europe of the cruel and barbarous despotism, which has so long oppressed it. The whole civilized world will applaud and sanction the decree ; he will alleviate an amount of human suf- iering, he will work out a sum of human good, which the revolutions of ages scarcely put it within the reach of men, or governments, to avert or effect. He will encircle his plebeian temples with a wreath of fame, compared with which the diadem of the monarch whom he serves is worthless dross. At all events, there they are, a gallant race, struggling, single-handed, for independence ; an extraordinary specta- cle to the world ! With scarcely a government of their own, and without the assistance of any established power,, they have waged, for six years, a fearfully contested war against one of the great empires of the earth. When Mr. Canning lately held out the menace of war against those continental nations who should violently interfere with the English system, he sought to render the menace more alarming, by calling it " a war of opinions," in which the dis- contented of every other country would rally against their own government under the banners of Great Britain. On this menace, which, considering the quarter from whence i* COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 117 proceeds, comes with somewhat of a revolutionary and dia organizing tone, we have now no comment to imke. Th*' war .-ow raging in Greece is, in a much higher atsrf Kwttft/ sense, a war of opinion which has actually begun ; ai.l in which the unarrayed, the unofficial, and, we hud almu.ii said, the individual efforts and charities of the friends of liberty throughout Christendom are combatting, and thux far successfully, the barbarous hosts of the Turk. De- serted as they have been by the governments to whom they naturally looked for aid ; by Russia, who tamely sees the head of the Russian church hung up at the door of his own cathedral ; by England, the champion of liberal principles in Europe, and the protectress of the Ionian Isles ; by the Holy Alliance, that takes no umbrage at the debarkation of army after army of swarthy infidels on the shores of a Christian country ; the Greeks have still been cheered and sustained by the sympathy of the civilized world. Gal- lant volunteers have crowded to their assistance, and some of the best blood in Europe has been shed in their defence. Liberal contributions of money have been sent to them across the globe ; and, while we write these sentences, sup- plies are despatched to them from various parts of our owe country, sufficient to avert the horrors of famine for another season. The direct effect of these contributions, great as it is, (and it is this which has enabled the Greeks to hold out thus far,) is not its best operation. We live in an age of moral influences. Greece, in these various acts, feels herself incorporated into the family of civilized na- tions ; raised out of the prison-house of a cruel and besot- ted despotism, into the community ot enlightened states Let an individual fall in with and be assailed by a superior force in the lonely desert, on the solitary ocean, or beneath the cover of darkness, and his heart sinks within him, as he receives blow after blow, and feels his strength wasting h: the unwitnessed and uncheered struggle : but let the sound of human voices swell, upon his ear, or a friendly sail draw nigh, and life and hope revive within his bosom. Nor is human nature different in its operation in the lK<>SE. 119 cnarities of this and other Christian countries, whether the entire cause of the diffusion of the Gospel is iiot more close- ly connected with the event of the struggle in GreecCi than with any thing else, in any part of the world ? Is not the question whether Greece and her islands shall be Christian or Mahometan, a more important question than any other, in the decision of which we have the remotest agency ? Might not a well-devised and active concert among the Christian charitable societies in Europe and America, for the sake of rescuing this Christian people, pre- sent the most auspicious prospect uf success, and form an organization adequate to the im^&itance and sacredness of the object? And can any man, who has humanity, liber- ty, or Christianity at heart, feel justified in forbearing to give his voice, his aid, his sympathy, to this cause, in anj way in which it i-s practicable to advance it. Small as are the numbers of the Greeks, and limited as is their country, it may be safely sai.l, that there has not, since the last Turkish invasion of Europe, been waged a war, of which the results, in the worst event, could have been so calamitous, as it must be allowed by every reflect- ing mind, that the subjugation and consequent extirpation of the Greeks would be. The wars that are waged be- tween the states of Christendom, generally grow out of disputed titles of princes, or state quarrels between the governments Serious changes no doubt take place, as these wars may be decided one way or the other. Nations, formerly well governed, may come under an arbitrary sway ; or a despotic be exchanged for a milder govern- ment. But, inasmuch as victor and. vanquished belong to the same civilized family ; and the social condition, the standard of morality, and the received code of public law, are substantially the same in all the nations of Europe ; no irreparable disaster to the cause of humanity itself can en- sue from any war, in which they may be engaged with each other Had Napoleon, for instance, succeeded fea in- vading and conquering England, (and this is probably the strongest case that could be put,) after the first calamities of invasion and conquest were past, which must in all cases fee much the same, no worse evils would probably have esulted to the cause of humanity, than the restoration of 120 COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. ifie Catholic religion as the religion of the state, tha intro tucfipn of the civil law in place of the common law, and 'ne general exclusion of the English nobility and gentry irom offices of power and profit ; an exclusion, which the English government itself, since the year 1688, has enforced towards the Catholic families, among which are some of the oldest and richest in the kingdom. Whereas, should the Turks prevail in the present contest, an amal- gamation of victor and vanquished would be as impracti- cable now, as when Greece was first conquered by the Ottoman power. The possession of the country has been promised to the Bey of Egypt, as the reward of his services In effecting its conquest. The men-at-arms have already been doomed to military executjrn of the most cruel kind, and the women and children would be sold into Asiatic and African bondage. We are not left to collect this merely from the known maxims of Turkish warfare, nor the menaces which have repeatedly been made by the Porte, but we see it exem- plified in the island of Scio. On the soil of Greece, thus swept of its present population, will be settled the Egyptian and Turkish troops, by whom it shall have been subdued. Thus will have been cut off, obliterated from the map of Europe, and annihilated by the operation of whatever is most barbarous and terrific in the military practice of the Turkish government, an entire people ; one of those dis- tinct social families, into which Providence collects the sons of men. In them will perish the descendants of ancestors, toward whom we all profess a reverence ; who carry, in the language they speak, the proof of their national iden- tity. In them will be exterminated a perple apt and pre- disposed for all the improvements of ci>ilized life ; a peo- ple connected with the rest of Europe by every moral and intellectual association, and capable of being reared up into a prosperous and cultivated state. Finally ; in them will perish one whole, Christian people ; and that the first that embraced Christianity ; churches actually founded by the apostles in person, churches, for whose direct instruction a considerable part of the New Testament was composed, after abiding all the storms of eighteen centuries, and sur- viving so many vicissitudes, are now at length to b COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. 121 rnzed ; and, in the place of all this, an uncivilized Ma- hometan horde is to he established upon the ruins. We say it is a most momentous alternative. Interest humani generis. The character of the age is concerned. The inpending evil is tremendous. To preserve the faith of certain old treaties, concluded we forget when, the parlia- ment of England decides by acclamation to send an army into Portugal and Spain, because Spain has patronised the disaffection of the Portuguese ultra-royalists. To prevent a change in the governments of Piedmont, Naples and Spain, Austria and France invade those countries with large armies. Can those great powers look tamely on, and see the ruin of their Christian brethren consummated in Greece ? Is there a faded parchment in the diplomatic ar- chives of London or Lisbon, that binds the English gov- ernment more imperiously than the great original obliga- tion to rescue an entire Christian people from the cimeter ? Can statesmen, who profess to be, who are, influenced by the rules of a chaste and lofty public morality, justify their sanguinary wars with Ashantees and Burmans, and find reasons of duty for shaking the petty thrones of the interior of Africa, and allow an African satrap to strew the plains of Attica with bloody ashes ? If they can, and if they will, then let the friends of lib- erty, humanity, and religion, take up this cause, as one that concerns them, all and each, in his capacity as a Christian and a man. Let them make strong the public sentiment on this subject, and it will prevail. Let them remember what ere now has been done, by the perseverance and res- olution of small societies, and even individual men. Let them remember how small a company of adventurers, un- patronised, scarcely tolerated by their government, suc- ceeded in laying the foundations of this our happy coun- try beyond a mighty ocean. Let them recollect, that it was one fixed impression, cherished and pursued in the hea t cf an humble and friendless mariner, through long years of fruitless solicitation and fainting hope, to which It is -wing, that these vast American continents are made a part of the heritage of civilized man. Let them recollect that, in the same generation, one poor monk dismembered the great ecclesiastical empire of Europe. Let them beat 11 122 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. in mind, that it was a hermit who roused the nations ;f Europe in mass, to engage in an expedition against t.ie common enemy of Chistendom ; an expedition, wild indeed, and unjustifiable, according to our better lights, bet lawful and meritorious in those who embarked in it. Lei 'ihsca, in a word, never forget, that when, on those lovely islands and once happy shores, over which a dark cloud of destruc- tion now hangs, the foundations of the Christian church were first laid, it was by the hands of private, obscure and persecuted individuals. It was the people, the humblest of the people, that took up the Gospel, in defiance of all the patronage, the power, and the laws of the government. Why should not Christianity be sustained in the same coun- try, and by the same means by which it was originally es- tablished ? If, as we believe, it is the strong and decided sentiment of the civilized world, that the cause of the Greeks is a good cause, and that they ought not to be al- lowed to perish, it cannot be that this sentiment will re- main inoperative. The very existence of this sentiment is a tewer of strength. It will make itself felt by a thou- sand manifestations. It will be heard in our senates and our pulpits ; it will be echoed from our firesides. Does any one doubt the cause of America was mightily strength- ened and animated by the voices of the friends of liberty in the British parliament ? Were not the speeches of Chatham and Burke worth a triumphant battle to our fa- thers ? And can any one doubt that the Grecian patriots will hold out, so long as the Christian world will cheer them with its sanction ? Let, then, the public mind be disabused of the prejudices which mislead it on this question. Let it not be operated upon by tales of piracies at sea, and factions on land ; evils, which belong not to Greeks, but to human nature. Le the means of propagating authentic intelligence of the pro- gress of the revolution be multiplied. Let its well-wishers and its well-hopers declare themselves in the cause. Let the tide of pious and Christian charity be turned into this bron I and thirsty channel. Let every arde it and high- spi.-i ed young man, who has an independent subsistence of two or three hundred dollars a year, embark personally in the cause, *\nd aspire to that crown of glory, never yef COMMON-PL ACK BOOH. OF FKOSE. 123 wain except by him who so lately triumphed in the heart* of the entire millions of Americans. Let this be done, and Greece is safe Death of Josiah Quincy, Jun. J. QUINCT. AFTER being live weeks at sea, the wished-for shore yet at a distance, he became convinced that his fate was inevitable, and prepared to submit himself to the will of Heaven with heroic calmness and Christian resignation. Under the pressure of disease, and amidst the daily sink- ing of nature, his friends, his family, and, above all, his country, predominated in his affections. He repeatedly said to the seama-n on whose attentions he was chiefly de- pendant, that he had but one desire and one p< ,s--cr, which was, that he might live long enough to hav e:i interview with Samuel Adams or Joseph Warren ; chi'. granted, he should die content. This wish of the patriot's heart, Heaven, in its inscrutable wisdom, did not grant. As he drew towards his native shore, the crisis he had so long foreseen arrived. The battle of Lexington was fought. According to his predictions, " his countrymen sealed their faith and constancy to their liberties with their blood." But he lived not to hear the event of that glori- ous day. While yet the ship was three 'lays' sail from land, ex- hausted by disease, and perceiving his last hour approach he called the seaman to the side of his birth, and, being himself too weak to write, dictated to him a letter full of the most interesting and affecting communications to his family and nearest friends. This letter still exists among his papers, in the rude hand-writing of an illiterate sailor. Such is the last notice of the close of the life of Quincy, Jun. On the 26th of April, 1775, within sight of that beloved country, which he was not permitted to reach* neither supported by the kindness of friendship, nor cheer- ed by the voice of affection, he expired ; not, indeed, at 124 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. i few weeks afterwards did his friend and co- patriot War reu, in battle, on a field ever-memorable and glorious ; but in solitude, amidst suffering, without associate and without witness ; yet breathing forth a dying sigh for his cil venture to assert, that if, at the last hour of the sin- 1'i-rV life, the power of God ever interposes to snutch him f'\'O his ruin, such interposition will never be disclosed to rh-*. curiosity of man. For, if it should once be believed, t'-i-n tiie rewards of heaven can be obtained by such an in- s'^i.rsneous and miraculous change at the last hour of life, 'i our ideas of moral probation, and of the connexion be- tween character here, and condition hereafter, are loose i;i-stal>le, and groundless ; the nature and the laws of God's n.oral government are made at once inexplicable ; our ex- ijortaiious are useless, our experience false, and the whole npparatus of Gospel means and motives becomes a cumbrous and unnecessary provision. What, then, is the great conclusion, which we should do-looe from all that we have said of the nature of habit, &/.d the difficulty of repentance ' It is this: Behold, now V- the accepted time, now is the day of salvation. If you re young, you cannot begin too soon ; if you are old, you iuay begin too late. Age, says the proverb, strips us of ocery thing, even of resolution. To-morrow we shall be o'Jer ; to-morrow, indeed, Death may fix his seal forever on our characters. It is a seal which can never be broken, till the voice of the Son of man shall burst the tombs, which enclose us. If, then, we leave this place, sensible of a propensity which ought to be restrained, of a lust which ought to be exterminated, of a habit which ought to he broken, and rashly defer the hour of amendment, consider, I beseech you, it may, perhaps, be merciful in God to refuse us another opportunity. It may be a gra- cious method of preventing an abuse, which will only ag- giv.vate the retribution, which awaits the impenitent. Make harte, then, and delay not to keep the commandments of GoJ ; of that God, who has no pleasure in the death of th wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way, and live 128 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE Seenet in Philadelphia during the Prevalence of the Yellow Fever, in 1793. C. B. BKOWN. MT thoughts were called away from pursuing these in- quiries by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to formi- dable dimensions ; and which, at length, reached u< in our quiet retreats. The city, we were told, was involved in confusion and panic ; for a pestilential disease had l>egtm it- destructive progress. Magistrates and citizens were llyiu-c- to the country. The numbers of the sick multiplied beyoyii all example; even in the pest-affected cities of the Lv.mi. The malady was malignant and unsparing. The usual occupations and amusements of life were at no end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of nature. Wives were deserted by husbands, and children by parent?. Some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred themselves from all communication with the rest of man- kind. The consternation of others had destroyed their un- derstanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into the midst of the danger which they had previously laboured to shun. Men were seized by this disease in the streets ; pas- sengers fled from them ; entrance into their own dwellings was denied to them ; they perished in the public ways. The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left to die of negligence. None could be found to remove (he lifeless bodies. Their remmins, suffered to decay by piece- meal, filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added ten- fold to the devastation. Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand ways, by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. At first I listened to the story with indifference or mirth. Me- thought it was confuted by its own extravagance. The enormity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy to be believed. I expected that every new day would detect the absurdity and fallacy of such representations. Every new day, however, added to the number of witnesses, and the consistency of the tale, till, at length, it was not possi- ble to withhold my faith. This rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the whole soul. A certain sublimity is connected with enormou* COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PR9SE. ~ dangers, that imparts to our consternation or our pity a tinc- ture of the pleasing. This, at least, may be experienced by those who are '.-eyond the verge of peril. My own per- son was exposed to no hazard. I had leisure to conjurt up terrific images, and to personate the witnesses and suf- ferers of this calamity. This employment was not enjoin-, ed upon me by necessity, but was ardently pursued, and must therefore have been recommended by some nameless- charm. Others were very differently affected. As often as the tale was embellished with new incidents, or enforced by new testimony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled by inquietudes, his blood was chilled, and his stomach was bereaved of its usual energies. A temporary indisposition, was produced in many. Some were haunted by a melan- choly bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence of sleepless panics, for which no cause could be assigned, and for which no opiates could be foand, were attacked by. lingering or mortal diseases. In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of Of, calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farm- house was filled with supernumerary tenants; fugitives frort home, and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detai- every passenger with inquiries after news. The passen gers were numerous ; for the tide of emigration was by n means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in thci-, countenances the tokens of their recent terror, an<5 fiil.& with mournful reflections on the forlornnesi of their state. Few had secured to themselves an asyhra; some were without the means of paying for victuals or lodging for the coming night ; others, who were not thu* destitute, yet, knew not whither to apply for entertainmeo'. every house being already overstocked with inhabitant!, or barring its. inhospitable doors at their approach. Families of weeping mothers, and diiuayed children, attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, were carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or husband had perished ; and he price of some mot cable, or the pit- tance handed forth by public charity, had been expended 130 COMMON-PLACE BOOK Of PROSE. to purchase the means of retiring; from this theatre of disas- ters ; though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the neighbouring districts. Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had !ed to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was suffered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow was repeated with ne * aggravations. Pictures of their own distress, or of that of their neighbours, were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty. My preconceptions of the evil low appeared to have fallen short of the truth. The dangers into which I was rushing seemed more numerous and imminent than I had previously imagined. I wavered not in my purpose. A panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions were necessary to subdue or control ; but I harboured not a momentary doubt that the course which 1 had taken was prescribed by duty. There was no difficulty or reluctance in proceeding. All for which my efforts were demanded was, to walk in this path without tumult or alarm. Various circumstances had hindered me from setting out upon this journey as early as was proper. My frequent pauses, to listen to the narratives of travellers, contributed likewise to procrastination. The sun had nearly set be- fore I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the track which I had formerly taken, and entered High Street after night-fall. Instead of equipages and a throng of pas- sengers, the voice of levity and glee, which I had for- merly observed, and which the mildness of the season would, at other times, have produced, I found nothing but A dreary solitude. The market-place, and each side of this magnificent ave- ftue were illuminated, as before, by lamps ; but between the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city, I met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrap- ,ped in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glances of wnnder and suspicion; and, as I approached, changed their course, to avoid touching me. Their clothes were sprin- kled with vinegar; and their nostrils defended from contg v ffiun by iH>me powerful perfume. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 131 I cast a look upon the houses, which I recollected to have formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now, they were closed, above and below ; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. From the upper windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pavement I was traversing, and showed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded or disabled These tokens were new, and awakened all my panics. Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. I had scarcely overcome these tremours, when I approach- ed a house, the door of wkich was opened, and before which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognised to be a hearse. T'ne driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. Presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house. The driver was a negro, but his companions were white. Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, " I'll be damned if I think the poor dog was quite dead. It was'nt the fever that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room. What carried them there ?" The other surlily muttered, " Their legs, to be sure." " But what should they hug together in one room for ?" " To save us trouble, to be sure." " And I thank them with all my heart ; but damn it, it was'nt right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me, told me to stay a few minutes " " Pshaw : He could not live. The sooner dead the better for Hm, as well as for us. Did you mark how he eyed us, when we carried away his wife and daughter? I never cried in my life, since I was knee-high, but curse me if I ever felt in better tune for the business than just then. Hey !" con- tinued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their discourse, " What'i ranted > Any body dead ?" 132 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF I'ROSE. I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead I was ashamed of my own infirmity ; and, by vigorous ef forts of my reason, regained some degree of composure The evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to p:t cure accommodation at some of the inns. These were easily distinguished by their signs, but many were without inhabitants. At length I lighted upon one, the hall of which was open, and the windows lifted. After knocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many marks of distress. In answer to my question, she answered that both her parents were sick, and that they could re- ceive no one. I inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at which strangers might be accommodated. She knew of none such; and left me, on some one's calling to her from above, in the midst of my embarrassment. After a mo- ment's pause, I returned, discomforted and perplexed, to the street. I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At length I reached a spacious building iii Fourth Street, which the sign-post showed me to be an inn. I knocked loudly and often at the door At length a female opened the window of the second story, and in a tone of peevishness demanded what ' wanted. I told her that I wanted lodging. " Go hunt for it somewhere else," said she ; " you'll find nonq here." I began to expostulate ; but she shut the window with quickness, and left me to my own reflec- tions. I began now to feel some regret at the journey I had taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was 1 equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the habitations of men ; but I was destitute of associate or friend. I had money, but a horse shelter, or a morstl of food, could not be purchased. I came for the purpose of relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself Even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn but what would become of me, should this fatal malady be contracted ? To hope that an asylum would be afford- ed to a sick man. which was denied to one ii health, wa treasonable COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 13S Importance of Knowledge to the Mechanic. G. B. EMERSON. LET as imagine for a moment the condition of an indi- vidual, who has not advanced beyond the merest elements of knowledge, wno understands nothing of the principles even of his own art, and inquire what change will be wrought in his feelings, his hopes, and happiness, in a!! that makes up the character, by the gradual inpouring of knowledge. He has now the capacity of thought, but it is a barren faculty, never nourished by the food of the mind, and never rising above the poer objects of sense. Labour and rest, the hope of mere animal enjoyment, or the fear of want, the care of providing covering and food, make up the whole sum of his existence. Such a man may be industrious, but he cannot love labour, for it is not relieved by the excitement of improving or chang- ing the processes of his art, nor cheered by the hope of a better condition. When released from labour, he does not rejoice, for mere idleness is not enjoyment ; and he has no book, no lesson of science, no play of the mind, no interest- ing pursuit, to give a zest to the hour of leisure. Home has few charms for him ; he has little taste for the quiet, the social converse, and exchange of feeling and thought, the innocent enjoyments that ought to dwell there. Soci- ety has little to interest him, for he has no sympathy for the pleasures or pursuits, the cares or troubles of others, to whom he cannot feel nor perceive his bonds of relation- ship. All of life is but a poor boon for such a man ; and happy for himself and for mankind, if the few ties that hold him to this negative existence be not broken. Happy for him if that best and surest friend of man, that messenger of good news from Heaven to the poorest wretch on earth, Religion, bringing the fear of God, appear to save him Without her to support, should temptation assail him, what an easj victim would he fall to vice or crime ! How little would Ve necessary to overturn his ill-balanced principles, and throw him grovelling in intemperance, or send him abroad on the ocean or the highway, an enemy to himsalf and his kind ' 12 134 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. But let the light of science fall upon that man ; open t* him the fountain of knowledge ; a few principles of phi- losophy enter his mind, and awaken the dormant power of thought ; he begins to look upon his art with an altered eye. It ceases to be a dark mechanical process, which he cannot understand; he regards it as an object of inquiry, and begins to penetrate the reasons, and acquire a new mas tery over his own instruments. He finds other and bette modes of doing what he had done before, blindly and with- out interest, a thousand times. He learns to profit by the experience of others, and ventures upon untried paths Difficulties, which before would have stopped him at the outset, receive a ready solution from some luminous princi- ple of science. He gains new knowledge and new skill, and can improve the quality of his manufacture, while he shortens the process, and diminishes his own labour. Then labour becomes sweet to him; it is accompanied by the consciousness of increasing power ; it is leading him for- ward to a higher place among his fellow men. Relaxa- tion, too, is sweet to him, as it enables him to add to his intellectual stores, and to mature, by undisturbed meditation, the plans and conceptions of the hour of labour. His home has acquired a new charm ; for he is become a man of thought, and feels and enjoys the peace and seclu- sion of that sacred retreat ; and he carries thither the hon- est complacency which is the companion of well-earnet? success. There, too, bright visions of the future sphere open upon him, and excite a kindly feeling towards those who are to share in his prosperity. Thus his mind and heart expand together. He has become an intelligent be- ing, and, while he has learnt to esteem himself, he has also earnt to live no longer for himself alone. Society opens like a new world to him , he looks upon his fellow-crea- tures with interest and sympathy, and feels that he has a place in their affections and respect. Temptations assail him in vain. He is armed by high and pure thoughts. He takes a wider view of his relations with the beings about and above him. He welcomes every generous vir- tue that adorns and dignifies the human character. He delights in the exercise of reason he glories in the con sciousness and the hope of mmortality. COMMON-I'LACE BOOK OK I'P.Ofc'E. !35 Humor rus Description of tht Custom of J ing. FRANCIS HOPKINSON *" MY wish is to give you some account of the people ')'. these new States, but I am tar from being qualified tor '.he purpose, having as yet seen little more than the cities of New York and Philadelphia. I have discovered but lew national singularities among them. Their ctistcuis and manners are nearly the same with those of Engird, which they have long been used to copy. For, previous *. the revolution, the Americans were from their int'ancy taught to look up to the English as patterns <>f perfection in all things. I have observed, however, one csutom, 'vhich, for aught I know, is peculiar to this country : an account of it will serve to fill up the remainder of this sheet, and may afford you some amusement. When a young couple are about to enter into the matri- monial state, a never-failing article in the inarruge treaty is, that the lady shall have and enjoy the free and unmo- lested exercise of the. rights of whitewashing, with all its ceremonials, privileges and appurtenances. A young wo- man would forego the most advantageous connexion, and even disappoint the warmest wish of her heart, rather than resign the invaluable right. You would wonder what this privilege of whitewashing is : 1 will endeavour to give you some idea of the ceremony, as 1 have seen it per- formed. There is no season of the year, in which the lady may not claim her privilege, if she pleases ; but the latter end of May is most generally fixed upon for the purpose. The attentive husband may judge by certain prognostics when the storm is nigh at hand. When the lady is unusually fretful, finds fault with the servants, is discontented with the chil- dren, and complains much of the filthiness of every thing about her these are signs which ought not to be neglect- ed ; yet they are not decisive, as they sometimes come on and go off again without producing any further effect. But * This piece has been incorrectly ascribed to the pen of Dr. Franklin. Hopkiason possessed much of that ease and humnur, which have ren- dered the writings of the brii': so universally admired. 136 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. if, when the husband rises in the morning;, he should ob- serve in the yard a wheelbarrow with a quantity of lime in it, or should see certain buckets with lime dissolved in water, there is then no time to be lost ; he immediately locks up the apartment or closet where his papers or his private property are kept, and, putting the key in his pocket, betakes himself to flight : lor a husband, however beloved, becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female rage ; his authority is superseded, his commission is sus- pended, and the very scullion, who cleans the brasses in '.he kitchen, becomes of more consideration and importance than him. He has nothing for it but to abdicate, and run from an eU which he can neither prevent nor mo41ify. The husband gone, the ceremony begins. The walls *re >n a few minutes stripped of their furniture ; paintings, prints and looking-glasses lie in a huddled heap about the floors ; tht> curtains are torn from the testers, the beds crammed into the windows ; chairs and tables, bedsteads and cradles crowd the yard : and the garden fence bends beneath the weight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old coats and ragged breeches. Here may be seen the lumber of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass; for the foreground of the picture, gridirons and frying-pans, rusty shovels and broken tongs, spits and pots, and the fractured remains of rush-bottomed chairs. There, a closet has dis- gorged its bowels, cracked tumblers, broken wine-glasses, phials of foi gotten physic, papers of unknown powders, seeds and dried herbs, handfuls of old corks, tops of teapots and stoppers of departed decanters ; from the rag hole in the garret to the rat hole in the cellar, no place escapes un- rummaged. It would seem as if the day of general doom was come, and the utensils of the house were dragged forth 10 judgment. In this tempest the words of Lear naturally present themselves, and might, with some alteration, *> made strictly applicable : " Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful puddero'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp'd of Justice . ('lose pent-up Guilt v Raise your concealing continents, ami ask These dreadful sunuuoners grace !" COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 187 This ceremony completed, and the bouse tiiorouglilj evacuated, the next operation is to smear the walls and ceil- ings of every room and closet with brushes dipped in a solu- tion of lime, called whitewash ; to pour huckels of water over every floor, and scr.Uch all the partitions and wain- scots with rough hrush^j wet with soap-suds, and dipped in stone-cutter's sand. The windows by no means escape the general deluge. A serv*ut scrambles out upon the pent- house, at the risk of her uerk, RHO, with a mug m her !: his utter confusion, and sometimes serious detriment. For instance : A gentljm&n was sued by the executors of a tradesman, in a charge found against him in the deceased's books, to the amount of thirty pounds. The defendant was strongly impressed with the idea, that he had discharged the debt and taken a receipt ; but, as the transaction was of long standing, he knew not where to find the receipt. The suit wen-t on in course, and the time approached when judgment would be obtained against him. He then sat seriously down to examine a large bundle of old papers, which he hail untied and displayed on a table for that purpose. In the midst of his search, he was suddenly called away on tn'.smess of importance ; he forgot to lock the door of his room. The housemaid, who had been long looking out for such an opportunity, immediately entered with the usual implements, and with great alacrity fell to cleaning the room, and putting things to rights. The first object that truck her eye was the confused situation of the papers on the table ; these were without delay bundled together as so many dirty knives and forks; but in the action, a small piece of paper fell unnoticed on the floor, which happened to be the very receipt in question : as it had no very re 140 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK PROSE. ip-.cii.ble Appearance, it was soon after swept out with th couitjou dirt of the room, and carried in the rubbish-par* into the yard. The tradesman had neglected to enter the credit in his book ; the defendant could find nothing to ob- viate the charge, and so judgment went against him for the debt and costs. A fortnight after the whole was settled and the money paid, one of the children found the receipt among the rubbish in the yard. T here is another custom, peculiar to the city of Phila deiphia, and nearly allied to the former. 1 mean, that of washing the pavement before the doers every Saturday evening. I at first took this to be a regulation of the police ; but, on further inquiry, find it is a religious rite prepara- tory to the Sabbath ; and is, I believe, the only religious rite, in which the numerous sectaries of this city perfectly agree. The ceremony begins about sunset, and continues till about ten or eleven at night. It is very difficult for a stran- ger to walk the streets on those evenings ; he runs a con tinual risk of having a bucket of dirty water thrown against his legs ; but a Philadelphian born is so much accustomed to the danger, that he avoids it with surprising dexterity. It is from this circumstance that a Philadelphian may be known any where by his gait. The streets of New York are paved with rough stones ; these indeed are not washed, but the dirt is so thoroughly swept from before the doors, that the stones stand up sharp and prominent, to the great inconvenience of those who are not accustomed to so rough a path. But habit reconciles every thing. It is diverting enough to see a Philadelphian at New York , he walks the streets with as much painful caution as if his toes were covered with corns, or his feet lamed with the gout ; while i N-ew Yorker, as little approving the plain masonry of Philadelphia, shuffles along the pavement like a parrot on a mahogany table. It must be acknowledged, that the ablutions I have men- tioned are attended with no small inconvenience ; but the women would not be induced, on any consideration, to resign their privilege. Notwithstanding this, I can give you the strongest assurances that the women ef America make the most faithful wives and the most attentive mothers in the world ; and I am sure you will join me in opinion tha* COMMON-PLACE LOOK OK PROSE. . 141 if a married man is made miserable only one week in i whole year, he will have no great cause to complain of the matrimonial bond. May you die among your Kindred. GREENWOOD. IT is a sad thing to feel that we must die away from our home. Tell not the invalid who is yearning after his dis- tant country, that the atmosphere around him is soft ; that the gales are filled with balm, and the flowers are spring- nig from the green earth ; he knows that the softest air to his heart would be the air which hangs over his native land ; that more grateful than all the gales of the south, would breathe the low whispers of anxious affection ; that the very icitles clinging to his own eaves, and the snow beating against his own windows, would be far more pleas- ant to his eyes, than the bloom and verdure which only more forcibly remind him how far he is from that one spot which is dearer to him than the world beside. He may, indeed, find estimable friends, who will do all in their pow- er to promote his comfort and assuage his pains ; but they cannot supply the place of the long known and long loved ; they cannot read as in a book the mute language of his face ; they have not learned to wait upon his habits, and anticipate his wants, and he has not learned to communi- cate, without hesitation, all his wishes, impressions, and thoughts, to them He feels that he is a stranger ; and a more desolate feeling than that could not visit his soul. How much is expressed by that form of oriental benedic- tion, May you die among your kindred .' of a Death Scene. Miss FRANCIS. GRACE, agitated by these events, and her slight form daily becoming more shadowy, seemed like a celestial pir- it, which, haviug performed its mission on earth, melts into e tui.ty wreath, then disappears forever. Hers had alwayj 142 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. been the kind of beauty that is eloquence, though il speak not. The love she inspired was like that of some fair infant, which we would fain clasp to our hearts in its guileless beau- ty 5 and when it repays our fondness with a cherub smile, its angelic influence rouses all that there is of heaven within he soul. Deep compassion was now added to these emoticns ; and wherever she moved, the eye of pity greeted her, as it would some wounded bird, nestling to the heart in its timid loveliness Every one who knew her felt the influence of her exceeding purity and deep pathos of character ; but vrry few had penetrated into its recesses, and discovered us hidden treasures. Melody was there, but it was too plaintive, too delicate in its combination, to be produced by an unskilful hand. The coarsest minds felt its witching ef- fect, though they could not define its origin ; like the ser- vant mentioned by Addison, who drew the bow Across every string of her master's violin, and then complained that she could not, for her life, find where the tune was secreted. Souls of this fine mould keep the fountain of love sealed deep within its caverns ; and to one only is access ever granted. Miss Osborne's affection had been tranquil on the surface, but it was as deep as it was pure. It was a pool which had granted its healing influence to one, but could never repeat the miracle, though an angel should trouble its waters. Assuredly he that could mix death in the cup of love which he offered to one so young, so fair, and so true, was guilty as the priest who administered poison in the holy eucharist. Lucretia, now an inmate of the family, read to her, sup- ported her across the chamber, and watched her brief, gen- tle slumbers with an intense interest, painfully tinged with self-reproach. She was the cause of this premature de- cay, innocent, indeed, but still the cause. Under such circumstances, the conscience is morbid in its sensibility, unreasonable in its acuteness ; and the smiles and forgive- uess of those we have injured, tear aiul scorch it like burn- ing pincers. Yet there was one who suffered even roore than Lucreti?, though he was never conscious, of giving oue moment's pain to the object of his earliest affection. Daring the winter, every leisure moment which Doctor WilHrd's numerous avocations allowed him, was spent in COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 143 Miss Oaborne's sick chamber ; and every tone, every look of his went to her heart with a thrilling expression, which seemed to say, " Would I could die for thee ! Oh ! would tc God I could die for thee !" Thus pillowed on the arm of Friendship, and watched over by the eye of Love, Grace languidly awaited the re- turn of spring ; and, when May did arrive, wasted as she was, she seemed to enjoy its pure breath and sunny smile. Alas ! that the month, which dances around the flowery earth with such mirthful step and beaming glance, should call so many victims f consumption to their last home ! Towards the close of this delightful season, the invalid, bolstered in her chair, and surrounded by her affectionate family, was seated at the window, watching the declining sun. There was deep silence for a long while ; as if her friends feared that a breath might scare the flitting soul from its earthly habitation. Henry and Lucretia sat on either side, pressing her hands in mournful tenderness ; Doctor Willard leaned over her chair and looked up to the unclouded sky, as if he reproached it for mocking him with brightness ; and her father watched the hectic flush upon her cheek with the firmness of Abraham, when he offered his only son upon the altar. Oh ! how would the heart of that aged sufferer have rejoiced within him, could he too have exchanged the victim ! She had asked Lucretia to place Somerville's rose on the window beside her. One solitary blossom was on it ; and she reached forth her weak hand to pluck it ; but Its leaves scattered beneath her trembling touch. She looked up to Lucretia with an expression, which her friend could never forget, and one cold tear slowly glided down her pallid cheek. Gently as a mother kisses her sleeping babe, Doctor Willard brushed it away ; and, turning hastily to conceal his quivering lip, he clasped Henry's hand with convulsive energy as he whispered, " Oh ! God of mer- cies, how willingly would I have wiped away all tears from her eyes 7 ' There is something peculiarly impressive in manly grief. The eye of w>man overflows as readily as her heart ; but when waters gush from the rock, we feel that they are extorted by no gentle blow 144 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The invalid looked at him with affectionate regret, as if she thought it a crime not to love such endearing kindness; and every one present made a powerful effort to suppress painful, suffocating emotion. Lucretia had a bunch of pur- ple violets fastened in her girdle, and with a forced smile she placed them in the hands of her dying friend. She looked at them a moment with a sort of abstracted atten- tion, and an expression strangely unearthly, as she said, " I have thought that wild flowers might be the alphabet of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields myste- rious truths, which it is not given our fallen nature to un- derstand. What think you, dear father ?" " I think, my beloved child, that the truths we do com- prehend are enough to support us through all our trials." The confidence of the Christian was strong within him, when he spoke ; but he looked on his dying daughter, thv only image of a wife dearly beloved, and nature prevail- ed. He covered his eyes, and shook his white hairs mourn- fully, as he added, " God in his mercy grant, that we may find them sufficient in this dreadful struggle." All was again still, still, in that chamber of death. The bird* sung as sweetly as if there was no such thing as discord in the habitations of man ; and the blue sky was as bright as if earth were a stranger to ruin, and the human soul knew not of desolation. Twilight advanced, unmindful that weeping eyes watched her majestic and varied beauty. The silvery clouds, that composed her train, were fast sink- ing into a gorgeous column of gold and purple. It seemed as if celestial spirits were hovering around their mighty pavilion of light, and pressing the verge of the horizon with their glittering sandals. Amid the rich variegated heaps of vapour, was one spot of clear bright cerulean. The deeply coloured and heavy masses that surrounded it, gave it the effect of distai, royal family, for aught I know, for they are all stout gen- tlemen !" The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair, for I did not hear him move. In the mean time, as p (lie day advanced, the travellers' room began to be frequent- ed. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in box-coats ; others came home, who had been dispersed about the town. Some took their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There were two, especially, who were regular wags of the road, and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. They had a thousand sly things to say to the waiting maid, whom they called Louisa and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however, had become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now to be diverted from the scent. The evening gradually wore away ; the travellers read the papers two or three times over; some drew round the fire, and told long stories about their horses, about their ad- ventures, their overturns and breakings down. They dis- cussed the credit of different merchants and different inns. And the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids and landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of lirandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind, after which they, one after .vnother, rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walke/. off to bed in old shoes cut down into marrellously uncom- fortable slippers. There was only one man left -a short- legged, long-bodied plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of port-wine negus and a spoon ; sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep, hut upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him ; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black, and 160 COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. tabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that re- mained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats of the travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drippings of the rain, drop drop drop, from the eaves of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. All at once the stout gentleman began to walk over head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was something ex- tremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of nerves, these ghastly great-coats, these guttural breath ings, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious gentle- man. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up to the desperation of a hero of romance. " Be he who or what he may," said I to myself, " I'll have a sight of him !" I seized a chamber-candle, and hurried up to No 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated, 1 entered. The -oom was deserted. There stood a large broad-bottomed elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler, and a Times newspaper ; and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. The mysterious stranger had evidently just retired. I turne-d off, sorely disappointed, to my room, which had been changed to the front of the house. As 1 went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber. They doubtless belonged to the unknown ; but it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a person in his den. He miffht discharge a pistol, or something worse, at my head. I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in a terribly nervous state, and, even when I fell asleep, I was still haunted by the idea of the stout gentleman ami his wax-topped boots. I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by some stir or bustle in the house, which I could not at first comprehend ; until, getting more awake, I found there was a mail coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry from below, " The gentleman has forgottei. his umoreJia. look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13!" I heard an immediate scampering of a chambermaid aling COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 16 die passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, " Here it is here's the gentleman's umbrella !" The mysterious stran- ger was, then, on the point of setting off. . This was the only chance I could ever have of knowing him. I sprang out 01 bed, scrambled to the window, snatched aside the curtains, and just caught a glimpse at the rear of a person, getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat parted behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed "All right !" was the word, the coach whirled off, and that was all I ever saw of the stout gentleman. Patriotism and Eloquence of John Adams. WEBSTER HE possessed a bold spirit, which disregarded danger, and a sanguine reliance on the goodness of the cause and the virtues of the people, which led him to overlook all obstacles. His character,, too, had been formed in troubled times- He had been rocked in the early storms of the con- troversy, and had acquired a decision and a hardihood, proportioned to the severity of the discipline which he had undergone. He not only loved the American cause devoutly, but; had studied and understood it. He had tried his powers, , on the questions which it involved, often, and in various . ways ; and had brought to their consideration wha*ever. of argument or illustration the history of his own country, the history of England, or the stores of ancient or of legal > learning could furnish. Every grievance enumerated in , the long catalogue of the Declaration, had been the sub- ; e :t of his discussion, and the object of his remonstrance and reprobation. From 1760, the colonies, the rights of' the colonies, the liberties of the colonies, and the wrongs . inflicted on the colonies, had engaged his constant atten- tion ; and it has surprised those, who have had the oppor- . tunity of observing, with what full remembrance, and with . what prompt recollection, he could refer, in his extreme old age, to every act of parliament affecting the colonies, distinguishing and stating their respective titles, section! 14 162 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. and provisions ; and to all the colonial memorials, strances and petitions, with whatever else belonged to tha intimate and exact history of the times, from that year to 1775. It was, in his own judgment, between these years, that the American people came to a full understanding and thorough knowledge of their rights, and to a fixed res- olution of maintaining them ; and, bearing himself an ac- tive part in all important transactions, the controversy with England being then, in effect, the business of his life, facts, dates and particulars made an impression which was never effaced. H., vus prepared, therefore, by education and discipline, as well as by natural talent and natural temper- amen% for the part which he was now to act. The eloquence of Mr. Adams resembled his general character, and formed, indeed, a part of it. It was bold, manly and energetic ; and such the crisis required. When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous oc- casions, when great interests are at stake, and strong pas- sions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labour and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense ex- pression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native ftrce. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- ments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis- gust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the de- cision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is elo- quent ; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear concep- tion, out-running the deductions of logic, the high mrpos, COMMON PLACE BOOK ')F PROSE. 163 the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking ou the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object this, this is eloquence ; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. In July, 1776, the controversy had pased the stage of argument. An appeal had been made to force, and oppos- ing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to de- ride whether the tie, which had so long bound us to the parent State, was to be severed at once, and severed forever. All the colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this decision, and the people looked for it with the most intense anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never were men called to a more important political deliberation. If we contemplate it from the point where they then stood, no question could be more full of interest; if we look at it now, and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears in still greater magnitude. Let us, then, bring before us the assembly, which was about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. Let us open their doors, and look in upon their deliberations Let us stirvey the anxious and care-worn countenances, let us hear th* firm-toned voices, of this band of patriots. Hancock presides ovr the solemn sitting ; and one of those not yet prepared to pronounce for absolute indepen- dence, is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissent- ing from the Declaration. It was for Mr. Adams to reply to tgumeius like these. We know his opinions, and we know his character. H would commence with his accustomed directness and ear- nestness. " Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand, and my heart, to this vote. It is true, indeed, that, in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But there's n Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms ; and, bl'nded to her own interest, fqr our good, she has obstinately persisted, all in- lependence is now witbiii our grasp. We have but it 164 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. reach forth to it, aii.l it is ours. Why then should we dfl fer the Declaration ? Is any man so weak as now to hoj> for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave eitler safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life, and his own honour ? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our vererable colleague near you, are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects &. punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we pc-t- pone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up the war ? Do we mean to submit to the measures of par- liament, Boston port-bill and all ? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust ? I know we do not mean to subnut. We never shall sub- mit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honour to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political haz- ards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink :t, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces, raised or to be raised, for defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cun"- ning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver, in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. Aid if the war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of In- dependence ' That measure will strengthen us.. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do Thile we acknowledge our- selves subjects, in arms against our sovereign. Nay, J maintain tnat England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduce towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 163 Her pride will be less wounded, by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence, *.han by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of lor- tune ; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not, as soon as possible, change this from a civil to a national war ? And, since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state tu enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory ? " If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire inde- pendence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solen.t vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of hon- our. Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, re- solved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the pub- lic halls ; proclaim it there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. " Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see ciearly, through this day's business. You and I indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colonists ; die, slaves ; die, ft may be, ignominiously, and on the scaffold Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure 166 COMMON-PLACE ft\)OK OF PROSE. of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready, at the appointed hoif of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a coun try, and that a free country. '* But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, ar,d it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- pensalfe for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honour it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires and illuminations. On its annual return they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection ami slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, 01 gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that 1 have, and all that I am. and all that I hope in this life, I am pow ready here ic stake upon it; and I leave off, as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my liv- ing sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment independence now ; and INDEPEN- DENCE FOREVER!" Description of the Speedwell Mine in England SJLLIMAN WE entered a wooden door, placed in the side of a hill rtiid descended one hundred and six stone steps, laid like those of a set of ce41ar stairs. The passage was regularly arched with brick, and was in all respects convenient. Having reached the bottom of the steps, we found a handsome vaulted passage cut through solid limestone. The light of our candles discovered that it extended hori- zontally into the mountain, and its floor was covered with an unruffled expanse of water, four feet deep. The entrance of this passage was perfectly similar in form to the mo'i.'b COMMON-PLACE BMOK. OF I'ROSE. 167 of a common oven, only it was much larger. Its breadth, by my estimation, was about five feet at the water's sur- face, and its height four or five feet, reckoning r rono the same place. Oa this unexpected, and to me, at that moment, incott< prehensible canal, we found launched a large, cl^an and convenient boat. We embarked, and pulled ourselves along, hy taking hold of wooden pegs, fixed for that purpose in the wal!s. Our progress was through a passage wholly artificial, it having been all blasted and hewn out of the solid rock. You will readily believe that this adventure was a delight- ful recreation. 1 never felt more forcibly the power of contrast. Instead of crawling through a narrow, dirty pas- sage, we were now pleasantly embarked, and were push- ing along into I knew not what solitary regions of this rude earth, over an expanse as serene as summer seas. We had not the odours nor the silken sails of Cleopatra's barge, but we excelled her in melody of sound, and distinctness of echo ; for, when, in the gayety of my spirits, I began to sing, the boatman soon gave me to understand that no one should sing in his mountain, without his permission ; and, before I had uttered three notes, he broke forth in such a strain, that I was contented to listen, and yield the palm without a contest. His voice, which was strong, clear and melodious, made all those silent regions ring ; the long, vaulted passage augmented the effect ; echo answered with great distinct- ness, and had the genii of the mountain been there, they would doubtless have taker passage with us, and hearken- ed to the song. In the mean time we began to hear the sound of a distant water-fall, which grew louder and loud- er, as we advanced under the mountain, till it increased to such a roaring noise that the boatman could no longer be heard. In this manner we went on, a quarter of a mile, till we arrived in a vast cavern formed there by nature. The miners, as they were blasting the rocks, .t the time when they were forming the vaulted passage, accidentally opened their way into this cavern. Here I discovered how the canal was supplied with water ; I found that it com- municated with a river running through the casern *f 168 COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. right angles with the arched passage, and falling down t precipice twenty-five feet into a dark abyss. After crossing the river, the arched way is continued a quarter of a mile farther, on the other side, making in the whole haif a mile from the entrance. The end of the *rch is six hundred i'eet below the summit of the moun- tain. When it is considered that all this was effected by Ciere dint of hewing and blasting, it must be pronounced a stupendous performance. It took eleven years of con- stant labour to effect it. In the mean time the fortune of the adventurer was consumed, without any discovery of ore, except a very little lead, and, to this day, this great work remains only a wonderful monument of human la- bour and perseverance. During the whole period of five years that they contin- ued this work, after they crossed the cavern, they threw the rubbish into the abyss, and it has not sensibly filled it up They have contrived to increase the effect of the cataract by fixing a gate along the ledge of rocks over which the river falls. This gate is raised by a lever, and then the whole mass of water in the vaulted passage, as well as that in the river, presses forward towards the cataract. I ascend- ed a ladder made by pieces of timber fixed in the sides of the cavern, and, with the aid of a candle elevated on a pole, I could discover no top ; my guide assured me that none had been found, although they had ascended very high. This cavern is, without exception, the most grand and sol- emn place that I have ever seen. When you view me as in the centre of a mountain, in the midst of a void, where the regularity of the walls looks like some vast rotunda ; when you think of a river^as flowing across the bottom of this cavern, and falling abruptly into a profound abyss, with the stunning noise of a cataract ; when you imagine, that, by the light of a fire-work of gun-powder, played off on purpose to render this darkness visible, the foam of the cataract is illuminated even down to the surface of the water in the abyss, and the rays emitted by the livid ola/e of this preparation are reflected along the dripping walla ol the cavern till they are lost in the darker regions above, you will not wonder that such a scene skould seize oa my I COMOk .'N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 169 wholj soul, and fill me with awe and astonishment, caus- ing me to exclaim, as I involuntarily did, Marvellous art tky works, Lord God Almighty ! After ascending from the navigation mine, I attempted to go up the front of one of the mountains, with (he double purpose of obtaining a view of the valley from an elevated point, and cf reaching the ancient castld But my labour proved fruitless ; the mountain, which iroui the valley leemed not difficult to ascend, proved to be exceedingly steep. I toiled on, two thirds of the way up, has only to read a respectable newspaper, and he may Informed of the discoveries in the arts, the disci". ..... ^ IS 170 COMMON ,-LACE BOOK OF PKOSE. ihe secitcs, and the bearings of public opinion all ovei the world. The reasons el' all this may chiefly be found in that in- creased desire of information, which characterizes the maai of society in the present age Intelligence of every kiwi, and spec. illy political information, has become an article of profit ; a.jd when once this is the case, there can be no doubt that it will be abundantly supplied. Besides this, it it important .0 remark, that the art of navigation has been wiihm a few years materially improved, and commercia 1 relations have become vastly more extensive. The estab- lishment of packet ships between the two continents h^.g brought London and Paris as near to us as Pittsburgh sad New Orleans. There is every reason to believe, that, Within the next half century, steam navigation will render communication between the ports of Europe and America as frequent, and almost aj regular, as that by ordinary mails. The commercial bouses of every nation are estab- lishing tliir agencies in the principal cities of every other nation, and thus binding together '.he people by every tie of interest ; while at the same time they are furnishing innumerable channels, by which information may be cir- culated among every class hi he community. Hence it is, that the r&iral inSuence which nations are exerting upon each crtbsr, is greater than it has been at any antecedent per^vd in the history of the world. The institutions of our country are be:,om/a known, almost of necessity, to very other country. Knowledge provokes ta comparison, and comparison .eads to isflection. The Cact that others are happier thz.n themselves yrompts men ino.ure whence this difference proceeds, and .how their owv melioration may be accomplished. By simpiy looking ;jio auch make ene- mies of nations. Let the trumpet of alarm be sounded, and its notes are now heard by eve-y nation, whether of Europe or America. Let * voice, borne on the feeblest -teeze, tell that the ngbts of mau are in danger, and it floats over valley aud mountain, across continent and ocean k until it has vibrated on the ear of the remotest dweller in Christendom. Let the arm of oppression be raised to crush the feeblest nation on earth, and there will be heard every 172 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. where, if not the shout of defiance, at least the deep-toned murmur of implacable displeasure. It is the cry of ag- grieved, insulted, much-abused man. It is Human Nature waking in her might fitom the slumber of ages, shaking herself from the dust of antiquated institutions, girding herself for the combat, and going forth conquering and to conquer ; and wo unto the man, wo unto the dynasty j wo unto the party, and wo unto the policy, on whom shall fall *he scath of her blighting indignation. The Love of human Estimation. BUCKMINSTER. Is it true that a passion of such powerful and various operation, as that we have now been considering, is nr where recommended 'n Scripture as a motive of action ? Are we no where referred to the opinion of the world, no where expostulated with from a regard to reputation ? Are there no appeals made by any of the messengers of God's will to our sense of shume, to our pride, to our ambition, to our vanity ? Certain it is that such appeals are at least rarely to be met with. Our Saviour, indeed, seems to have thought it hazardous, in any degree, to encourage a regard to the opinion of the world as a motive to action, because, however advantageous might be its operation in some in- stances, where a higher principle was wanting, still the most casual recommendation of a sentiment so natural, so seducing, and so universal, would have been liable to per- petual misconstruction and abuse. Indeed, no man can read the discourses of our Saviour, or of his apostles, without observing how utterly they are at war with the spirit of self-aggrandizement. Perhaps, however, you may expect, that I should refer you to ex- amples where this temper is clearly censured or punished, What think you, then, of the his'.>ry of Herod Agrippa ' " On a set day," says the historian, " Herod, arrayed in royal apparel, sat upon his throne, and made an oration unto the people. And the people gave a shout, saying, It is the voice of a god, and not of a man. And immediately the uigel of the Lord smote him, because he give not God COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 173 the glory ; and he was eaten of worms, and gave up the ghost." I make no comments on this story. It is too sol eiun. Think only, if such was the punishment of a mau for accepting the idolatrous flattery offered him, can they oe guiltless in the eyes of Heaven, who cannot live but upon the honey of adulation, and whose whole life is but a continual series of contrivances to gain the favour of the multitude, a continual preference of the gloiy of themselves to the glory of their Creator ? Is not this example of the requisitions of the Gospel sufficient ? Read then the dread- ful woes denounced against the Jewish, rulers, not merely because they did not receive our Saviour, nor merely be- cause they were continually meditating his destruction ; but because they did all their works to be seen of men. But as nothing, perhaps, is gained in point of practical improvement, by pushing these principles of indifference to the world to an extreme, or in declaiming indiscrimi nately against any prevailing sentiment of extensive influ- ence, before we consider the restrictions under which the love of fame should be laid in the mind of a Christian, we will, as we proposed, endeavour to ascertain, and candidly to allow, all those advantages, which may result from this regard to the opinion of others, when more pure and evan- gelical motives are either wanting or not sufficiently es- tablished. Here, then, we will allow, that much of the real as well as fictitious excellence, which has adorned the world, may be traced, in some degree, to the principle of emulation. We allow, that it calls forth the energies of the young mind ; that it matures in our colleges and schools some of the earliest products of youthful capacity ; and that it of- fers incalculable aid to the lessons and to the discipline of instructors. When we look at our libraries, we can hard- ly find a volume, which does not, in a measure, owe its appearance to the love of fame. When we gaze on the ruins of ancient magnificence, or the' rare remains of an- cient skill, we are obliged to confess, that we owe these to the influence of emulation. Nay, more, when we read th lives of great men, and are lost in wonder at their aston ishing intellectual supremacy, we are compelled to K- knowledge, that for thin we are partly indebted to the love 15 17-i COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. of fame. We acknowledge, also, that it often supplies suc- cessfully the place of nobler motives ; and that, notwith- standing the evils which grow out of its abuse, the world would suffer from its utter extinction. For the weight of public opinion is sometimes thrown into the scale of truth. We know that the popular sentiment will sometimes con- trol the tyranny of the powerful, and counteract the influ- ence of wealth ; that it restrains sometimes tb . madness of lust, and sometimes the cunning of malevolence. We are also sensible, that the influence of a regard to reputa- tion is often favourable to the improvement of social inter- course. To a deference to the world's opinion, and to a love of its good will, are we to attribute much of that po- liteness and propriety, which are discoverable in manners, and much of that courtesy, which, by habitual observance, sheds perhaps, at length, a favourable influence on the dispo- sition. It is this, which brings down the haughty to con- descension, and softens the rough into gentleness. It is this which sometimes checks the offensiveness of vanity, and moderates the excess of selfishness. It causes thou- sands to appear kind, who would otherwise be rude, and honourable, who would otherwise be base. These genial effects upon the intercourse of society are sufficient to induce us to retain the love of human estima- tion in the number of lawful motives. It was probably a viewof some of these influences partially supplying the place of real benevolence, which induced the apostle sometimes to recommend a regard to human opinion. He advises the Roman converts to " provide things honourable in the eyes of all men." To the Philippians, after recommending all things honest, just, pure, and lovely, he ventures also to add " whatsoever things are of good report." Nay, more; he says not only, " if there be any virtue," but " if there be any praise, think on these things." We believe this is the most decisive testimony of approbation, which cm be gathered from the Scripture. We will add, also, in favour of the useful operation of this universal passion, that il perhaps cannot be completely engaged, like all the other passions, on the side of vice. For the highest degree of moral depravity is consistent only with an utter insensi- bility to the opinion of the world ; and we are willing to COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 174 o*Ueve, also, that, were it net for this, the form and pro- fession of Christianity would be more frequently outraged than it now is, by those who secretly detest it. And now, after all these acknowledgments, what new merit is conceded to our favourite passion ? After it has ilone its utmost, it can only quicken the energies of the mind, restrain sometimes the other passions, afford occa- sional aid to the cause of order and propriety, soften some oi the asperities of social intercourse, and perhaps keep the sinner from open and hardened profligacy. But it cannot purify the affections, melt the hardness of the heart, and break its selfishness, or elevate its desires to the region of purity and peace. We have seen that this regard to human estimation, though a principle of universal, I had almost said of infi- nite influence, is confined to very narrow limits in the Gospel of Christ. Is there nothing, then, provided to sup- ply the place of so powerful an agent in the formation of the human character ? Is there nothing left to awaken the ambition of the Christian, to rouse him from sloth and universal indifference, to call forth the energies of his mind, and to urge him forward in the career of holiness ? Yes ; if we will listen to the language of an apostle, whose history proclaims that his passions were not asleep, that his emulation was not quenched by the profession of Christi- anity, and whose spirit ever glowed with a most divine enthusiasm, I say, if we listen to him, we shall find that there is enough to stimulate all the faculties of the soul, ond, finally, to satiate the most burning thirst of glory. Yes, " eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him." Yes, our whole progress here, through all the varieties of honour and of dishoncur, of evil report and of good report, is a spectacle to angels and to men. We are coming into " an innumerable company of angels, and to the spirits of the just made per- fect, and to Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant, and to God, the Judge of all." These have been the spectators of our course, and from such we are to receive glory, and honour, and immortality. 176 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Extract from an Address on retiring from the pullit Service of the United States of America. WASH- INGTON. IN looking forward to the moment which is intended to terminate the career of my public life, my feelings do not permit me to suspend the deep acknowledgment of that debt of gratitude which I owe to my beloved country, foi the many honours it has conferred upon me ; still more foi the steadfast confidence with which it has supported me ; and for the opportunities I have thence enjoyed of mani- festing my inviolable attachment, by services faithful and persevering, though in usefulness unequal to my zeal If benefits have resulted to our country from these services, let it always be remembered to your praise, as an instructive example in our annals, that, under circumstances in which the passions, agitated in every direction, were liable to mislead, amidst appearances somewhat dubious, vicissitudes of fortune often discouraging, in situations in which not unfrequently want of success has countenanced the spirit of criticism, the constancy of your support was the essen- tial prop of the efforts, and a guarantee of the plans, by which they were effected. Profoundly penetrated with this idea, I slfall carry it with me to my grave, as a strong incitement to uifceasing prayers, that Heaven may continue to you the choicest tokens of its beneficence ; that your union and brotherly affection may be perpetual ; that the free constitution, which is the work of your hands, may be sacredly maintained , that its administration, in every department, may be stamped with wisdom and virtue ; that, in fine, the happiness of the people of these States, under the auspices of liberty, may be made complete, by so care- ful a preservation, and so prudent a use, of this blessing, as will acquire to them the glory of recommending it to the applause, the affection, and adoption, of every nation whkh is yet a stranger to it. Here, perhaps I ought to stop. But a solicitude foi your welfare, which cannot end but with my life, and the tpprehension of danger, natu al to that solicitude, urge me. vOMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 171 MI ac. occasion like the present, to offer to your solemn, contemplation, and to recommend to your frequent review,, some sentiments, which are the result of much reflection, of no inconsiderable observation, and which appear to rae all-important to the permanence of your felicity as a peo- f le. Thsse will be olFered to you with the more freedom, as you can only see in them the disinterested warnings of a partuig friend, who can possibly have no motive to biaa his counsel. Nor can 1 forget, as an encouragement to it, your indulgent reception of my sentiments on a former,, and not dissimilar occasion. Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports In vain would that man claim the tribute of patriotism, who should labour to subvert these great pillars of human happiness these firmest props of the duties of men and citizens. The mere politician, equally with the pious man, ought to respect and to cherish them. A volume could not trace all their connexions with private and public felicity. Let it simply be asked, where is the security for property, for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation desert the oaths, which are the instruments of investiga- tion in courts of justice ? And let us with caution indulge the supposition, that morality can be maintained without religion. Whatever may be conceded to the influence of refined education on minds of peculiar structure, reason nd experience both forbid us to expect that national m >rality can prevail in exclusion of religious principles. It is substantially true, that virtue or morality is a ne- cessary spring of popular government. The rule, indeed, extends with more or less force to every species of free government. Who, that is a sincere friend to it, can look with indifference upon attempts to shake the foundation of the fabric ? Promote, then, as an object of primary importance, institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge. ID proportion as the structure of a government gives force i public opinion, it is essential that public opinion should b enlightened. 178 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF 1'ROSE. Observe good faith and justice towards all nations; co* tivate peace and harmony with all ; religion and morality enjoin this conduct; and cai it be that good policy does no! equally enjoin it ? It will be worthy of a free, enlight- ened, and, at no distant period, a great nation, to give to mankind the magnanimous and too novel example of a peo- ple always guided by an exalted justice and benevolence Who can doubt, that, in the course of time and things, the fruits of such a plaa would richly repay any temporary advantages which might be lost by a steady adherence tc it ? Can it be, that Providence has not connected the per- manent felicity of a nation with its virtue ': The experi- ment, at least, is recommended by every sentiment which ennobles human nature Alas ! i* it rendered imoossible by its vices ? In offering to you, my countrymen, these counsels of an old and affectionate friend, I dare not hope they will make the strong and lasting impression I could wish ; that they will control the usual current of the passions, or prevent our nation from running the course which has hitherto aarked the destiny of empires. But if I may even flatter myself that they may be productive of some partial bene- -fit, some occasional good ; that they may now and then recur, to moderate the fury of party spirit, to warn against the mischiefs of foreign ii.trigue, to guard against the im- . postures of pretended patriotism ; this hope will be a full recdmpense for that solicitude for your welfare, by which they have been dictated. How far, in the discharge of my official duties, I have been guided by the principles which have been delineated, the public records and other evidences of my conduct must witness to you and the world. To myself the assur- ance of my own conscience is, that 1 have at least BELIEVED mysslf to be guided by them. Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that 1 may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert and mitigate COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 17& the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with me the hope, that my country will nevei cease to view mem with indulgence ; and that, after forty -five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest. Relying on its kindness in this, as in other things, and actuated by that fervent love towards it, which is so natu- ral to a man who views in it the native soil of himself and his progenitors for several generations, I anticipate with pleasing expectation that retreat, in which I promise myself to realize, without alloy, the sweet enjoyment of partaking, in the midst of my fellow citizens, the benign influence of good laws under a free government, the ever favourite object of my heart, and the happy reward, as I trust, of our mutual cares, labours, and dangers. Unittd States, September 17 th, 1796. Speech over the Grave of Black Buffaloe, Chief of tht Teton Tribe of Indians. BIG ELK M AHA CHIEF Do not grieve. Misfortunes will happen to the wisest and best men. Death will come, and always comes out of season. It is the command of the Great Spirit, and all nations and people must obey. What has passed, and can- not be prevented, should not be grieved for. Be not discouraged or displeased, then, that, in visiting your father here, you have lost your chief. A misfortune of this kind may never again befall you ; but this would have attended you, perhaps, at your own village. Five times have I visited this land, and never returned with sorrow or pain. Mhfortunes do not flourish particularly in our path. They grow every where. What a misfortune for me, that I :ould not have died this day, instead of the chief that lies before us ! The trifling loss my nation would have sus- tained in my death, would have been ioubly paid for by the honours of my burial. They would have wiped off every thing like regret. Instead of being covered with a cloud of sorrow, my warriors would have felt fhe sunshiny 180 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. f joy in their hearts. To me it would have been a mo* glorious occurrence. Hereafter, when I die at home, instead of a noble grave and a grand procession the rolling music and the thundering cannon with a flag waving at my head, I shall be wrapt in a robe an old robe per- haps and hoisted on a slender scaffold to the whistling winds, soon to be blown to the earth my flesh to be de- voured by the wolves, and my bones rattled on the plain by the wild beasts. Chief of the soldiers* your labours have not been in vain. Your attention shall not be forgotten. My nation shall know the respect that is paid over the dead. When 1 return I will echo the sound of your guns. Speech of HO-NA-YU-WUS, or FARMER'S BROTHER. THE sachems, chiefs, and warriors of the Seneca nation to the sachems and chiefs assembled about the great council-fire of the state of New York. Brothers As you are once more assembled in council for the purpose of doing honour to yourselves and justice to your country, we, your brothers, the sachems, chiefs, and warriors of the Seneca nation, request you to open your ears, and give attention to our voice and wishes. Brothers You will recollect the late contest between you and your father, the great king of England. This contest threw the inhabitants of this whole island into a great tumult and commotion, like a raging whirlwind, which tears up the trees, and tosses to and fro the leaves, so that no one knows from whence they come, or when they will fall. Brothers This whirlwind was so directed by the Great Spirit above, as to throw into our arms two of your infant children, Jasper Parrish and Horatio Jones. We adopted them into our families, and made them our children. We loved them and nourished them. They lived with ui many years. At length the Great Spirit spoke to the Colonel Miller. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 181 whirlwind and it was still.* A clear and uninterrupted sky appeared. The path of peace was opened, ta lufierings of a great period of political revolution f=--- - COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 185 1817, he has been twicj elected to the chamber of depu- ties, and in all his votes has shown himself constant to hu ancient principles. When the ministry proposed to estab- lish a censorship of the press, he resisted them in an able .-peech ; but Lafayette was never a factious man, and therefore he has never made any further opposition to the present order of things 'n France, than his conscience and nis official place required. That he does not approve the present constitution of the monarchy, or the political prin- ciples and management of the existing government, his votes as a deputy, and his whole life, plainly show ; and that his steady and temperate opposition is matter of serious anxiety to the family now on the throne is apparent, from their conduct towards him during the last nine years, and their management of the public press since he has been in this country. If he chose to make himself a tribune of the people, he might at any moment become formidable ; but he trusts rather to the progress of general intelligence and political wisdom throughout the nation, which he feels sure will at last bring his oountry to the practically fret government, he has always been ready to sacrifice hi? life to purchase for it. To this great result he looks forward, as Madame de Stael has well said of him, with the entire confidence a pious man enjoys in a future life ; but when he feels anxious and impatient to hasten onward to it, he finds a wisdom tempered by long experience stirring within him, which warns him, in the beautiful language of Mil- tan, that " they also serve, who only stand and wait " Extract from "Hyperion."* JOSIAH QUINCY, JUN WHEN 1 reflect on the exalted character of the antieut Br'tons, on the fortitude of our illustrious prede- * The firs part of this extract was published in the Boston Gazette m September, 1767, on receiving information of threatening import front England ; the remainder appeared in October, 1768, when British troops had landed in Boston, and taken possession ot *\meuil Hall under circumstances intended to inspire the p*'- Vj alarm an . terror. ED. ie * i86 COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. eessors, on the noble struggles of the late merucrabli period, and from these reflections, when, by a natural transition, 1 contemplate the gloomy aspect of the present day, my heart is alternately torn with doubt and hope, despondency and terror. Can the true, generous magna- nimity of British heroes be entirely lost in their degene- rate progeny ? Is the genius of liberty, which so late inflamed our bosoms, fled forever ? An attentive observer of the deportment of some partic- ular persons in this metropolis would be apt to imagine, that the gra id point was gained ; that the spirit of the people was entirely broken to the yoke ; that all America was subjugated to bondage. Already the minions of power in fancy fatten and grow wanton on the spoils of the land. They insolently toss the head, and put on the air of con- temptuous disdain. In the imaginary possession of lord- ships and dominions, these potentates and powers dare tell us, that our only hope is to crouch, to cower under, and to kiss, the iron rod of oppression. Precious sample of the .neek and lowly temper of those who are destined to be our lords and masters ! Be not deceived, my countrymen. Believe not these venal hirelings, when they would cajole you by their sub- tilties into submission, or frighten you by their vapourings into compliance. When they strive to flatter you by the terms " nuxleration and prudence," tell them that calmness and deliberation are to guide the judgment ; courage and intrepidity command the action. When they endeavour to make us "perceive our inability to oppose our mother country," let us boldly answer ; In defence of our civil and religious rights, we dare oppose the world ; with the God of armies on our side, even the God who fought our fathers' battle.', we fear not the hour of trial, though the hosts of our enemies should cover the field like locusts. If this be enthusiasm, we will live and die enthusiasts. Blandishments will. not fascinate us, nor will threats of a " halter" intimidate. For, under God, we are deter mined, that wheresoever, whensoever, or howsoever we hall be called to make our exit, we will die freemen Well do we know that all the regalia of this world cannot dignify the death of a villain, nor diminish the ienominy COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 187 with which a slave shall quit existence. Neither can it taint the unblemished honour of a son ol freedom, though he should make his departure on the already prepared gib- bet, or be dragged to the newly erected scaffold for execu- tion. With the plaudits of his conscience he will go off the stage. A crown of joy and immortality shall be his reward. The history of his life his children shall vene- rate. The virtues of their sire shall excite their emula- tion. If there ever was a time, this is the hour, for America, , to rouse themselves, and exert every ability. Their all is at a hazard, and the die of fate spins doubtful. In vain do we talk of magnanimity and heroism, in vain do we trace a descent from the worthies of the earth, if we inlieiil not the spirit of our ancestors. Who is he that boasteth of his patriotism ? Has he vanquished luxury, and sub- dued the worldly pride of his heart ? 1? he not still drink- ing the poisonous draught, and rolling the sweet morsel under his tongue ? He who cannot conquer the little van- ity of his heart, and deny the delicacy of a debauched palate, let him lay his hand upon his mouth, and his mouti. in the dust. Now is the time for this people to summon every aid, human and divine ; to exhibit every moral virtue, and call forth every Christian grace. The wisdom of the serpent, the innocence of the dove, and the intrepidity of the lion, with the blessing of God, will yet save us from the jaws of destruction.' Where Is the boasted liberty of Englishmen, if property may be disposed of, charters suspended, assemblies dissolv- ed, and every valued right annihilated, at the uncontrol- lable will of an external power : Does not every man, who 'eels one ethereal spark yet glowing in his bosom, find his indignation kindle' at the bare imagination of such wrongs ? Wh?t would be our sentiments were this imagination real- ized. Did the blood- of the ancient Britons swell our veins, did the spirit of our forefathers inhabit our breasts, should we hesittte a moment in preferring death to a miserable 188 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. ence in bondage ? Did we reflect on their toils, theii dangers, their fiery trials, the thought would inspire unconquerable courage. Who has the front to ask, Wherefore do you complain I Who dares assert, that every thing worth living for is not lost, when a nation is enslaved ? Are not pensioners, sti- pendiaries and salary-men, unknown be-iore, hourly multi- plying upon us, to riot in the spoils of miserable America Does not every eastern gale waft us some new insect, even of that devouring kind, which eat up every green thing ? Is not the bread taken out of the children's mcutns and given unto the dogs ? Are not our estates given to corrupt sycophants, without a design, or even a preteuco, of solicit- ing our assent ; and our lives put into the hands of those whose tender mercies are cruelties ? Has not an author- ity in a distant land, in the most public manner, proclaimed a right of disposing of the all of Americans ? In short, what have we to lose ? What have we to fear ? Are not our distresses more than we can bear ? And, to finish all, are not our cities, in a time of profound peace, filled with standing armies, to preclude from us that last solace of the wretched to open their mouths in complaint, and send lorth their cries in bitterness of heart ? But is there no ray of hope ? Is not Great Britain inhabited by the children of those renowned barons, who waded through seas of crimson gore to establish their lib- erty ? and will they not allow us, their fellow-men, (o enjoy that freedom which we claim from nature, which is confirmed by our constitution, and which they pretend so highly to value ? Were a tyrant to conquer us, the chains of slavery, when opposition should become useless, might be supportable ; but to be shackled by Englishmen, by our equals, is not to be borne. By the sweat of our brow we earn the little we possess ; from nature we derive the common rights of man ; and by charter we claim the liberties of Britons. Shall we, dare we, pusillanimously surrender our birthright ? Is the obligation to our fathers discharged ? Is the debt we owe posterity paid ? Answer me, thou coward, who hidest thyself in the hour of trial ; If there is no reward in this life, no prize of glory in the next, capable of anirrating thy dastard sou'l, think and COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 189 tremble, thou miscreant ! at the whips and stripes thy master shall lash thee with on earth, and the flames and scorpions thy second master shall torment thee with here after ! Oh, my countrymen! what will our children say, when they read the history of these times, should they find that we tamely gave away, without one noble struggle, the n.ost invaluable of earthly blessings! As they drag the galling chain, will they not execrate us ? If we have any respect for things sacred, any regard to the dearest treas- ure on earth ; if we have one tender sentiment for poster- ity ; if we would not be despised by the whole world ; let us, in the most open, solemn manner, and with deter- mined fortitude, swear We will die, if we cannot live freemen ! Be not lulled, my countrymen, with vain imaginations or idle fancies. To hope for the protection of Heaven, without doing our duty, and exerting ourselves as becomes men, is to mock the Deity. Wherefore had man his reason, jf it were not to direct him ? wherefore his strength, if ii be not his protection ? To banish folly and luxury, correcl vice and immorality, and stand immoveable in the freedom in which we are free indeed, is eminently the duty of each individual at this day. When this is done, we may ration- ally hope for an answer to our prayers for the whole counsel of God, and the invincible armour of the Almighty. However righteous our cause, we cannot, in this period of the world, expect a miraculous salvation. Heaven will undoubtedly assist us if we act like men ; but to expect protection from above, while we are enervated by luxury, and slothful in the exertion of those abilities, with which we are endued, is an expectation vain and foolish. With ths smiles of Heaven, virtue, unanimity and firmness will ensure success. While we have equity, justice and God on oui side, Tyranny, spiritual or temporal, shall neve! rMe triumph wit in a land inhabited by igiishmeo. 190 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The Sabbath in JVew England." Miss SEDGWICH.. THE observance of the Sabbath began with the Purl tans, as it still does with a great portion of theii descend- ants, on Saturday night. At the going down of the sun on Saturday, all temporal affairs were suspended ; and so zealously did our fathers maintain the letter, as well as the spirit of the law, that, according to a vulgar tradition in Connecticut, no beer was brewed in the latter part of the week, lest it should presume to work on Sunday. It must be confessed, that the tendency of the age is to laxity ; and so rapidly is the wholesome strictness of prim- itive times abating, that, should some antiquary, fifty years hence, in exploring his garret rubbish, chance to cast his eye on our humble pages, he may be surprised to learn, that, even now, the Sabbath is observed, in the interior of New England, with an almost Judaical severity. On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is apparent The great class of procrastinators are hurrying to and fro to complete the lagging business of the week. The good mothers, like Burns' matron, are plying their needles, making " auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;" while the domestics, or help, (we prefer the national descriptive term,) are wielding, with might and main, their brooms and mops, to make all tidy for the Sahba'l. As the day declines, the hum of labour dies away, and, after the sun is set. perfect stillness reigns in every well- ordered household, and not a foot-fall is heard in the village street. It cannot be denied,' that even the most scriptu- ral, missing the excitement of their ordinary occupations, anticipate their usual hed-time. The obvious inference from this fact is skilfully avoided by certain ingenious reasoners, who allege, that the constitution was originally * This description is executed with admirable truth and humour , vet it has, we fear, in these times of disregard to the sacrfdness of the institution, a slight tendency to make the ancient strict observance of he Sabbath appear somewhat ridiculous. It i? not to be regretted, that the austerity and gloom, which pervaded the cliararter of the Puritans, lias entirely disappeared ; but it is to be regretted, tlial so ninth, wh'.ci> was trnly religious, should have lied --tUrnc with if. KB COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 191 so organized, as to require an extra quan Sty of sleep on every seventh night. We recommend it to the curious ta inquire, how this peculiarity was adjusted, when the first day of the week was changed from Saturday to Sunday. The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the first hallowed day. Not a human sound is heard without the dwellings, an 1, but for the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the cocks, and the gossiping of the birds, animal life would seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of the church-going bell, the old and young issue from their habitations, and, with solemn demeanor, bend their measured steps to the tnetting-house ; the families of the minister, the squire, the doctor, the merchants, the modest gentry of the vil- lage, and the mechanic and labourer, all arraytJ in their best, all meeting on even ground, and all with that consciousness of independence and equality, which breaks down the pride of the rich, and rescues the poor from ser- vility, envy, and discontent. If a morning salutation is reciprocated, it is in a suppressed voice ; and if, perchance, nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter ' My dear, you forget it's Sunday," is the ever ready i proof. Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet we once chanced to see even a deacon's muscles relaxed by the wit of a neighbour, and heard him allege, in a half-depre- cating, half-laughing voice, " The squire is so droll, that a body must laugh, though it be Sabbath-day." The farmer's ample wagon, and the little one-horse vehicle, bring in all who reside at an inconvenient walk- ing distance, that is to say, in our riding community, half a mile from the church. It is a pleasing sight, to those who love to note the happy peculiarities of their own land, to see the farmers' daughters, blooming, intelligent, well- bred, pouring out of these homely coaches, with their nice white gowns, prunel shoes, Leghorn hats, fans and para- sols, and the spruce young men, with their plaited ruffles, blue coats, and yellow buttons. The whole community meet as one religious family, to offer their devotions at the common altar. If there is an outlaw from the society, A luckless wight, whose vagrant taste has never been sub dued, he may be seen stealing along the margin of sonw 192 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. ittle brook, far away from the condemning observatio ind troublesome admonitions of his fellows. Towards the close of the day, or (to borrow a phrase de- scriptive of his feelings, who first used it) " when the Sab bath begins to abate," the children cluster about the win- dows. Their eyes wander from their catechisms to th western sky, and, though it seems to them as if the sur would never disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink be- hind the mountain ; and, while his last ray still lingers on the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, and the ground resounds with bounding footsteps. The village belle arrays herself for her twilight walk ; the boys gather on " the green ;" the lads and girls throng to the " singing school ;" while some coy maiden li?igers at home, awaiting her expected suitor ; and all enter upon the pleasures of the evening with as keen a relish as if the day had been a preparatory penance. Description of the Capture of a Whale. COOPER. THE cockswain cast a cool glance at the crests of foam that were breaking over the tops of the billows within a few yards of where their boat was riding, and called aloud to his men " Pull a stroke or two ; away with her into dark water." The drop of the oars resembled the movements of a nice machine, and the light boat skimmed along the water like a duck, that approaches to the very brink of some imminent danger, and then avoids it at the most critical moment, ap- parently without an effort. While this neces3ary move- ment was making, Barnstable arose, and surveyed the cliffa with keen eyes, and then, turning once more in disappoint- ment from his search, he said " Pull more from the land, and let lu;r run down, at an easy stroke, to the schooner. Keep a uokout at the cliffs, boys ; it is possible that they are stowed in some of the holes in the rocks, for it's no daylight business the) arc on." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIKiSK. 193. The order w*s promptly obeyed, and they had glided 1 along for near a mile in this manner, in the most profound silence, when suddenly the stillness was broken by a heavy rush of air, and a dash of water, seemingly at no great dis- tance from them. " By heaven! Tom," cried Barnstable, starting, "there is the blow of a whale." "Ay, ay, sir," returned the' cockswain, with undis- turbed composure ; " here is his spout, not half a mile to seaward ; the easterly gale has driven the creator to leeward, and he begins to find himself in shoal water. He's been sleeping, while he should have been working to windward !" " The fellow takes it coolly, too ! he's in no hurry to get an offing." " I rather conclude, sir," said the cockswain, rolling over his tobacco in lus mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with pleasure at the sight, " the gentlemaji has lost his reckoning, and don't know which way to head, to take himself baok into blue water." " 'Tis a fin-back !" exclaimed the lieutenant ; " he wil) won make head-way, and be off." " No, sir, 'tis a right whale," answered Tom ; " I saw his spout ; he threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a Christian would wish to look at. He's a raal oil-butt, that fellow "' Barnslable laughed, turn d hi/nself away from the tempt- ing sight, and tried to look at the cliffs ; and then uncon- sciously bent his eyes again on the sluggish animal, who was throwing his huge carcass at times for many feet from the water, in vile gambols. The temptation for sport, and the recollection of his early habits, at length prevailed over his anxiety in behall of his friends, and the young officer inqn.ied of his cockswain " Is there any whale-line in the boat to make fa< to that harpoon which you bear about with you in fair weather or foul ?" " I never trust the boat from the schooner without par of a shot, sir," returned the cockswain ; " there is some- thing nateral in the sight of a tub to my old eyes." 17 194 COMMON-PLACE BOOK IF FRO8E. Barnstable looked at his watch, and again at the cliffs*, when he exclaimed in joyous tones " Give strong way, my hearties ! There seems nothing oetter to be done ; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at tha impudent rascal." The men shouted spontaneously, and the old cockswain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whale-boat sprang; forward like a courser for the goal. During the few minutes they were prlling towards their game, long Tom arose from his crouching attitude in the stern sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows of the boat, where he made such preparaticn to strike the whale as the occasion required. The tub, containing about half of a whale-line, was placed at the feet of Barnstable, who had been preparing an oar to steer with, in place of Ihe rudder, which was unshipped in order that, if neces- sary, the boat might be whirled round when not ad- vancing. Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throw- ing the water in two circular spouts high into the air, oc- casionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with grace- ful but terrific force, until the hardy seamen were within a few hundred feet of him, when he suddenly cast his head downwards, and, without an apparent effort, reared his im- mense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded tike the rushing of winds. The cockswain stood erect, poising his harpoon, ready for the blow ; but, when he beheld the creature assume this formidable attitude, he waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to his men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsmen rested a few moments, while the whale struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which re-echoed along the cliffs, like the hollow reports of so many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his terrib.a strength, the monster sunk again into his native element and slowly disappeared from the eyes of his pursuers. " Which way did he head, Tom ?" cried Barnstable, tbi moment the whale was out of sight. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 195 " Pretty much up and down, sir," returned the cock- swum, wliose eye was gradually brightening with the ex> citciiieut of the sport; "he'll soon run his nose against the bottom, if he stands long on that course, and will be glad to get another snutf of pure air ; send her a few fath- oms to starboard, sir, arid I promise we shall not be out of li'n track." The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true, for in a few minutes the water broke near them, and another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal * ashed for half his length in the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that, which i.s produced by the launching of a vessel, for the first time, into its proper element. After this evolution, the whale rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts. His slightest movements were closely watched by Barn- fi.ihle and his cockswain, and, when !ie was in a state of comparative rest, the former gave a signal to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing towards one of the fins, which was at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain poised his harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from him with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their foe. The instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted with singular earnestness " Starn all !" " Stern all !" echoed Barnstable ; when the ooedienl seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward direction, beyond the reach of any blow from their formi- dable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated no such resistance ; ignorant of his own power, and of the insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air with a vi- olence that threw the sea around him into increased com- motion, and then disappeared, with the quickness of light* lung, amid a cloud of foam " Snub him !" shouted Birnstable ; " hold on, Tom ; IM rbes already." 196 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF rROSE. " Ay, ay, sir," replied the composed cockswain, seizing the line which was running out of the boat with a velocity that rendered such a manoeuvre rather hazardous, and caus- ing it to yield more gradually round the large loggerheaa. that was placed in the bows of the boat for that purpose. Presently the line stretched forward, and, rising to the sur- i with tremulous vibrations, it indicated the direction i.i which the animal might be expected to re-appear. Barn- s' .ihle had cast the hows of the boat towards that point, be- fine the terrified and wounded victim rose once more to the .sin lace, whose time was, however, no longer wasted in Ins shorts, but who cast the waters aside as he forced his way, with prodigious velocity, along their surface. The boat wa. dragged violently in his wake, and cut through the billow? with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury the slight fabric in the ocean. \Vheu long Tom beheld hi> victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the deep red of blood, and cried " Ay, I've touched the fellow's life ! It must be more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean !" " I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of vising che bayonet you have rigged for a lance," said his com- mander, who entered into the sport with all the ardour ol one, whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits ; " feel your line, Master Coffin ; can we haul alongside of our enemy ? I like not the course he is steering, as he tows us from the schooner." " 'Tis the creator's way, sir," said the cockswain ; " you know they need the air in their nostrils when they run, the same as a man ; but lay hold, boys, and let us haul up to him " The seamen now seized the' T whale-line, aod slowh drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the fish, whose progress became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak frith the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped run- Ding, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suf- fering the agony of death. " Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom ?" cried Bam table ; " a few <*ets from your bayonet would do it." COMMON-FLACK BOOK OF PROSE. 1 9") The cockswain stood examining his game with coo! dis- cretion, and replied to this interrogatory " No, sir, no he's going into his flurry ; there's no oc- casion for disgr? 'ing ourselves by using a soldier's weapon in taking a wha i. Starn off, sir, starn off! the creater'* in his flurry !" The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leav- ing to the animal a clear sp:ice while under its dying ago- nies. From a state of pertVct rest, the terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in sport, but its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of foam, that was deeply dyed witli blood. The roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd of bulls, and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, it would have appeared as if a thousand monsters were engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the view. Gradually these effects subsided, and, when the dis- coloured water again settted down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yield- ing passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one side, and when the white and glis- tening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved. Lcnce ireorge. CLUB-ROOM " It was a still And calmy bay, on the one side sheltered With the brode shadow of an lioarie lull ; On the other side an high rock toured still." " Waiting to pass, he saw whereas did swim Along the shore, ns swift as clannce of eye, A little gondelay, bedecked trim, With bouehs and arbours woven cunningly, That like a little forest seemed outwardly j And therein sat a lady fresh and faire." FAERIE QUEENB. IF any of my readers have ever visited these transparent waters, and have wound their way among the thousand tittle woody islands which sprinkle their surfac'e from Fort 17' 198 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF i'HUsK. George to the Falls of Ticonderoga, they may have re mar* ed, just beyond Boltoa, at the bottom of a beautiful inlet, or bay, formed by two craggy promontories of the western shore, a small dwelling-house, upon which the lingers of Time seem to have wrought more ruinously than man, iu the pride of his dominion, is accustomed to allow them. It stands lone and desolate. Storms have shattered its roof, and wild shrubs have already sprung up ' dark profusion over its avenues ; while the white-columned portico, which was wont to look so cheering to the eye of the passenger, has put on the damp and mouldering garment of decay. Some years ago business led me to the Canadian frontiei by that route. I travelled alone ki a light wagon. A part of the road, which was extremely rugged, stretched along the bold shore of the lake ; sometimes winding up the craggy side of the mountain, and sometimes running close to the precipice, which, from the height of two or three hundred feet, flung its huge and dusky shadow into the mirror beneath. As I was anxious to reach my inn before night-fall, and blue mists ware already beginning to gather upon the lake, I quickened the pace of my horse whereve r the smoothness cf the road would permit. I had just pass- ed a young foot-traveller, and was turning a sharp corner formed by a rock shelving out of the mountain's side, when my horse started suddenly, and, carrying the wheel of my wagon over a fallen fragment, dashed me to the ground. I fell near the edge of the cliff, where its surface was already considerably inclined. I seized upon a small projection of the rock. It loosened, and gave way under my grasp. I slipped downward, and found not even a bramble within reach, when I felt myself suddenly stayed by 1 knew not what. It was the young man 1 had just passed, who sprang forward, and, not without imminent hazard of fol- lowing me in my fall, caught the skirt of my coat at the instant I was rolling over the brink. Supporting himself by the frail bough of a dwarf-oak which grew a little above, he held me hanging by a thread over " the dark valley of the shadow of death." The fragment which I had loos- ened fell, and the sullen splash of the water which re- ceived it just reached my ear. From that moment I be came insensible. COMMON-PLACE UIHJK ul' PKOSB. 199 On recovery I found myself on a bud. Three or four races were bending over me with expressions of the deep- est concern, uiid a beautiful girl was bathing my temples, i looked her my thinks it was all 1 could. Presently the door opened, anc a voice anxiously asked " How is he ? will he live :" " Hush !" she replied, in a low whis- per, " He is well enough to hear you." It was my young preserver, who entered, and brought with him the doctor of the neighbouring village. It were tedious to detail all the symptoms of inward injury, and prognostics of impend- ing fever, which were found about me by this rustic sou of /Esculapius. Let it suffice that my limbs were pro- nounced unbroken, though badly bruised that 1 submit- ted quietly to remedies, which I had not strength to resist in short, that I was well enough in a few days, in spite of all circumstance of delay, to enjoy the society of the kind friends who attended me, and the beauties of their romantic residence. The name of my host was Burton a robust and well- looking man, just entering life's downward path. He was by birth an Englishman, and had been a soldier in his youth served in America during our revolutionary war was taken prisoner, with many of his countrymen, at Ti- conderoga fell in love with a young woman in that neigh- bourhood, whom he married soon after the declaration of peace and, having acquired a competent fortune in mer- chandise, hastened to indulge an Englishman's taste for rural pursuits in this delightful spot. Mary Burton, his only daughter, was a beautiful girl just turned of eighteen ; adorned with all the sensibilities of her sex ; and, if she wanted the accomplishments of a fine lady, she had that, which more than compensates for them all uniform simplicity and gayety of heart. It was she whoir I first discovered among the group standing about me, watching with tender anxiety the earliest symptoms of returning life But my readers would perhaps know something of my youthful preserver. He was not of the Burton family, though constantly with them. His name was Arthur Mur- ray. Of good parentage and liberal attainments, a boyisfr romance first led him to that neighbourhood ; for his cou 00 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Uuuance there, you have perhaps already guessed thai something might be attributed to the charms of Mary Bui ton. The old folks looked with pleasure on the growing attachment between them, and had recently granted a glad consent to their union. The only other inmates of the parlour were two rosy- cheeked hoys, many years younger, yet constant compan- ions of the kind-hearted Arthur. Nor let me exclude from the family roll, Rover, the large Newfoundland dog, who was allowed to participate in most of the family pleasures. It was an uncommonly happy circle. Separated from the rest of mankind unsullied by the cold, selfish pleasures of the city the absorbing cares of avarice and pride home was their world ; they indulged not a wish beyond " the happy valley," but lived peaceful and contented, with all the sympathies of life wrapped up in the little compass of a few loving hearts. If this be seclusion, who would exchange it for the refined vanities of fashion the turmoils of interest and ambition the modish sensibilities which wear the semblance of feeling, and obliterate the feeling itself! And then the scenery about them was so exquisitely touching ! In the freshness of the dawn, 1 used to delight, with Rover only by my s : de, to climb the neighbouring hill, and catch the first ruudy tint that gleamed upon the lake and at noon to stretch myself in some shady recess, and watch the white sail, now lost behind the bold head- land, now gliding among the trees, and now cutting the clear expanse of water or, in the stillness of night, broken only by the moan of the sad whip-poor-will, and the fret of waters, to muse upon the wiklness of the scene, and commune with unearthly forms, which seemed to be fli'ting In the moonbeam ; but, most of all, I delighted, on a fine afternoon, to join the little family party, in Arthur's pleas- ure-boat, sailing from island to island, each beauty present- ing itself it. ever new and varying lights, and the sweet, artless song of Mary, who seemed to be the fairy spirit of the lake, warbling in my ear. And I would no*, even now, mingled as my recollections are with melancholy and sorrow, I would not, for any earthly good, suffer the mem- ory of this delicious period to fade upon the tablet of my COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PHOSE. 201 heart, fc was one of the few, few green and sunny spots, which lie scattered over the dark waste of time. But the day at length arrived, when the imperious calls of business that perpetual intruder on the poetry of life uust tear me from the friends and scenes which I so dear- .'y loved. I had already lingered much longer on the hos- pitality of the Burtons than necessity required ; and I know not when 1 should have left them, had I waited till e.ther my own inclination, or their friendly importunities, had ceased. 1 bade adieu but not without a willing prom- ise to visit them once more on my return. About three weeks elapsed. 1 had despatched my busi- ness, and was returning homeward light-hearted and free, when, after toiling up a long and dusty hill, I caught sight again, at a few miles' distance, of the green, refreshing val- ley, and the pure crystal within it. My pulse beat high with expectation. My horse had not forgotten the hospitality of the Burtons, and we rapidly approached these well-re- membered scenes. As I descended the last hill, and some time before I reached the house, Rover came bounding along, with every demonstration of joy, to welcome my re- turn. Upon entering, the domestics, who were making ready their evening repast, informed me, that the whole family had gone upon the water in Arthur's pleasure- boat. Taking Rover with me, I strayed down to the neigh bourhood of their landing-place, and seated myself on a cliff, which overlooked the lake. The waters of Lake George are peculiarly transparent. I have often looked out of a boat upon its pebbly bed, and thought I might easily have waded to the shore, when in truth my oar's length could not reach the bottom. It was from this singular beauty, as well as the tout ensemble of witching scenery about it, that the Indians, who formerly inhabited the adja- cent territories, believed the bosom of the lake to be the tbode of the Great Spirit ; and the French priests, who came to convert them, infected with the superstition of the place, named it the Holy Water ; and, either imagining it to be uncommonly pure, or else believing it to be really endowed with a peculiar sanctity, used to send vessels fill- ed with it to their native country, to be used in the sacred 202 COMMON-PLACE UUOK OF PROSE. rites of their church. This afternoon was remarkablj calm and cloudless. The opposite shore hung in the wa- ter with such truth and life of expression, that it looked like the scenery of another workl, calmer and more lovely than our own. Presently, however, a breeze sprung from the east. The Bmooth surface just curled beneath its kiss ; and, in a short time, I observed the full sail of the pleasure-boat emeigiug at no great distance from behind a little knoll, that had concealed it. It was shaping its homeward course. The sun was fast declining towards the western mountain upon whose summit was piled a thick mass of snowy clouds. Every thing promised a glorious sunset. I sat wrapped in the dream of expectation, measuring the long ripple which the boat left upon the lake, and think- ing, within myself, whether they could reach home before dusk. I turned towards the sun, to judge from his height how many minutes the light of day had yet to live. I wa immediately struck by the uncommon richness of the white fleece, whioh was rolling itself, volume upon volume, into a thousand wild, fantastic shapes. At the same moment, a small black cloud seemed suddenly to grow out of the moun- tain. As it rose, it swelled, and spread itself, like a pall, over the rich mass of vapours, effacing one by one the beauties of the gorgeous spectacle. The wind freshened from the east but the thunder-cloud still steered against it, and sailed on, in sullen majesty, like some dusky spirit, regardless of the opposing element. The sun was obscured, and a cold shade thrown over the lake. The leaves rustled through the forest with a noise like the long roll of the ocean on some distant beach, and a dull, low moaning seem- ed to move upon the waters. All nature portended one of those tremendous storms, which there, in seasons of the profoundest calm, pour in a moment out of the hollows of the surrounding mountains. I looked back anxiously for my friends. Their bark had neared the bay, and was still gallantly cleaving the waves. I thought I could distin- guish Arthur at the helm, proudly steering his little treas- ure, fearful but for those whom he loved dearer than life. 1 waved my handkerchief, and 't was answered. Rover COMMON-PI ACE BOOK OF i"KOSK. 203 just iieiow me, snuffing the air, a.ud WiggiUtj hia uui in silent expectation. The heavens were now completely overcast the thun- ders rolled heavily, nearer and nearer, and big round drops splashed here and there upon the water. Presently there was a blinding flash, and an explosion shaking the clilf tc its very root. The long, broken peal, that followed, rever- berated from crag to crag, and died use necessary means for the re- covery of the unfortunate Mary. After much labour, she began to breathe, 3.r/ * few deep groans marked the un- willingness with which life returned to its deserted tene- ment. Good God, thought I, what a cruelty do I not com- mit in restoring this wretched maid to a desolate existence ! Surely she had better, far better, die and sleep quietly in her grave, than revive to see a few more miserable years, parentless brotherless alone not a friend on earth to alleviate the sorrows of Hfe. I almost repented what I had done. Yet what right had I to sit in judgment on the mysteries of Providence ? It has pleased God to In terpose miraculously for her preservation : let not man attempt to thwart his just, inscrutable designs ! We redoubled our efforts. In a little time she seemed partially to have recovered her senses. She looked wildly round, and, extending her feeble hand towards mine, cried, with a faint voice, " Arthur !" 1 pressed her hand my heart was too full to speak. Alas! she did not know the touch but, fixing her glazed eye upon me, repeated the name of Arthur. " It is not Arthur," said I and the tears gush- ed as I spoke. " Oh where is he .' where are they all ?" and then, as if the memory of what had passed had suddenly flashed upon her mind, she shrieked out, and fell senseless away. I could restrain my feelings no longer, but, tearing her in the charge of the weeping domestics, hurried out if the room COMMON -PLACE BOOK OK HiloSE. 2UA The storm, which had wreaked its tury, was dissipated as suddenly as it arose. 1 determined to walk abroad, and see if 1 could calm the violence of my feelings in the still moonlight. I passed through the parlour. There the re- past was spread, and the chairs were standing round the hospitable board, for those who could never fill them again. 1 strayed down to the margin of the lake. The faithful Rover was still swimming about, and whining piteously over the fatal spot. Wherever I went, at every turn, some- thing arose to refresh the horror of the cene. Mary recovered to linger a few years a miserable ma- niac ; , " Though health and bloom returned, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again " She was sensible, however, a few moments before she died thanked the kind domestics, who had never left her and begged to be buried at the bottom of the garden, be- neath an arbour which Arthur had reared. Her injunction was obeyed and a small tombstone may yet be found there under the long grass, bearing this simple inscription " Poor Mary Burton rests beneath this stone ; God suffered) not his saints to live alone." Hypochondriasis and its Remedies. RUSH. THE extremes of low ai d high spirits, which occur in the same person at diffeient times, are happily illustrat- ed by the following case : A physician in one of the cities of Italy was once consulted by a gentleman, who was much distressed by a paroxysm of this intermitting state of hy- pochondriasm. He advised him to seek relief in convivial company, and recommended him in particular to pud out a gentleman of the name of Cardini, who kept all ^he ta- Mes in the city, to which he was occasionally invited, in a roa: of laughter. " Alas ! sir," said the patient, with a heavj sigh, " I am that Cardini." Many such charicters, alternately marked by high and low spirits, are to be fcuM in all the c-vies in the world. 18 206 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. But there are sometimes flashes of apparent cheerfulness and even of mirth, in the intervals of this disease, which are accompanied with latent depression of mind. This ap- pears to have been the case in Cowper, who knew all ita symptoms by sad experience. Hence, in one of his let ters to Mr. Hayley, he says, " I am cheerful upon paper, but the most distressed of all creatures." It was probably in one of these opposite states of mind, that he wrote his humorous ballad of John Gilpin. In proportion as the hypochondriac disease advances, the symptoms of the hysteria, which are generally combined with it in its first stage, disappear, and all the systems in which the disease is seated acquire an uniformly torpid or irritable state. The remissions and intermissions which have been described cease, and even the transient blaze of cheerfulness, which now and then escapes from a heart smothered with anguish, is seen no more. The distress now becomes constant. " Clouds return after every rain." Not a ray of comfort glimmers upon the soul in any of the prospects or retrospects of life. " All is now darkness without and within." These poignant words were once uttered by a patient of mine with peculiar emphasis, while labouring under this stage of the disease. Neither nature nor art now possess a single beauty, nor music or poetry a single charm. The two latter often give pain, and some- times offence. In vain do love and friendship, and domes tic affection, offer sympathy or relief to the mind in this awful situation. E -en the consolations of religion are re- jected, or heard v::th silence and indifference. Night no longer affords a respite from misery. It is passed in dis- tracting wakefulness. or in dreams more terrible than wak ing thoughts ; nor doe< the light of the sun chase away a sing.e distressing idea " I rise in the morning," says Cow- per, .n a letter to Mr. Hayley, " like an internal frog out AcKf-ro; , covered with the ooze and mud of melancholy." No cliT.'ge of place 's wished for, that promise? any allevi- ation of .uSc.'ing. "Could I i>e translated to paradise," says 'he :arne eiegant historian of \ne own sorrows, in a Setter to JL.-i.ly Hesketh, " unless I could !i re . ar.y melancholy would cleAve to i.e there." COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. 207 Can any thing be anticipated more dreadful than univer- sal madness ? arxl yet 1 once attended a lady in this city, whose sufferings from low spirits were of sucb a nature, that she ardently wished she might lose her reason, in ordei thereby to be relieved from the horror of her thought?. This state of mind was not new in this diseasp ^hnksoeura IM-S described it in the following lines, in his inimitable tn- I.T) of all the forms of derangement, in the tragedy of King Lear. Tbev are as truly philosophical as they are 1 Better I were distract ; So diicuiid my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose The knowledge of themselves " A pleasant season, a fine day, and even the morning sun, ot'ten suspend the disease. Cowper bears witness to the truth of this remark, in one of his letters to Mr. Hayley. <; I rise," says he, " cheerless and distressed, and brighten as the sun goes on." Dr. Burton, in his Anatomy of Melancholy, delivers the following direction for its cure : " Be not idle ; be not sol- itary." Dr. Johnson has improved this advice by the fol- lowing commentary upon it : " When you are idle be not fec'iitiiry ; and whe you are solitary be not idle." The illustrious Spinola, upon hearing of the death of a friend, inquired of what disease he died. " Of having nothing to do," .-'aid the. person who mentioned it. "Enough," said Sninola, " to kill a general." Not only the want of em- ployment, but the want of care, often increases as. well as bring!? on this disease. Concerts, evening partjec, and the society of the ladies, to gert'emen affected with this disease, have been useful. Of , physicians : " To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen, Some recommend the bowling-green j Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ; Fling but a stone the giant dies." Chess, checkers, cards, and even push-pin, should be pre- ferred to idleness, when the weather forbids exercise in the open air. The theatre has often been resorted to, 10 remove fits of low spirits ; and it is a singular fact, that <> tragedy oftener dissipates them than a comedy. The rem- edy, though distressing to persons with healthy minds, is like the temperature of cold water to persons benumbed with frost ; it is exactly proportioned to the excitability of heir minds, and it not only abstracts their attention from themselves, but even revives their spirits. Mirth, or even cheerfulness, when employed as remedies in low spirits, are like hot water to a frozen limb. They are d'spropor- tioned to the excitability of the mind, and, instead of ele- vating, never fail to increase its depression, or to irritate it. Cowper could not bear to hear his humorous story of John Gilpin read to him in his paroxysms of '.his disease. It was to his heavy heart what Solomon nanpily compares to the conflict produced by pouring vinegar upon nitre, or, in other words, upon an alkaline salt. Certain objects distinguished for tl eir beauty or grandeur often afford relief in this disease. Copper experienced a transient elevation of spirits fron contemplating the ocean from the house of his friend Mr. Hayky ; and the unfor- tunate Mrs. Robinson soothed the gloonri of her mind, t-y viewing the dashing of the wav3s of the sane sublime ob- ject, in the light of the moon, at Brighton. Certain arr- mals suspend the anguish of mind of thie disease, by tliei* innocence, ingenuity or spores Cowper sometimes fourid relief in playing with three tame hares, and in observing i number of leeches to rise and fall in a 'lass ??5th the changes of the '/eather. The poet says, " La ,-h and be well. Monkeys have bea Kstrtine good doctors for the splef n Anil kitten if the humour hit Has harlequin'*! away the fit " COMMON-I'LACE BOOK OF IMIOSE. 20& The famous Luther was cheered under his fits of low ipirits, by listening to the prattle, and observing the sports and innocent countenances, of young children. The tone of their voices is probably a source of a part of the relief derived from their company. Cowper was always exhila- rated by conversing with Air. Hayley's son, only because he was pleased with the soft and musical tones of his voice. Music has often afforded great relief in this disease. I uther, who was porely afflicted with it, has left the fol- lowing testimony in favour of the art : " Next to Theolo- gy, I give the highest place to music, for thereby all anger s forgotten ; the devil, also melancholy, and many tribula- tions and evil thoughts are driven away." For the same reason that tragedies afford more relief than comedies, plaintive tunes are more useful than such as are of a sprightly nature. I attended a citizen of Philadelphia oc- casionally in paroxysms of this disease, who informed me that he was cured of one of them, by hearing the Old Hundred psalm tune sung in a country church. His dis- order, he said, instantly 'eft nim in a flood of tears. Dr Cardan always felt a suspension of the anguish of his mind from the same cause ; and Cowper tells his friend, in one of his letters, that he was " relieved as soon as his troubles gushed from his eyes." Climate and Scenery of J\"cw England. TUDOR THE position of our continent, and the course of the winds, will always give us an unequal climate, and one abounding in contrasts. In the latitude of 508, on the north- west coast of America, the weather is milder even than in the same parallel in Europe ; the wind, three quarters of the year, comes off the Pacific : in the" same latitude on the eastern side, the country is hardly worth inhabiting, under the dreary length of cold, produced by the succes- sion of winds across a frozen continent. The wind and the sun, too, often carry on the contest here, which they exert- ed on the poor traveller in the fable ; and we are in doubt to which we shall yield. The changes that cultivation and 18 210 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. planetary influence, if there be feuch a thing, can create are very gradual. It seems to be a general opinion, that the cold is more broken now. The totals of heat and cold may be nearly the same as they were fifty years ago. The winters particularly have commenced later. The autumn is warmer and the spring colder. We are still subject to *he same caprices ; a flight of snow in May, a frost in June, and sometimes in every month in the year; and ^Dolus indulges his servants in stranger freaks and extrav- agances here than elsewhere ; yet the severe cold seldom sets in before January; the snow is less and later, and, on the sea coast, does not, on an average, afford more than a month's sleighing. These contrasts in our climate occasion some very pic- turesque effects, some that would be considered phenom- ena by persons unaccustomed to them. It blends together the circumstances of very distant regions in Europe. Thus, when the earth lies buried in a deep covering of snow, in Europe, the clime is so far to the north, that the sun rises but little above the horizon, and his daily visit is a very short one ; his feeble r lys hardly illumine a chilly sky, that harmonizes with the dreary waste it covers : but here, the same surface reflec s a dazzling brilliancy from rays that strike at the same angle, at which they do the dome of St. Peter's. The plains of Siberia and the Campagna di Roma are here combined ; we have the snow of the one and the sun of the other at the same period. While his rays in the month of March are expanding the flowers and blo&sonas at Albano and Tivoli, they are here falling on a wide, uninterrupted covering of snow, producing a Hazzling brilliancy that is almost insupportable. A moon- light at this season is equally remarkable, and its effects pan be more easily endured. Our moon is nearly the same with that moon of Naples, which Carraoioli told the king of England was " superior to his majesty's sun." When this surface of spotless snow is shone upon by this moon at its full, and reflects back its beams, the light indeed is not that of day, but it takes away all appearance of night; th witch and the spectre would shrink from its exposure : " It is not nieht , tis but the d;iyh?ht lick , It 'ookn a little pa'.er " COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 211 On the sea coast, the winters are milder, but the obnox- ious east winds are more severely felt iu the spring, than thev are in the interior. The whole coast ol Massachu- setts Bay is remarkably exposed to their influence Some compensation, however is derived for their harshness and virulence in the spring, by their refreshing and salutary breezes in the summer, when they frequently allay the sultry heat, and prevent it from becoming oppressive. Al- though a district favourably situated will enjoy an average of climate two or three degrees better than those in its neighbourhood, yet, generally, the progress of the climate is pretty regular as you follow the coast of the United State* from north-east to south-west. I am induced to think, that our great rivers have some connexion with the gradations of climate ; that every large river you pass makes a dif- ference of two or three degrees in the averages of the thermometer. The position of mountains will affect the climate essentially ; b'.'.t these rivers, whose course up- wards is northerly, will still, in gereral, be lines of de- marcation One of the most agreeable peculiarities in our climate, is a period in the autumn called the Indian Summer. It happens in October, commencing a few days earlier or later, as the season may be. The temperature is delightful, and the weather differing in its character from that of any othei season. The air is filled with a plight haze, like smoke, which some suppose it to be ; the wind is south-west, and there is a vernal softness in the atmosphere ; yet the different alti- tude of the sun from what it has fn the summer, makes it, in ot'-ier respects, very unlike that season. This singular oc- currence in our climate seems to be to summer, what a vivid recollection of past joys is to the reality. The In- dians have some pleasing superstitions respecting it. " They believe it is caused by a wind, which comes immediately from the court of their great and benevolent god Cautan- lowwit, or the south-western god, the god that is superior to all other beings, who sends them every blessing which they enjoy, and to whom the souls of their fathers go after their decease." in connexion with our climate, the appearance of our atmosphere may be considered. The Inver of picturesque 212 COMMON-PLACE BUUK OF PROSE. beauty will find this a fruitful source of it. The am % equalities will be found here, that take place in the m* 9 ure of heat end cold, and an equal number of contrasts aiu varieties. We have many of those days, when a murky vapourish:iess is diffused through the air, dimming the )u- tre of the sun, and producing j-ist such tones of light and colour as would be marked, in the calendar of Newfound- land or the Hebrides, for a bright, fair day. We have again others, in which even the transparency and purity of the tropics, and ill the glowing mellow hues of Greece and Naples are blended together, to shed a hue of para- dise on every object. I have already spoken of the intense brilliancy of a winter moonlight, when the air has a polar temperature; the same brilliancy ziA a greater clearness are ften found in the month of June, and sometimes in July, with the warmth of the equator. There a>-e, occasionally, in the summer and autumn, such magical effects of light, such a universal tone of colouring, that the very air seems tinged ; and an aspect of such harmonious splendour is thrown over every object, that the attention of the most indifferent i awakened, and the lovers of the beautiful in nature enjoy the most lively delight. These are the kinds of tints, which even the matchless pencil of Claude vainly endeavoured to imitate. They occur a few times every year, a little before sunset, under a particular state of the air and posi- tion of the clouds. These beautiful appearances are nol so frequent, indeed, here, as they are at Naples ; all those warm and delicate colours, which we see in Neapolitan pictures, occur there more often ; but I have frequently seen the hills on the south of Boston exhibiting, towards sunset, the same exquisite hues, which Vesuvius more fre- quently presents, and which the Neapolitans, in their paint- ings of it, always adopt. The vivid beauty, which I now speak of, is rare and transient ; but we often enjoy the charms of a transparent atmosphere, where objects stand in bold relief, and even distant ones will present all their hues and angles, clear and sharp, from the deep distant sky, as on the shore? of Greece ; and we gaze at sunset on gor- geous skies, where all the magnificence, that form and coi- our can combine, is accumulated to enrapture the eye, ted render description hopeless COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 2U The scenery of this country will have struck you at once, as very different from that of Europe. This differ- ence is partly intrinsic, and partly accidental, arising out of the kinds and degrees of cultivation. The most obvious and extensive view, in which it differs, is the redundancy of forest. A vast forest, to a person who had never seen o:.e, would excite almost as strong sensations, as the sight of the ocean to him who beheld it for the first time ; and in both cases a long continuance of the prospect be- comes tiresome. From some of our hills, the spectator looks over an expanse of woods bounded by the horizon, and slightly chequered by cultivation. The view is grand and imposing at first, but will be m3re agreeable, and afford more lasting pleasure, when the relative proportions of wood and open ground are reversed. The most cultivated parts of these States approach nearest to some of the most cov- ered in England, that are not an actual forest. We have nothing like the Downs on your southern coast, and fa- tiguing as an eternal forest may be, it is less so than those dreary wastes, as destitute of objects as the mountain swell of the ocean. We have still so much wood, that, even in the oldest cultivated parts of the country, it is difficult to find a panoramic view of any extent, where some patches of the native forest are not to be found. I know of but one exception, which is from the steeple of the church in Ipswich, in Essex, Massachusetts. This is one of the oldest towns ; the prospect will put you in mind of the scenery of your own country ; I need not add, that it is a very pleasing one, and will repay you for the slight trouble of ascending the steeple. The trees, though there are too many of them, at least in masses, must please the eye of an European, from their variety and beauty, as well as novelty. The richness of our trees and shrubs has always excited the admiration ol botanists and the lovers of landscape gardening. There san be nothing nobler than the appearance of some of the oaks and beeches in England, and the walnuts and chest- nuts in France and Italy The vast size of these spreading trees is only surpassed by some of our sycamores on the banks of the Ohio. Our oaks may sometimes be seen of the same size, and the towering white pine and hemlock 814 COMMON-PLACE BlivlK UP HKOSE. reach a height, that I had never seen attained by trees it Europe ; but, for grandeur of appearance, we must rely, in the first instance, on the American elm, that has been planted for ornament. Its colour, its form, and its size place it much before the European elm ; it la one of oui most majestic trees. There are many varieties of it very distinct, yet not so numerous as of the oaks, walnuts and sonic others. Of the former, you know, we have between thirty and forty different species, and a great number el species exist of all our principal trees. This variety, in the hands of taste, would be made productive of the highest effects in ornamental planting, of which you may find more specimens in your own country than in this, though onl} a part of our riches in this way have been transplanted by your gardeners. You will remark the fresh and healthy look of our forest, as well as fruit trees, compared with those of all the northern parts of Europe. The humidity of that atmosphere nourishes the mosses, and a green coat- ing over the trunks and branches, that give the aspect of disease and decay. You will often observe the clean and smooth bark of our trees of all kinds: among the forest trees, particularly the walnut, maple, beech, birch, &c. will be entirely free from moss or rust of any kind, and theii trunks form fine contrasts with the leaves. You will have too much of forest in this country to go in pursuit of one but, should you happen to visit Nashawn, one of the Eliz- abeth Islands, you will see the most beautiful insulated for- est in the United States, with less of that ragged, lank look, which our native forests commonly present, from the trees struggling with each other for the light, and running up to gjeat height, with few or no branches ; but this ore exhibits the tufted, rounded masses, which are found in the groves of your parks. I will mention a peculiarity, which you will witness in autumn, that wili affect a lover of landscape scenery, like yourself, on seeing it the first lime, with surprise as well ad delight. The rich and mellow tints of the forest, at that season of the year, have often furnished subjects for the poet and the painter in Europe; hut it will hardly prepare you for the sights our woods exhibit. I have never seen representation of them attempted in painting; it \voul4 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK I'KOSE. 216 probably be grotesque. Besides all the shaut o r brown and green, which you have in European trees, itiere are he most brilliant and glaring colours, bright yellow, ana scarlet for instance, not merely on single leaves, but in masses of whole trees, with all their foliage thus tinged. I do not know that it has ever been accounted for ; it ma^ perhaps be owing to the frosts coming earlier here than ia Europe, and falling on the leaves while the sap is yet copi- ous, before they have begun to dry up and fall off. How- ever this may be, the colouring is wonderful ; the walnut is turned le. and the effects of their actions. Their influence stil a hides with us. Their names and characters dwell in our thoughts and hearts. We live and commune with them in their writings. We enjoy the benefit of their labours. Our institutions have been founded by them. We are v - rounded by the works of the dead. Our knowledge iiii our arts are the fruit of their toil. Our minds have been formed by their instructions. We are most intimately con- nected with them by a thousand dependencies. Those whom we have loved in life are still objects of our deepest and holiest affections. Their power over us remain* They are w;i.h us in our solitary walks ; and their voices speak to our hearts in the silence of midnight. Their image is impressed upon our dearest recollections, and our most sacred hopes. They form an essential part of our treasure laid up hi heaven. For, above all, we are sepa- rated from them but for a little time. We are soon to be united with them. If we follow in the path of those we have loved, we too shall soon join the innumerable company of the spirits of just men made perfect. Our affections and our hopes are not buried in the dust, to which we com- mit the poor remains of mortality. The blessed retain their remembrance and their love for us in heaven ; and we will cherish our remembrance and our love for them while on earth. Creatures of imitation a-nd nympathy as we are, we look around us for * pport and countenance even in our virtues. We recur for them, most securely, to the examples of the dead. There is a degree of insecurity and uncertainty about living worth. The stamp has not yet been put upon it, which precludes all change, and seals it up as a just object of admiration for future times. There is no service which a man of commanding intellect can render his fel- .ow creatures better than that of leaving behind him an unspotted example. If he do not confer upon them this benefit ; if he leave a character dark with vices in the If 218 C" N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. sight of God, but dazzling; with shining qualities m the view of men ; it may be that all his other services had better have been forborne, and he had passed inactive and unnoticed through life. It is a dictate of wisdom, there- fore, as well as feeling, when a man, eminent for his vir- tues and talents, has been taken away, to collect the riches of his goodness, and add them '.c the treasury of human improvement. The true Christian liveth not for himself, and dieth not for himself ; and it is thus, in one respect, that he die.th not for himself. Difficulties encountered by the Federal Convention. MADISON. AMONG the difficulties encountered by the convention, a very important one must have lain, in combining the requisite stability 'and energy in government, with the inviolable attention due to liberty, and to the republican form. Without substantially accomplishing this part of their undertaking, they would have very imperfectly ful- filled the object of their appointment, or the expectation of the public ; yet, that it could not easily be accomplished, will be denied by no oi,e, who is unwilling to betray his ignorance on the subject. Energy in government is essential to that security against external and internal danger, and to that prompt and salutary execution of the laws, which enter into the very definition of good govern- ment. Stability in government is essential to national character, and to the advantages annexed to it, as well as to that repose and confidence in the minds of the people, which are among the chief blessings of civil society. An irregular and mutable legislation is not more an evil in itself, than it is odious to the people ; and it may be pro- nounced with assurance, that the people in this country, enlightened as they are with regard to the nature, aw' interested, as the great body of them are, in the effects of good government, will never be satisfied till some remedy be applied to the vicissitudes and uncertainties, which characterize the state administrations. On compar- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 219 tig, however, these valuable ingredients with the vita! principles of liberty, we must perceive, at once, the diffi- culty of mingling them together in their due proportions. The genius of republican liberty seems to demand, on the one side, not only that all power should be derived frc'ii the people, but that those intrusted with it should be kept in dependence on the people, by a short duration of their appointments ; and that, even during this short period, the trust should be placed not in a few. but in a number of hands. Stability, on the contrary, requires that the hands >ii which power is lodged should remain for a length of time the same. A frequent change of men will result from a frequent return of elections ; and a frequent change of measures irom a frequent change of men ; whilst energy in government requires not only a certain duration of pow- er, but the execution of it by a single person. Not Jess arduous must have been the task uf marking the proper Lire of partition between the authority of the gen- eral, and that of the state governments. Every man will be sensible of this difficulty, in proportion as he has been accustomed to contemplate and discriminate objects, exten- sive and complicated in their nature The facilities of the mind itself have never yet been distinguished and denned, with satisfactory precision, by all the efforts of the most acute and metaphysical philosophers. Sense, perception, judgment, desire, volition, memory, imagination, are found to be separated by such de4icate shades and minute grade- tions, that their boundaries have eluded the most subtilo investigations, and remain a pregnant source cf ingenious disquisition and controversy. The boundaries between the great kingdoms of nature, and, still more, between the various provinces and lesser proportions into which they are subdivided, afford another illustration of the same important truth. The most sagacious and laborious natu- ralists have never yet succeeded re tracing, with certainty, the Une which separates the district of vegetable life from the neighbouring region of unorganized matter, or which marks the termination of the former, and the oom- meiicemeat of the animal empire. A still greater oosca- rity lies in the distinctive characters, by which the object 220 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSK. in each of these great departments of nature have be arranged and assorted. When we pass from the works of nature, in which all the delineations are perfectly accurate, and appear to be otherwise only from the imperfection of the eye which surveys them, t$ the institutions of man, in which the ob- scurity arises as well from the object itself, as from the organ by which it is contemplated, we must perceive the necessity of moderating still further our expectations and hopes from the efforts of human sagacity. Experience has instructed us, that no skill in the science of government has yet been able to discriminate and define, with sufficient certainty, its three great provinces, the legislative, the executive, and the judiciary ; or even the privileges and powers of the different legislative branches. Questions daily occur, in the course of practice, which prove the obscurity that reigns over these subjects, and which puzzle the greatest adepts in political science. Besides the obscurity arising from the complexity of objects, and the imperfection of the human faculties, the medium through which the conceptions of men are con- veyed to each other, adds a fresh embarrassment. The use of words is to express ideas. Perspicuity, therefore, requires not only that the ideas should be distinctly formed, but that they should be expressed by words distinctively and exclusively appropriated to them. But no language is so copious as to supply words and phrases for every com- plex idea, or so correct as not to include many equivocally denoting difTeren* ideas. Hence it must happen, that, how- ever accurately objects may be discriminated in themselves, ;iml however accurately the discrimination may be consid- ered, the definition of them may be rendered inaccurate by the inaccuracy of the terms in which it is delivered. And this unavoidable inaccuracy must be gret ter or Jess, nccordiiig to the complexity and novelty of the objects defined. When the Almighty himself condescends to address mankind in their own language, las meaning, luminous as it must be, is rendered dim and doubtful by the cloudy medium through which it is communi- cated. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 22) Here, then, are three sources of vague and incorrect definitions ; indistinctness of the object, imperfection ot the organ of perception, inadequateness of the vehicle p f ideas. Any one of these must produce a certain degree of obsr.urity. The convention, in delineating the houndaiy between the federal and state jurisdictions, must have experienced the full effect of them all. Would it be wonderful if, under the pressuie of all these difficulties, the convention should have been ton e beautifully referred to in an e?sny in the first voliimeof "Tiff Krinf the world ; for imposing taxe- on us without our con- sent ; for depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury ; for transporting us beyond seas, to be tried for pretended offences : for aholi-hing the free system of English laws in a neighbouring province, establishing there- in an arbitrary government, and enlarging its boundaries so u to render it at once an example, and fit instrument) COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 233 for introducing the same absolute rule into these colonies; lor taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our govern- ments ; for suspending our own legislatures, and declaring tnemselves invested with power to legislate for us in al] cases whatsoever. He has abdicated government here, oy declaring us out of his protection, and waging war against us. He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned our towns, and. destroyed the lives of our people. He is at this time transporting la-rge armies of foreign mercenaries, to complete the work of death, desolation, and tyrai. ny, al ready begun, with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy, .scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation. He has con- strained our fellow-citizens, taken captive on the high seas, to bear arms against their country, to become the execu- tioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands. He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers the merciless Indian savages, whose known ruin of warfare is, an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions. In every stage of these oppressions, we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms. Our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We have warned them, from time to time, of attempts made by their legislxture to extend an unwarrantable jurisdic- tion over us. We have reminded them of the circumstan- ces of our emigration and settlement here. We have ap- pealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured then., by the ties of our common kindred, to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably in- terrupt our connexions and correspondence. They, too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity We must therefore acquiesce in the necessity which de- Dounces our reparation ; and hold them, as we hold the reaf of mankind, enemies in war, in peace, friend*. 20' 234 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. We, therefore, the representatives of the United State* of America, in general congress assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our mentions, do, in the name and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent states ; that they are absolved from all alle- giance to the British crown, and that all political connex- ion between them and the state of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved ; and that, as free and inde- pendent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do ail other acts and things which independent states may of ngnt do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour. Mementos of the Instability of human Existence. FITCH. WE have such a memento in the fact, that others, who have been sharing with us in our privileges, are constant- y leaving the world. They who dwell with us in the city of our residence on earth beings of immortality are constantly bidding us adieu, and entering into eternity. All our privileges thus become associated with the memory of former companions, who once had their abode below. They dwelled with us but a few days, they scarcely made them- selves known to us, when they gave the farewell look, pressed the parting hand, bade adieu, and entered on an abode in eternity. The tolling bell, the mournful proces- sion, the grave of their relics, the erected monument, sig- nalized their departure ; and now all around the city of our auode are the traces of their former presence, reminding u of our having no continuing residence here. We look bark at the days they passed with us before they entered intc eternity, and the}' appear to us but a hand breadth ; and. from their dwellirg in eternity, we seem to hear them say, COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROBE. 234 as we mis* them from the scenes in which they once m n- gled witli us, that these are scenes where pilgrims to etei. nity tarry but a day. When in the habitations where they once dwelt with us, or in the streets where they walked with us, or the sanctuary to which they went with us in company, or at the merry-seat where they once bent with us the knee of devotion, or by the Scriptures before which they once listened with us to the words of Jesus Christ, we look for them, but they are go:.e ; the place which they once occu- pied at our side is vacant ; they are far from us in their eternal dwelling ; and the places where we once knew them are now so many mementos, that here we ourselves have no continuing city. We have another continual memento of this fact, in the advancement we are constantly making ourselves towards eternity. Every thing in the city of our residence on earth reminds us, that we are never stationary in it, but are always advancing towards the period of our final departure. We have entered into a scene of divine wonders, but we cannot delay to spend our existence here in gazing upon them; we are constantly in motion, urging our way through them to an eternal dwelling. Each breaking morn, each radiant noon, each shadowy eve, as they pass by us, make no tarrying, but pass us never more to return. The joc- und Spring, Summer, with his swarms of life, Autumn, with her golden harvest, Winter, with his icy sceptre and his snowy robes, as each year they pass us, are in constant motion, and, while we greet them, take their leave^of us forever. Each changing scene of life arrests our rninds, Milists our feelings ; then takes its final leave of us, the sons of eternity Creeping infancy, merry boyhood, as- piring youth industrious manhood, decrepit age, we meet in swift succession ; just greet, and bid adieu for eternity. In the midst of all the privileges of our city here below, do our advancing steps towards the eternal world serve constantly to remind us, that here we have no permanent dwelling. The aggregate of days that have passed by us, the yearly seasons, the scenes of life, and periods of age, aince we came into possession of our privileges, since we first knew our dwellings, walked our streets, and entered our sanctuaries, and beard the words of God, are so many 236 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSS. advances towards eternity ; and tell, as they thicken 01 ihe pach we leave, how soon we reach the close of our pil- grimage, and enter upon unknown worlds. We have another constant memento of the fact, again, in our inability of prolonging our continuance in the v\*orld, We have constant notices around us of our frailty, and ina- bility to continue to ourselves our present privileges for the future. Even in the city of our privileges below, do we see ourselves hurried on, by an unseen hand we cannot control ; the almighty Guide who conducts us seems un- wiliing we should stay ; the God of our spirits, who goes with us, designs we should have our settled dwelling in eternity ; and soon he will bring us to the gates of the city, and, at the bidding we cannot resi?t, must we xake our leave of ;t for eternity. Around us, every thing is be- tokening his design of our departure and our inability to prolong iiir stay. The frail ho'd we take of every earthly H>ssession tells lhit our grasp on none is for eternity. We are nurried on from object to object, before we can call any thing ours. We meet friends, but, while we cling to them, the unseen hand of Providence tears us away from their embrace. Beauty we would linger here to ad- mire, but, while we look, the grace of the fashion of il perisheth. Power just takes us by the hand, and bids us >dieu to greet a successor. Fame crowns us with her wreath, but, while we feel tUo rising flush of joy, she plucks it off to sport with others Wealth comes to feast us, and roll us in his car of pleasures, ar,a, while accepting his proposals, he dismisses us to tempt some other pilgrims on their way tc etertity. The unseen hand of Providence thus tears us away from onje *.t after object, to show that here is not our rest, and that ou/ hold on earth is frail and giving way. Around the city c." our habitation, too, are the messengers he sends to warn us of this approaching departure. Decay stands with tottering limbs and feeble breath, and lisps to us, with dying life, that we draw nigh the gales of our habitation, and soon will leave it for eter- nal worlds. Diseases busy messengers fly here and there, to tell us of our frail abode, and whisper in our ears " eternity." Death, armed with resistless power, stands with his commissions, and their unknown dates, to lead u* COMMON-I'LACE BOOK OF PROSE. 287 jut of our residence below, and bar on us its gales forever Every where in the city of our abode are we reminded that we have not the power to prolong our stay in rt, and that soon we shall leave its privileges its dwellings, its streets, its sanctuaries, its Scriptures, its busy throng, , and said, " What do you want, Scip. ?" " I -v,i:.t a iic?* coat, ruassa." " Well, go to my .vile, and ..a* tier to give you one of ray old coats;" and fell to writing once more. Scipio remained in the same posture. After a few moments, the doctor looked towards him, and repealed the former question, " Scipio, what do you want ?" " I want a new coat, massa." It now flashed over the doctor's mind, that there was something of repe- tition in (his dialogue. " Why, have I not told you before to ask Mrs. fhauncy to give you one ? get away." " Yes, massa, but I no want a black coat." " Not want a black coal ! why not ; " " Why, massa, I 'fraid to tell you, hut I don't want a black coat." " What's the reason you don't want a black coat? tell me directly." "O! massa, I don't want a black coat, but I 'fraid to tell the rea- son, you so passionate." " You rascal ! will you tell me the reason .'" " () ! massa, I'm sure you be angry." " If I had my cane here, you villain, I'd break your bones : will you tell me what you mean ?" " I 'fraid to tell you, massa; 1 know you be angry." The doctor's impatience was now highly irritated, and Scipjo, perceiving, by his glance at the tongs, that he might find a substitute for the cane, and that he was sufficiently excited, said, " WHI. massa, you make me tell, but I know you be angty I 'fraid, massa, if I wear another black coat, Dr. Cooper ask me to preach lor him !" This unexpected termination re- alized the servant's calculation ; his irritated master burst; into a laugh, " (Jo, you rascal, get my hat and cane, ano tell Mrs. Chauncy she may give you a coat of any colour a red one il you choose." Away went the negro to his, mistress, and the doctor to tell the story to his friend, Dr 21 942 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Effects of a Dissolution of the Federal HAMILTON. ASSUMING it, therefore, as an established truth, that, in case of disunion, the several states, or such combination* of them as might happen to be formed out of the wreck of the general confederacy, would be subject to those vicissi- tudes of peace and war, of friendship and enmity with each other, which have fallen to the lot of all other nations nt united under one government, let us enter into a concise detail of some of the consequences that would attend such a situation. War between the states, in the first periods of their sep- arate existence, would be accompanied with much greater distresses than it commonly is in those countries where regular military establishments have long obtained. The disciplined armies always kept on foot on the continent of Europe, though they bear a maligmnt aspect to liberty and economy, have, notwithstanding, >een productive of the singular advantage of rendering sudden conquests imprac- ticable, and of preventing that rapid desolation, which used to mark the progress of war prior to their introduction. The art of fortification has contributed to tbe same ends. The nations of Europe are encircled with chains of fortified places, which mutually obstruct invasion. Campaigns are wasted in reducing two or three fortified garrisons, to gain admittance into an enemy's country. Similar impedi- ments occur at every step, to exhaust the strength, and delay the progress, of an invader. Formerly, an invading army would penetrate into the heart of a neighbouring country almost as soon as intelligence of its approach could be received ; but now, a comparatively simill force of disci- plined troops, acting on the defensive, with the aid of posts, is ab'e to impede, and finally to frustrate, the purposes of sne much more considerable. The history of war in tha quarter of the globe is no longer a history of nations sub ilued, and empires overturned ; but of towns taken and re- taken, of battles that decide nothing;, of retreats more ben- eficial than victories, of much cfToitarid little acquisii on. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 243 In this country the scene would be altogether reversed. The jealousy of military establishments would postpone them as long as possible. The want of fortifications, leav- ing the frontier of one state open to another, -vouid facili- tate inroads. The populous states would with little diffi- culty overrun their less populous neighbours. Conquests would be as easy to be made as difficult to be retained. War, therefore, would be desultory and predatory. Plun- der and devastation ever inarch in the train of irregulars. The calamities of individuals would ever make the princi- pal figure in events, and would characterize our exploits. This picture is not too highly wrought; though, I con- fess, it would nov. !ong remain a just one. Safety from ex- ternal danger is the most powerful director of national con- duct Even the ardent love of liberty will, after a time, give way to its dictates. The violent destruction of lifi and property incident to war, the continual effort and alarm attendant on a state of continual danger, will com- pel nations the most attached to liberty to resort for repose and security to institutions, which have a tendency to de- stroy their civil and political rights. To be more safe, they, at length, become willing to run the risk of being less free. The institutions chiefly alluded to are STANDING ARMIES, and the corresponding appendages of military establish- ments. Standing armies, it is said, are not provided against in the new constitution ; and it is thence inferred that they would exist under it. This inference, from the very forrp of the proposition, is, at best, problematical and uncertain But standing armies, it may be replied, must inevitably re- sult from a dissolution of the confederacy. Frequent wai and constant apprehension, which require a state of as con- stant preparation, will infallibly produce them. The weak- er states or confederacies would first have recourse to them, to put themselves on an equality with their more potent neighbours. They would endeavour to supply the inferi- ority of population and resources by a more regular and effective system of defence, by disciplined troops, and by fortifications. They would, at the same time, be obliged to strengthen the executive arm of government ; in doing which their constitutions would require a progressive di- rection towards monarchy It is the nature of wai V \n '44 COMMON-PLACE HOOK Op' I'ROSii. crease the executive, at the expense of the legislative authority. The expedients, which have been mentioned, would soon give the states, or confederacies, that made use of them, a superiority over their neighbours. Small states, or *tates of less natural strength, under vigorous governments, and with the assistance of disciplined armies, have often tri- umphed over large states, or states of greater nature/ strength, which have been destitute of these advantages. Neither the pride nor the safety of the important states, or confederacies, would permit them long to submit to this mor- tifying and adventitious superiority. They would quickly re- sort to means similar to those by which it had been effected, to reinstate themselves in their lost pre-eminence. Thus we hould, in a little time, see established in every part of this country the same engines of despotism, which have been the scou.'ge of the old world. This, at least, would be the natural course of things ; and our reasonings will be likely to be just, in proportion as they are accommodated to this standard. These are not vague inferences deduced from speculative defects in a constitution, tne whole power of which is lodged in the hands of the people, or their repre- sentatives and delegates , they are solid conclusions, drawn from the natural and necessary progress of human affairs. If we are wise enough to preserve the union, we may for ages enjoy an advantage similar to that of an insulated situation. Europe is at a great distance from us. Her colonies in our vicinity will be likely to continue too much disproportioned in strength to be able to give us any dan- gerous annoyance. Extensive military establishments can- not, in this position, be necessary to our security. But, if we should be disunited, and the integral parts should either remain separated, or, which is most probable, should be thrown together into two or throe confederacies, we should be, in a short course of time, in the predicament of the 'continental powers of Europe. Our liberties would be a .prey to the means of defending ourselves against tin fciubition ind jealousy of each other. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 245 This is an iJea not superficial or futile, 1m i olid and weighty. It deserves the most serious and miture consid- eration of every prudent and honest man, of whatever par- ty. If such men will make a firm and solemn pause, and meditate dispassionately on its importance ; if they wil contemplate it in all its attitudes, and trace it to all its con- sequences, they will not hesitate to part with trivial objec- tions to a constitution, the rejection of which would, in all probability, put a final period to the union. The airy phan- toms, that now (lit before the distempered imaginations of some of its adversaries, would then quickly give place to more substantial prospects of dangers, real, certain, and ".xtremelv formidable Sports on New Year's rfay.---PAtii.Diwo " Cold and raw the norHi vvi- ^ blow, Bleak in the inomiiie early All the hills are covered witu snow, And winter's now come fairly." WINTER, with silver locks and sparkling icicles, now graduallj approached, under cover of his north-west winds, his pelting storms, cold, frosty mornings, and bitter, freez- ing nights. And here we will take occasion to express our obligations to the popular author of the PIONEERS, for the pleasure we have derived from his happy delineations of the progress of our seasons, and the successive changes which mark 'heir course. All that remember their youth- ful days in the country, and look back with tender, melan- choly enjoyment upon their slippery gambols on the ice, their Christmis pies, and nut-crackings by the cheerful fireside, will read his pages with a gratified spirit, and thank him heartily for having refreshed their memory with the half-effaced recollections of scenes and manners, labours and delights, which, in the progress of Time, and the changes which every where mark his course, will, in some future age, perhaps, live only in the touches of his pen. If, in the course of our history, we should chance to dwell upon scenes somewhat similar to those he d 2: ' 246 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK I'KuSE. scribes, or to mark the varying tints of our seasons wi& a sameness of colouring, let us not be stigmati/.ed \vitb oorrowing from him, since it is next to impossible to b true to nature, without seeming to have his sketches m oui eye. The holydays, those wintry blessings, which cheer th heart of young and old, ami give to the gloomy depths of winter the lite and spirit of laughing, jolly spring, were now near at hand. The chopping-knife gave token of good- iy minced pics, and the hustle of the kitchen afforded shrewd indications of what was coming by and by. The celebra- ei"u of the new year, it is well known, came originallj from the northern nations of Europe, who still keep uf many of the practices, amusements, and enjoyments, know* to their ancestors. The Heer Piper valued himself upon being a genuine northern man, and, consequently, held trie winter holydays in special favour a. id affection. In aadi- tion to this hereditary attachment to ancient customs, it was shrewdly suspected, that his y.eal in celebrating these good old sports was not a little quickened, in consequence jf his mortal antagonist, William Penn, having hinted, in the course of their controversy, that the practice of keeping holydays savoured not only of Popery, but paganism. Before the Heer consented to sanction the projects or Dominie Kanttwell for abolishing sports and ballads, he stipulated for full liberty, on the part of himself and his people of Elsinghurgh, to eat, drink, sing and fro^c as much as they liked, durKg the winter holydays. m fact, the Dominie made no particular opposition to thi* suspension of his blue-laws, being somewhat addicted to good eating and drinking, whenever the occasion justified ; that is to say, whenever such accidents came in his wey. ' It had long been the custom with Governor Piper to usner in the new year with a grand supper, to which the Dominie, the members of the council, and certain of the most respectable burghers, were always bidden. Thb year, he determined to see the old year out. and the new one in, as the phrase was, having just heard ol a great vic- tory gained by the Bulwark of the Protestant Religion, the immortal Gustavus Adolphus ; which, though it happened nearly four years before, had only now reached the village COMMON-l'LACE 1JOOK OF 1'UOSE. 1147 of Elsingburgh. Accordingly, the Snow Wall liombie wa set to work in the cooking of a mortal supper ; which, agreeably to the taste of West lmliau epicures, she sea- soned with such enormous quantities of red pepper, tha* whoever ate was obliged to drink, to keep his mouth from getting on fire, like unto a chimney. Exactly at ten o'clock, the guests sat down to the table where they ate anil drank to the success of the Protestant cause, the glory of the great Gustavus, the downfall of Popery and the Quakers, with equal zeal and patriotism The instant the clock struck twelve, a round was fired from the fort, and a vast and bottomless bowl, supposed to be the identical one in which the famous wise men of Gotham went to sea, was brought in, filled to the utmost brim with moking punch. The memory of the departed year, and e hopes of the future, were then drank in a special bum- Fr, after which the ladies retired, and noise and fun be- Cl ae the order of the night. The Heer told his great st( y of having surprised and taken a whole picket-guard, unc r the great Guatavus ; and each of the guests con- trib. e( ] hj s tale, taking special care, however, not to outdc theii, o t i n the marvellous, a thing which always put tht Gove, or Ol ,t o f humour. Coi se i| or Langfanger talked wonderfully about public i ni P rov nents ; Counsellor Varlett sung, or rather roared, a hundq verses of a song in praise of Rhenish wine ; and Otl. an pfegel smoked and tippled, till he actually came to Determination of bringii.g matters to a crisis with the fair Cristina the very next day. Such are the won- der-worki,- powers of hot punch ! As for the Dominie, he decarte about the dawn of day, in such a plight, that, if it lad no been impossible, we should have suspected him of belfr ) as jt we re, a little overtaken with the said purch. T^one or two persons, who chanced to see him, if aetualljyppeared to stagger a little ^ but such was the itout faith oV' the good Dominie's parishioners, that neither these wo,y fellows would believe his own eyes suffi- ciently to sta\ these particulars. A couple of\hoiirs' sleep sufficed to disperse the vapours punch and \epper-pot ; for heads in those days were much harder thV, now, and the Keer. aa well as his row- y the applause of all good men, and by his own enjoyment of the spectacle of thai national prosperity and honour, which was the effect of them. After facing calumny, and triumphantly surmount* ing an unrelenting persecution, he retired from office with clean though empty hands, as rich as reputation and an unblemished integrity could make him. The most substantial glory of a country is in its virtu- ous great men : its prosperity will depend on its docility to learn from their example. That nation is fated to ignominy and servitude, for which such men have lived in vain. Power may be seized by a nation that is yet barbarous ; and wealth may be enjoyed by one that it finds or renders sordid : the one is the gift and the sport of accident, and the other is the sport of power. Both are mutable, and )iave passed away without leaving behind them any other memorial than ruins that offend taste, and traditions tha! baffle conjecture. But the glory of Greece is imperisha- ble, or will last as long as learning itself, which is its mon- ument : it strikes an everlasting root, and bears perennial blossoms on its grave. The name of Hamilton would have honoured Greece in the age ol Aristides. May Heaven, the guardian of our liberty, grant that our country may be fruitful of Hamiltons, and faithful to their glory ! .Morality of Poetry. GEORGE BANCROFT. ir poetry is the spirit of God within us, that spirit must be a pure one if it is the strongest and most earnest ex- pression of generous enthusiasm, it must be allied with the noblest feelings of human nature. Genius can, it is true, of itselt, attract attention ; but it cannot win continud and universal admiration, except in alliancr wih virtue. Wht 60 COMMON-l'LACE BOOK OF can measure the loss, which the world would sustain, if the sublimes! work of Milton were to be struck from th number of living books ? Yet llie world would be the gainer, if Don Juan were as if it had never been written The one poet cherishes loftiness of purpose, and tends to elevate his reader to a kindred magnanimity ; while the Other exposes, it may be with inimitable skill and graphic power, the vices and weaknesses of man, and so tends f degrade the mind to the level which he establishes for th< race. But we go to poetry as a relief and a support. We need no books to ring changes to us on man's selfishness , and if at times, in a moment of despondency or disappoint- ment, when the confused judgment cannot rightly estimate the progress of good amidst the jar of human passions, and the collision of human interests, we forget the dignity of our nature, and revile it, the poet should reinstate it in out favour, and make us forget our disgust with the world. While on this subject, we cannot forbear to remark on that tendency to moralize, which many mistake in them- selves for wise observation. True, to the eye of a con- templative man, books may be found in the running brooks, and sermons in stones ; but it is the mark of an inferioi mind to be constantly repeating the common-places of mo- rality : one, who does it often, is sure to be esteemed by his neighbours as a tedious proser ; and to have this strain of puny thinking put into verse, and set before us as suo- lime, is really intolerable. In that which is to produce a grand effect, every thing must be proportionably grand. The historians of nature tell us, that gold is diffused throughout creation, may be extracted from the stones we tread upon, and enters into the composition of the plants on which we feed. But it is a very slow and troublesome process to extract it from most stones and plants ; and, after all, it is ohtainad in snu.l quantises, that it is net worth the trouble it costs. And it may be so with the elements of poetry. They exist every wti*j*.ve collector of facts, one man's experience may offer nearly as much as another's ; but cannot, in the same degree, promote the purposes of the poet. At a ball in any village in the country, there are probably the self-same passions at work, as were ever called into action on similar Occa- sions. The beauty and pride of a country town, dancing to an imperfect band, may afford illustrations of all the moral phenomena of vanity, admiration and love, the hours whirled away very agreeably in lively dances, and blushes excited by the praise of loveliness. But a 1 ! this is a common, every day sort of business; and hardly any one would think of weaving it info poetry. But when the imagination is wrought up by the expectation of an ap preaching battle ; when the capital of Belgium has gather* ed its own beauty and the chivalry of England ; when the blow, that is to decide the destiny of empires, is suspended for a season, while youth and pleasure revel in careless gayety, till they are recalled from the charm that creeps over the senses by a peal, which is the death-larum of thousands, we find the scenes of the ball room contribut- ing to heighten the power and the splendour of poetry. If we hear of a blind boy, who goes to sea in a shell, we should think the story would make a very curious and proper paragraph for the miscellaneous department of a newspaper, provided the fact be well authenticated ; but what is there of poetry about it ?* If we were to meet a little girl, who had lost her pet lamb, it would be proper to be extremely sorry ; and the matter is a fit one for pro- portionate sympathy. But these are trivial things ; they hardly claim much attention in life ; they are of no gen- eral interest for the exercise of the imagination. The poet must exalt and satisfy the mind ; must fill us with glorious aspirations and lofty thoughts ; must lead us out * Trifllnc as this incident might appear, if related in the com n.on and desultory manner of a newspaper paragraph, it lias yet been wrousht, hy tlie genius of U'ordsw rtli. into one of the moil beautiful and natural p'pces of noutry which it has been our lot to mMr vith.- ED. 262 COMMO,\-PI,.M'K BOOK OF PROSE. through (he high heaven of invention, and call up befote us ihe master passion.-- of man's mind in all their majesty ; not show us the insult* of a iiab y-house, nor furnish us witb a comment on the catalogue of a toy-shop. The Consequences of Jl theism. CHAINING. FEW men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the extent of the sup|>urt given hy religion to every virtue No man, perhaps, is au;ne how n.uch our moral and social sentiments are fed from this fountain; how powerless con- science would become without the belief of a God ; how palsied would he human benevolence, were there not the sense of a higher he.nevolerice to quicken and sustain it ; now suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and with what a fearful n ash it would sink into hopeless ruins, were the ideas of a Siipieme Being, of accountableness, and of a future life, to lie utterly erased from every mind. Once let men thoroughly believe, that they are the work and sport of chance; that no Superior Intelligence con- cerns itself with human affairs; that all their improve- ments perish forever at death ; that the weak have no guardian, and the injured no avenger; that there is no recompense for sacrifices to uprightness and the public good ; that an oath is unheard fn heaven ; that secret crimes have no witness but the perpetrator; that human existence has no purpose, and human virtue no unfailing friend ; that this brief life is every thing to us, and death is total, everlasting extinction, once let men thoroughly abandon religion, and who can conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which would follow ? We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sym- pathy would hold society together. As reasonably might we believe, that, weiv the sun quenched in the heavens, our torches could illuminate, and 'ur fires quicken and fertilize the creation. What is there in human nature to awaken respect and tenths-ness, if man is the unprotected insect of a day ? and what is he more, if atheism be true .' Erase a!! thought and fear of God from a community, and COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF IMtOSK. 263 selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. Appetite, knowing no restraint, and poverty and suffer- .'tie, having no solace or hope, would trample in scorn OP the restraints of human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked and spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would supplant every other feeling, and man would become in fact, what the theory of atheism declares -him to be, a companion for brutes ! The blind Preacher. WIRT. IT was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house in the forest, not far from the road- side. Having frequently seen such objects before, in travelling thrcugh these States, I had no diffi- culty in understanding that this was a place of religious worship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the con 6 re:tticn ; but I must confess, that curi- osity to hear the preacher of such, a wilderness, was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy ; and a few momenta ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions that touched my breast were those of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject was, of course, the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thou- sand times : I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose that .in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a man, whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos, than I had ever be fore witnessed. 264 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solem- nity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; his trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his cruci- fixion ; and his death. 1 knew the whole history ; but never until then had I heard the circumstances so select- ed, so arranged, so coloured ! It was all new ; and I seem- ed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enun- ciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable ; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of descrip- tion, that the original scene appeared to be at that moment acting i.elWe cui eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage We saw the buffet: my soul kindled with a flame of in- dignation ; and my hands were involuntarily and convul- si"ely clinched. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiv- ing meekness of our Saviour; \\hen he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God a soi't and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not whal they do," the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter ami fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings^ he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and ir- repressible flood of grief. The effect is inconce ; vable The who'e house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. k was sometime before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usu- al, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be abie to let his audi- ence down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall But no : the descent was as beautiful anu sublime as th elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 65 The first sentence, with which he broke the awful si- lence, was a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ, like a God !" I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceivo the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely under- stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable fig- ure of the preacher ; his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and asso- ciating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses ; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody ; you are to remember the litch of passion and enthusiasm, to which the congregation were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, deathlike silence, which reigned throughout the house: the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and slowly stretching torth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, " Socrates died like a phi- losopher" then, pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them Loth, clasped together, with warmth and energy, tc his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice " hut Je- sus Christ like a God !" If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. Whatever 1 had been able to conceive of the sublimity of Massillon or the force of Bourdaloue, had fallen far short of the power which I felt from the delivery of this simple sentence. If this description give you the impression, that this in- comparable minister had any thing of shallow, 'heatrical trick in his manner, it does him great injustice I have never seen, in any ^'her orator, such a union of simplicity ind majesty. He l,*s not a gesture, an attitude, or an ac- cent, to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment be is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, too solicitous, and, at the same time, too dignified, to stoop to artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a 23 266 COMMON-PLACE B-OOK. OF PROSE. man can be, yet it is clear, from the train, the style aiu) substance of his thoughts, thai he is not only a very polite scholar, but a man 01 extensive and profound erudition. I was forcibly struck with a short yet beautiful character, which he drew of your learned and amiable countryman, Sir Robert Boyle : he spoke of him, as if " his noble mind had, even before death, divested herself of al! influence from his frail tabernacle of flesh ;" and called him, in his peculiarly eniphatic and impressive manner, " a pure in- telligence : the link between men and angels." This man has been- before my imagination almost ever since. A thousand times, as I rode along, I dropped the reins of my bridle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to imitate his quotation from Rousseau ; a thousand times I abandoned the attempt in despair, and felt persuaded, that his peculiar manner and power arose from an energy of soul, which nature could give, but which no human being could justly copy. A,s I recall, at this moment, several of his awfully striking attitudes, the chilling tide, with which my blood begins to pour along my arteries, reminds me of the emotions produced by the first sight of Gray's intro- ductory picture of his Bard. The humble Man and the proud. THACHER COMPARE, then, the proud man with the man of hu- mility, and tell me which is the more dignified being. Pride, like humility, supposes an act of comparison. But the comparison of ..he proud man is not between himself and the standard of his duty ; between what he is and what he ought to be ; but between himself and his fellow-men. He looks around him, forgets his own defects and weak- ppases, infirmities and sins, and because he finds, or im- agines he finds, in some respects, a little superiority to hi fellow-men at the greatest it can be but a little because he, one worm of the dust, believes himself to be somewhal more rich, more learned, more successful than another, he thinks this to be a sufficient ground for swelling with self- complacency, and regarding those around him with disdain COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 267 and contempt. The humble man, on the contrary, is sc full of the thought of the exceeding breat tli of the com mamlments of God, and of that supreme excellence, to which his religion teaches him to uspire ; and lie so con- stantly recollects the imperfection of his approaches to it, that every idea of a vain-glorious comparison of himself with his neighbour dies away within him. He can only remember that God is every thing, and that in his august presence all distinctions are lost, and all human beings re- duced to the same level. Say, then, my friends ; is it not pride, that is so mean, so poor-spirited and low ? is it not pride, that is a mark of a little, and narrow, and feeble mind ? and is not humility alone the truly noble, the truly generous and sublime quality ? There is this further proof of the superior elevation of the humble imin. The man of pride, with all his affected contempt of the workl, must evidently estimate it very highly ; else, whence so much complacency at the idea of surpassing others ? Whence that restless desire of dis- tinction, that passion for theatrical display, which inflames his heart, and occupies his whole attention ? Why is it that his strongest motive to good actions is their notoriety, and that he considers every worthy deed as lost, when it is not publicly displayed ? It is only because the world and the world's applause are every thing to him ; and that he cannot live bat on the breath of popular favour But the humble man, with all his real lowliness, has yet risen above the world. He looks for that honour, which cometh down from on high, and the whispers of worldly praise die away upon his ear. When his thoughts return from tne contemplation of the infinite excellence of God, and J?he future glories of virtue, the objects of this life appear reduced in their importance ; in the same way as the land- scape around appears little and low to him, whose eye has been long directed to the solemn grandeur and wide mag- nificence of the starry heavens. I appeal to you, my friends, to decide on the comparative dignity of the char- acters of the proud and tne humble man. I call on yot to say, whether our blessed Master has given to humilitj too high a rank in the scale ot excellence. 368 COMMON- PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The Son. From " The Idle Man." RICHARD DANA THERE is no virtue without a characteristic beauty U make it particularly loved of the good, and to make tie bad ashamed of their neglect of it. To do what is right argues superior taste as well as morals ; and those, whose practice is evil, feel an inferiority of intellectual power and enjoyment, even where they take no concern for a prin- ciple. Doing well has something more in it than the fulfilling of a duty. It is a cause of a just sense of eleva- tion of character^; it clears and strengthens the spirits ; it gives higher reaches of thought ; it widens our benevo- lence, anJ makes the current of our peculiar affections swift and deep. A sacrifice was never yet offered to a principle, that was not made up to us by self-approval, and the consideration of what our degradation would have been had we done otherwise. Certainly, it is a pleasant and a wise thing, then, to follow what is right, when we only go along with our affections, and take the easy way of the virtuous pro- pensities of our nature. The world is sensible, of these truths, let it act as it may It is not because of his integrity alone that, it relies on an honest man; but it has more confidence in his judgment and wise conduct in the long run, than in the schemes of those of greater intellect, who go at large without any land- marks of principle. So that virtue seems of a double na- lure, and to stand oftentimes in the place of what we call talent. The reasoning, or rather feeling, of the world is all right, for the honest man only falls in with the order of nature, which is grounded in truth, and will endure along with it. And such a hold has a good man upon the world, that, even where he has not been called upon to make a sacrifice to a principle, or to take a stand against wrong, but has merelj avoided running into vices, and suffered himself to be borne along by the delightful and virtuous affections of pn vate life, and has found his pleasure in practising the d- ties of home, he is looked up to with respect, as well * egarded with kindness. We attach certain notions of re COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 269 finement to his thoughts, and of depth to his sentiment. The impression he makes on us is beautiful and peculiar. Othet men In his presence, though we have nothing to object to them, and though they may be very well in their way, af- fect us as larking something we can hardly tell what a certain sensitive delicacy of character and manner, without which they strike us as more or laps vulgar. No creature in the world has this character so finely marked in him, as a respectful and affectionate son partic- ularly in his relation to his mother. Every little attention he pays her is not only an expression of filial attachment, and grateful acknowledgment of past cares, but is an evidence of a tenderness of disposition, which moves us the more, because not looked on so much as an essential prop- erty in a man's character, as an added grace, which is bestowed only upon a few. His regards do not appear like mere habits of duty, nor does his watchfulness of his mother's wishes seem like taught submission to her will. They are the native courtesies of a feeling mind, showing themselves amid, c t stern virtues and masculine energies like gleams of tight on points of rocks. They are de- lightful as evidences of power yielding voluntary homage to the delicacy of the soul. The armed kn.ee is bent, and the heart of the mailed man laid bare. Feelings, that would seem to be at variance with each other, meet together and harmonize in the breast of a son. Every call of the mother which he answers to, and every act of submission which he performs, are not only so many dck now led-gments of her authority, but, also, so many in- stances of kindness, and marks of protecting regard. The servant and defender, the child and guardian, are all min- gled in him. The world looks on him in this way ; and to draw upon a man the confidence, the respect, and the love of the world, it is enough to say of him, He is an ex- cellent son. In looking over some papers of a deceased acquaintance, I found the following fragment. He had frequently spoken to me of the person whom it concerned, and who had been his school-fellow I remember well his one day telling me, that, thinking the character of his friend, and some circumstances in his life, v *re of such a kind, that an in 23* 270 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. teresting iroral little story might be made from then;, he had undertaken it; but considering, as he was going on, that bringing the private character and feeiings of a de- ceased friend before the world was something like sacrilege, though done under a fictitious name, he had stopped soon after beginning the tale ; that he had laid it away amongst his papers, and had never looked at it again. As the person it concerns has been a long time dead, and no relation survives, I do not feel that there can be any impropriety in my now niakhig it public. I give it as it was written, thoi gh evidently not revised by my friend. Though hastily put together, and beginning as abruptly as it ends, and with l ; ttle of story, and no novelty, in the circumstances, yet there i? a mournful tenderness in it, which, I trust viil iiiteiest others in some portion as it did me. " The 'sun not set yet, Thomas ?" " Not quite, sir I blazes through the trees on the hill yonder as if then branches were all on fire." Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and, with his ha- BtSll over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes towards the setting sun. It was only the night before that he had heard his mother was ill, and could survive but a day or two. He had lived nearly apart from society, and, being a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy mind, had made a world to himself. His thoughts and feelings were so much in it, that, except in relation to his own home, there were the same vague and strange notions in his brain, concerning the state of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign land. The main feeling, which this self-made world excited in him, was love, and, like most of his age, he had formed to himself a being suited to his own fancies. This was the romance of life, and though men, with minds like his, make imagination to stand oftentimes in the place of real exist- ence, and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet, in domestic relations, which are so near, and usual, and private, they feel longer a\id more deeply than those wh look upon their homes as only a better part of the worM COMMON-PLACE DOOR OF PROSE. 27J which they belong to. Indeed, in affectionate and good men of a visionary cast, it is in some sort only realizing their hopes and desires, to turn them homeward. Arthur felt that it was so, and he loved his household the more that they gave liin'i an earnest of one day reali/.ing all his hopes and attachments. Arthur's mother was peculiarly dear to him, in having a character so much like his own. For, though the cares and attachments of life lu;n! long ago taken place of a fanciful existence in her, yet her natural turn of mind was strong enough to give to these something of the romance of her disposition. This had led to a more than usual openness and intimacy between Arthur and his mother, and HOW brought to his remembrance the hours they had sat togeth- er by the fire light, when he listened to her mild and melan choly voice, as she spoke of what she had undergone at the loss of her parents and husband. Her gentle rebuke of his faults, her affectionate look of approval when he had done well, her care that he should be a just man, and her moth- erly anxiety lest the world should go hard with him, al' crowded into his mind, and he thought that every world Ij attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing. He had passed the night between violent, tumultuous grief, and numb insensibility. Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak motion, like one who was quitting his sick chamber for the first time, he began his journey homeward. As he lifted his eyes upward, the few stars, that were here and there over the sky, seemed to look down in pity, and shed a religious and healing light upon him. But they soon went out, one after another, and as the last faded from his imploring sight, it was as if every thing good and holy had forsaken him. The faint tint in thj east soon became a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting upward, burst over every living thing in full glory. The ight went to Arthur's sick heart, as if it were in mockery of his misery. Leaning back in hia carriage, with his hand over his eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was day. The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went on talking in a low, monotonous tone ; but Arthur only heard something sounding in his ears, scarcely heeding 27iJ COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. that it was a human voice. He had a sense of wearisome ness from the motion of the carriage, but in all things else the day passed as a melancholy dream. Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he shuddered through his whole frame, and then became sick and pale. He thought he knew the hill near him ; and, as they wound round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and he was in a few minutes in the midst of the scenery near his home. The river before him, reflecting the rich even- ing sky, looked as if poured out from a molten mine. The birds, gathering in, were shooting across each other, burst- ing into short, gay notes, or singing their evening songs in the trees. It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and cheerful, and so near his own home too. His horses' hoofs struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound went to his heart. It was here his mother took her last leave of him, and blessed him. As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of strangeness, that every thing should be just as it was when he left it. There was an undefined thought floating in his mind, that his mother's state should produce a visible change in all that he had been familiar with. But the boys were ai their noisy games in the street, the labourers returning, talking together, from their work, and the old men sitting quietly at their doors. He concealed himself as well as he could, and bade Thomas hasten on. As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in about it, and there was a melancholy gusty sound in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb He entered the parlour. All was as gloomy and still as a deserted house. Presently he heard a slow, cautious step, over head. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister had seen him from the window. She hurried down, and threw her arms about her brother's neck, without uttering a word. As soon as he could speak, he asked, " Is she alive ?" he could not say, my mother. " She is sleep- ing," answered his sister. " and must not know to-nighi that you are here ; she is too weak to bear it now." " 1 will go look at her then, while she sleeps," said he, draw- big his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF 1'KOsE. 273 nau made him shed the first tears which had fallen from him that day, and he was mure composed. He entered the chaml.er with a deep and still awe upon him ; and, a.s he drew near his mother's bed-side, and look- ed on her p-tle, plarid, and motionless face, he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should Disturb the secret commun- ion that the son! was holding with the world into which it was about to enter. The loss that he was about suffering, and his heavy grief, were all forgotten in the feeling of a holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of in- visible spirits, ascending and descending. His mother's lips moved slightly as she uttered an indistinct sound. He drew back, and his sister went near to her, and she spoke It was the same gentle voice which he had known and fell from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left him he sunk down and his misery went over him like a Hood. The next day, as soon as his mother became composed enough to see him, Arthur went into her chamber. She stretched out her feeble hand, and turned towards him, with a look that blessed him. It was the short struggle of a meek spirit. She covered her eyes with her hand, and the teiirs trickled down between her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt iit being spared to see him before she died. " My dear mother," said Arthur but he could not go on. ills voice was choked, his eyes filled with tears, and liio .1 ;'tuy of his soul was visible in his face. " Do not be so atllicted, Arthur, at the loss ol me. We are not to part far over. Remember, too, how comfortable and happy you ha\e made my days Heaven, I know, will bless so good a son as you have been to me. You will have that conso- lation, my son, which visits but a few you will be able tc look back upon your past conduct to me, not without pain only, but with a holy joy. And think hereafter of the peace of mind you give me, now that I am about to die, in the thought that 1 am leaving your sister to your love and care. So long as you live, she will find you a father and brother to her." She paused for a moment. " I have always felt that I could meet death with composure ; but I did nof know," she said, with a tremulous voice, her lips quivering W4 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. " I did not know how hard a thing it would be to eive my children, till now that the hour has come." After a little while, she spoke of his father, and said, she had lived with the belief that he was mindful of her, and with the conviction, wl'<'h grew stronger as death approach- ed, that she should meet him in another world. She said but little more, as she grew weaker and weaker every hour. Arthur sat by in silence, holding her hand He saw that she was sensible he was watching her countenance, for every now and then she opened her dull eye, aiui looked towards him, and endeavoured to smile. The day wore slowly away. The sun went down, and the melancholy and still twilight came on. Nothing waa heard but the ticking of the watch, telling him with a re- sistless power, that the hour was drawing nigh. He gasp- ed, as if under some invisible, gigantic grasp, which it was not for human strength to struggle against. It was now quite dark, and, by the pale light of the night- lamp in the chimney corner, the furniture in the room threw huge and uncouth figures over the walls. All was unsub- stantial and visionary, and the shadowy ministers of death appeared gathering round, waiting the duty of the hour appointed them. Arthur shuddered for a moment with superstitious awe; but the solemn elevation which a good man feels at the sight of the dying, took possession of him, and he became calm again. The approach of death has so much which is exalting, -that our grief is, for the time, forgotten. And could one, who had seen Arthur a few hours before, now have looked apon the grave and grand repose of his countenance, he .would hardly have known him. The livid hue of death" was fast spreading over his moth- er's face He stooped forward to catch the sound of her breathing. It grew quick and faint. "My mother!" She opened her eyes, for the last time, upon him a faint flush passed over her cheek there was the serenity of an angel in her look her hand just pressed his. It wai all over. His spirit had endured to its utmost. It sunk down froai its unearthly height ; and, with his face upon his mother*! pill iw, he wept like a child. He arose with a violent effort, COMMON-PLACE 1SOOK OF PROSE. 27fl tnd, stepping into the adjoining chamber, spoke to his aunt '* It is padl," ,. Well, then, !et her have rest ; she needs it." He then went to his own clumber, und shut himself in. It is a merciful tiling that the intense suffering of sensi- tive minds makes to itself a relief. Violent grief brings rm a torpor, and an indistinctness, and dimness, as from long watching. It is not till the violence of afflict'on has subsided, and gentle and soothing thoughts can find room to mix with our sorrow, and holy consolations can minister to us, that we are able to know fully our loss, and see clear- ly what has been torn away from our affections. It was so with Arthur. Unconnected and strange thoughts, with melancholy, but half-formed images, were floating in his mind, und now and then a gleam of light would pass through it, as if he had been in a troubled trance, and all was right again. His worn and tired feelings at last found rest in sleep. It is an impression, which we cannot rid ourselves of if we would, when sitting by the body of a friend, that he has still a consciousness of our presence , that, though the com- mon concerns of the world have no more to do with him, he has stili a love and care of us. The face which we had so long been familiar with, when it was all life and motion, seems only in a state of rest. We know not how to make it real to ourselves, that the body before us is not a living thing. Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone in the room by his mother, the day after her death. It was s if her soul had been in paradise, and was now holding communion with pure spirits there, though it still abode in the body that lay before him. He felt as if sanctified by he presence of one to whom the other world had been laid open as if under the love and protection of one male holy. The religious reflections that his mother had early taught him, gave him strength ; a spiritual composure stole over him, and he found himself prepared to perform the last offices to the dead Is t not enough to see our friends die, and part with &m for the remainder of our days ; to reflect that w* 276 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK THOSE. shall hear their voices no more, ami thai they will uevei look on us again ; to see that turning to corruption, which was but just now alive, and eloquent, and beautiful with all the sensations of the soul ? Are our sorrows so sacred and peculiar as to make the world as vanity to us, and the men of it as strangers ? and shall we not be left to our af- flictions for a few hours ? Must we be brought out at such a time to the concerned or careless ga/.e of those we know not, or be made to bear the formal proffers of consolations from acquaintances who will go away and forget it all ? Shall we not be suffered, a little while, a holy and healing communion with the dead : Must the kindred stillness and gloom of our dwelling be changed for the solemn show *f the pall, the talk of the passers-by, and the broad and piercing light of the common sun f Must the ceremonies af the world wait on us even to the open graves of our friends ? When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step and fixed eye, though his whole face was tremulous with the struggle within him. He went to his sister, and took her arm within his. The bell struck. Its heavy, undulating sound rolled forward like a sea. Me felt a violent beating through his whole frame, which shook him that he reeled It was but a momentary weakness. He moved on, passing those who surrounded him, as if they had been shadows While he followed the slow hearse, there was a vacancy in his eye, as it rested on the caflin, which showed him hardly conscious of what was before him. His spirit was with his mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk back, and turned deadly pale ; but, sinking his head upon his breast, and drawing his hat over his face, he stood motionless as a statue till the service was over. He had gone through all that the forms of society requir- ed of him. For, as painful as the effort was, and as little suited as such forms were to his own thoughts upon the sub- ject, yet he could not do any thing that might appear to the world like a want of reverence and respect for his mother. The scene was ended, and the inward struggle over ; and now that he was left to himself, the greatness of his lost came up full and distinctly before him. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 27? It was a dreary and chilly evening when he returnee.' home. When he entered the house from which his mothe had gone for e^er, a sense of dreary emptiness oppressed him, as if his very abode had been deserted by every liv- ing thing. He walked into his mother's chamber. The naked bedstead, and the chair in which she used to sit, were ail that was left in the room. As he threw himself back into the chair, he groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. A feeling of forlornness came over him, which was not to be relieved by tears. She, whom he had watched over in her dying hour, and whom he had talked to as she lay before him in death, as if she could hear and answer him, had gone from him. Nothing was left for the sensei to fasten fjndly on, and time had not yet taught him to think of her only as a spirit. But time and holy endeav- ours brought this consolation ; and the little of life that a wasting disease left him, was past by him, when alone, in thoughtful tranquillity; and amongst his friends he appear- ed with that gentle cheerfulness, which, before his mother's death, had been a part oi' his nature. J\Teglect of foreign Literature in America. AMERICAN QUARTERLY REVIEW. THE curiosity of <>ur nation in literature is not sufficient- ly expansive ; our public refuses its attention to works writ- ten for another hemisphere, and a different state of society. This i* natural, but it is not wise. The facility of receiving enjoyment from a variety of sources is an advantage of high value. It is well to re- joice in every exhir ilion of genius. What should we think of the man, who not only clings to the pleasures rendered dear by habit, but denies that there are others to be set in comparison with them ? And yet we hear hasty judgments on the merits of whole classes of writers. Every mac has, indeed, the right to choose his own guides to the sum- mit of Olympus; but we question the soundness of those who deny tin t there are more ways than one. Such ar ?4 78 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK PROSE. ftpiuiou could I e explained, only as the result of tueii tal imbecility, of a narrowness that submits to the hackles ot prejudice. Horn and bred in a temperate zone, we all admire the loveliness of our landscape, where the graceful foliage of our trees is mingled with /lie rich verdure of our meadows, and the abundance of our har- vests. But shall we have no eye for other charms ? Shall a Swiss scene, where 'I.e. glaciers enter the fertile valley, and winter and summer are seen side by side, have no power to please us ? or a scene beneath a southern sky, where the pahn trees lift t* -s under a tropic sun ? The eye, that communes with nature, and understands it, discerns loveliness in all its forms. And shall we, who are certain- ly not incurious as to the concerns ol this world, be indif- ferent to foreign letters? Must we be so engrossed with the language and concerns of Business, that we cannot lis- ten to the language of poetic inspiration ? And must we forever and unceasingly be deafened by the din of con- gressional rivalries ? Is there, between the acclamations and rebukes of partisans, and the hot warfare of canvass for office, no happy moment of tranquillity, in which Learn- ing may raise her head fearlessly, and be respected, and the pursuits of contemplative life bn cheered by the free expression of general approbation, and quickened into ex. cellence by the benignity of an attentive nation ? We cannot as yet be said to have a n-itinnal literature ; but we already have the promise of one, and the first fruits As the literary character of the country is developed, it should resemble our political institutions in liberality, inr Wf Icome excellence from every quarter of the warid. COMAION-1'LACE UUtlK. Of 1'HUSfc. 271 Death a sublime and universal Moralist. SPA kits.* No object is so insignificant, no event so trivial, as nut to carry with it a moral and religious influence. The Irons' that spring out of the earth are moralists. They are em- blems of the life of man. They grow up ; they put ON the garments of freshness and beauty. Yet these continue but for a time ; decay seizes upon the root arid the trunk, and they gradually go back to their original elements. The blossoms that open to the rising sun, but are closed at night never to open again, are moralists. The seasons are moralists, teaching the lessons of wisdom, manifesting the wonders of the Creator, and calling on man to reflect on his condition and destiny. History is a perpetual mor- alist, disclosing the annals of past ages, showing the im- potency of pride and greatness, the weakness of human power, the folly of human wisdom. The daily occurren- ces in society are moralists. The success or failure of en- terprise, the prosperity of the bad, the adversity of the good, the disappointed hopes of the sanguine and active, the sufferings of the virtuous, the caprices of fortune in every condition of life, all these are fraught with moral in- structions, and, if properly applied, will fix the power of religion in the heart. But there is a greater moralist still ; and that is, DEATH. Here is a teacher, who speaks in a voice, which none can mistake ; who comes with a power, which none can resist. Since we last assembled in this place as the humble and united worshippers of God, this stern messenger, this mys- terious agent of Omnipotence, has come among our num- bers, and laid his withering hand on one, whom we have been taught to honour and respect, whose fame was a na- tion's boast, whose genius was a brilliant spark from the tthereal fire, whose attainments were equalled only by the grasp of his intellect, the profoundness of his judgment, the exuberance of his fancy, the magic of his eloquence. * From a Sermon on the death of the Hon. William Pinckney, preacheil Mnrcl 3d, H-.h!, in the hall of the house of representatives ID congress. ED 280 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OF PROSE It is not my present purpose to ask your attention to anj picture drawn in the studied phrase of eulogy. I aim no< to describe the commanding powers and [lie eminent qual- ities, which conducted the deceased to 'the superiority he held, and which were at once the admiration and the prid* of his countrymen. I shall not attempt to analyze his tap;, rious mind, nor to set forth the richness and variety of its treasures. The trophies of his genius are a sufficient tes- timony of these, and constitute a monument to his memo- ry, which will stand firm and conspicuous amidst the faded recollections of future ages. The present is not the time to recount the sources rr the memorial.- of his greatness He is gone. The noblest of Heaven's gifts could not shield even him from the arrows of the destroyer. And this behest of the Most High is a warning summons to us all. When Death comes into our doors, we ought to feel that he is near. When his irreversible sentence falls on the great and the renowned, when he severs the strongest bonds, which can hind mortals to earth, we ought to feel that our hold on life is slight, that the thread of existence ts slender, that we walk amidst perils, where the next wave in the agitated sea of life may baffle all our struggles, and carry us back into the dark bosom of the deep. When we look at the monuments of human greatness, and the powers of human intellect, all that genius has in- vented, or skill executed, or wisdom matured, or industry achieved, or labour accomplished ; "when we trace these through the successive gradations of human advancement, what are they ? On these are founded the pride, glory, dignity of man. And what are they : Compared with the most insignificant work of (Jotl, they are nothing, less than nothing. The mightiest works of man are daily and hourly becoming extinct. The boasted theories of reli- gion, morals, government, which took the wisdom, the in- genuity of ages to invent, have been proved to be shad- owy theories only. Genius has wasted itself in vain ; the visions it has raised have vanished at the touch of truth Nothing is left but the melancholy certainty, that all things human are imperfect, and must fail and decay. And man himself, whose works are so fragile, where is he .' Th COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 281 history of his works is the history of himself. He existed ; tic is gone. The nature of human life cannot be more forcibly de- scribed than iu the beautiful language of eastern poetr j . which immediately pre >sdes the text: "Man, that is born of woman, is of few days, and full cf trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down ; he fleeth as a shadow, and continueth not. There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground ; yet, through the scent of water, it will bud and bring forth boughs like a plant. But man wasteth away ; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he ?" Such are the strik- ing emblems of human life ; such is the end of all that is mortal in man. And what a question is here for us te reflect upon ! " Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he ?" Yes, when we see the flower of life fade on its stalk, ami all its comeliness depart, and all iu freshness wither ; when we see the bright eye grow dim, and the rose on the cheek lose its hue ; when we hear the voice faltering its last accents, and see the energies of nature paralyzed ; when we perceive the beams of intelligence grow fainter and fainter on the countenance, and the last gleam of life extinguished ; when we deposit all that is mortal of a fel- low-being in the dark, told chamber of the grave, and drop a pitying tear at a spectacle .so humiliating, so mournful ; then let us put the solemn question to our souls, Where is he ? His body is concealed in the earth ; but where is the spirit ? Where is the intellect that could look through the works of God, and catch inspiration from the Divinity ivhich animates and pervades the whole ? Where are the powers th-\t could command, the attractions that could charm ? where the boast of humanity, wisdom, learning, wit, eloquence, the pride cf skill, the mystery of art, the creations of fancy, the brilliancy of thought ? where the virtues that could win, and the gentleness that could soothn ? where the mildness of temper, the generous affections, the benevolent feelings all that is great and good, all that is aoble, and lovely, and pure, in the human chancier. 24 * 232 COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. where are they ? They are gone. We can see nothing :he eye of faith only can dimly penetrate the region tn which they have fled. Lift the eye of faith ; follow the light of the Gospel ; and let your delighted vision be lost in the glories of the immortal world. Behold, there, the spirits of the righteous dead rising up into newness of life, gathering brightness and strength, unencumbered by the weight ef mortal clay and mortal sorrows, enjoying a. happy existence and performing the holy service of their Maker. Let our reflections on death have a weighty and immedi- ate influence on our minds and characters. We cannot be too soon nor too entirely prepared to render the accour which we must all render to our Maker and Judge. An things earthly must fail us ; the riches, power, possessions and gifts of the world will vanish from our sight ; friends and relatives will be left behind ; our present support will be taken away ; our strength will become weakness ; and the earth itself, and all its pomps, and honours, and attrac- tions will disappear. Why have we been spared even till this time ? We know not why, nor yet can we say that a moment is our own. The summons for our departure may now be recorded in the book of Heaven. The angel may now be on his way to execute his solemn commission. Death may already have marked us for his victims. But, whether sooner or later, the event will be equally awful, and demand the same preparation. One, only, will then be our rock and our safety. The dnd Parent, who has upheld us all our days, will remain our unfailing support. With him is no change ; he is un- moved from age to age ; his mercy, as well as his being, endures forever ; and, if we rely on him, and live in obe- dience to his laws, all tears shall be wiped from our eyes, and all sorrow banished from our hearts. If we are rebels to his cause, slaves to vice, and followers of evil, we must expect the displeasure of a holy God, the just punishment of our folly and wickedness ; for a righteous retribution will be awarded to the evil as well as to the good. Let it be the highest, the holiest, the unceasing concern of each one of us, t live the life, that we may be pre- pared to die the death of the rig :teous ; that, whec *hey COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 283 who come after us shall ask, Where is he ? um umbered voices shall be raised to testify, that, although his mortal remains are mouldering in the cold earth, his memory is embalmed in the cherished recollections of many a friend who knew ;rul loved him ; and all shall say, with token? o" joy and cinrident belief, If God be just, and piety be rewarded, h * pure spirit is now at rest in the regions of the blessed. Battle of Bunker Hill. COOPER. THE whole scene now lay before them. Nearly in their front was the village of Charlestown, with its desert- ed streets, and silent roofs, looking like a place of the dead ; or, if the signs of life were visible within its open avenues, 'twas merely some figure moving swiftly in the solitude, like one who hastened to quit the devoted spot. On the opposite point of the south-eastern face of the peninsula, and at the distance of a thousand yards, the ground was already covered by masses of human beings, in scarlet, with their arms glittering in a noon-day sun. Between the two, though in the more immediate vicinity of the silent town, the rounded ridge, already described, rose abruptly from a flat that was bounded by the water, until, having attained an elevation of some fifty or sixty feet, it swelled gradually to the little crest, where was planted the hum- ble object that had occasioned all this commotion. The meadows, on the right, were still peaceful and smiling, as in the most quiet days of the province, though the excited fancy of Lionel imagined that a sullen stillness lingered ibout the neglected kilns in their front, and over the whole landscape, that was in gloomy consonance with the ap- proaching scpne. Far on the left, across the waters of the Charles, 'tie American camp had poured forth its thousands to the hills ; and the whole population of the country, for many miles inland, had gathered to a point, to witness a struggle charged with the fate of their nation. Beacon Hlil rose from out the appalling silence of the town of Bos- <*, like a pyramid of living faces, with every eye fixed 284 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. on the fatal point ; and men hung along the yards of the Loping, or were suspended on cornices, cupolas, nd stee- ples, in thoughtless security, while every other .< use was lost in the absorbing interest of the sight. The vessels of war had hauled deep into the rivers, or, more pri>|-er!v, those narrow arms of the sea, which formed the peninsula, and sent their iron missiles with unwearied industry anosi the low passage, which alone opened the means of coniinu- nicatiop between the self-devoted yeomen on the hill and their distant countrymen. While battalion landed after battalion on the point, cannon-balls from the battery of Copp's, and the vessels of war, were glancing up the nat- ural glacis that surrounded the redoubt, burying themselves in its earthen parapet, or plunging with violence into tiie deserted sides of the loftier height which lay a few hun- dred yards in its rear ; and the black and smoking bombs appeared to hover above the spot, as if pausing to select the places in which to plant their deadly combustibles. Notwithstanding these appalling preparation*, and cease less annoyances, throughout that long and anxious morn ing, the stout husbandmen on the hill had never ceased their steady efforts to maintain, to the uttermost extremity, the post they had so daringly assumed. In vain the Eng- lish exhausted every means to disturb their stubborn foes ; the pick, the shovel and the spade continued to perform their offices, and mound rose after mound, amidst the din and danger of the cannonade, steadily, and as well as if the fanciful conceits of Job Pray embraced their real objects, and the labourers were employed in the peaceful pursuits of their ordinary lives. This firmness, however, was not like the proud front which high training can impart to the most common mind ; for, ignorant of the glare of military show ; in the simple and rude vestments of their calling -. armed with such weapons as they had seized from the hooks above their own mantels ; and without even a ban- ner to wave its cheering folds above their heads, they stood, sustained only by the righteousness of their cause, and those deep moral principles, which they had rece : ved from their fathers, and which they intended this day should show were to be transmitted untarnished to their children. It was afterwards known, that they endured th^ir labour COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 28A aiw< their dangers even in want of that sustenance, which is so essential to support animal spirits in mo-nents of calm- ness and ease ; while their enemies, on the point, awaiting the arrival of their latest bands, were securely devouring a meal, which, to hundreds amongst them, proved to be theii last. The fatal instant now seemed approaching. A gen- eral movement was seen among the battalions of the Brit- ish, who began to spread along the shore, under cover ol the brow of the hill the lingering boats having arrived with the rear of their detachments and officers hurried from regiment to regiment with the final mandates of their chief. At this moment a body of Americans appeared on ihe crown of Bunker Hill, and, descen ling swiftly by the road, disappeared in the meadows to the left of their own redoubt. This band was followed by others, who, like themselves, had broken through the dangers of the nar- row pass, by braving the fire of the shipping, and who also hurried to join their comrades on the lowland. The Brit- is-h general determined at once to anticipate the arrival of further re-enforcements, and gave forth the long-expected order to prepare for the attack. The Americans had made a show, in the course of that fearful morning, of returning the fire of theii enemies, by throwing a few shot from their light field-pieces, as if in mockery of the tremendous cannonade which they sus- tained. But as the moment of severest trial approached, the same awful stillness, which had settled upon the de- serted streets of Charlestown, hovered around the redoubt. On the meadows, to its left, the recently arrived bands has- tily threw the rails of two fences into one, and, covering the whole witli the mown grass that surrounded them, they posted themselves along the frail defence, which answer- sd no better purpose than to conceal their weakness from their adversaries. Behind this characteristic rampart, several bodies of husbandmen, from the neighbouring provinces of New Hampshire and Connecticut, lay on (heir arms, in sullen expectation. Their line extended from the shore to the base of the ridge, where it termi- nated several hundred feet behind the works; leaving b wide opening, in a diagonal direction, between the fence rod an earthen breastwork, which ran a short distance 286 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. down the declivity of the hill, from the north-eastern angle of the redoubt. A few hundred yards in the rear of this rude disposition, the naked crest of Bunker Hill rose unoc- cupied and undefended ; and the streams of the Charles and Mystick, sweeping around its base, approached so near each other as to blend the sounds of their rippling. It was across this low and narrow isthmus, that the royal frigates poured a stream of fire, that never ceased, while around it hovered the numerous parties of the undisciplined Ameri cans, hesitating to attempt the dangerous passage. In this manner Gage had, in a great degree, surround- ed the devoted peninsula with his power ; and the bold men, who had so daringly planted themselves under the muzzles of his cannon, were left, as already stated, unsup- ported, without nourishment, and with weapons from their own gunhooks, singly to maintain the honour of their na- tion. Including men of all ages and conditions, there might have been two thousand of them ; but, as the day advanced, small bodies of their countrymen, taking counsel of their feelings, and animated by the example of the old partisan of the woods, who crossed and recrossed the neck, 'oudly scoffing at the danger, broke through the fire of the shipping in time to join in the closing and bloody business of the hour. On the other hand, Howe led more than an equal num- ber of the chosen troops of his prince ; and as boats con- tinued to ply between the two peninsulas throughout the afternoon, the relative disparity continued undiminished to the end of the struggle. It was at this point in our narra- tive that, deeming himself sufficiently strong to force the defences of his despised foes, the arrangements immediate- ly preparatory to such an undertaking were made in full view of the excited spectators. Notwithstanding the se curity with which the English general 'marshalled his war- liors, he felt that the approaching contest would be a bat- tle of no common incidents. The eyes of tens of thousands were fastened on his movements, and the occasion demand- ed the richest display of the pageantry of war. The troops formed with beautiful accuracy, and the col- umns moved steadily along the shore, and took their assign- ed stations und^r cover of the brow of the eminence. Thoi COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 281 force was in some measure divided ; one moiety attempting the toilsome ascent of the hill, and the >ther moving along the beach, or in the orchards of the more level ground, to- wards the husbandmen on the meadows. The latter soon disappeared behind some fruit-trees and the brick-kilns just mentioned. The advance of the royal columns up the as- cent was slow and measured, giving time to their field- guns to add their efforts to the uproar of the cannonade, .viiich broke out with new fury as the battalions prepared to march. When each column arrived at the allotted point, it spread the gallant array of its glittering warriors under a bright sun. "It is a glorious spectacle," murmured the graceful chieftain by the side of Lionel, keenly alive to all the po- etry of his alluring profession ; " how exceeding soldier- like ! and with what accuracy his ' first-arm ascends the hill,' towards his enemy !" The intensity of his feelings prevented Major Lincoln li'oii) replying, and the other soon forgot that he had spoken in the overwhelming anxiety of the moment. The ad- vance of the British line, so beautiful and slow, resembled rather the ordered steadiness of a drill, than an approach (o a deadly struggle. Their standards fluttered proudly above them ; and there were moments when the wild mu- sic of their bands was heard rising on the air, and temper- ing the ruder sounds of the artillery. The young and thoughtless in their ranks turned their faces backward, and smiled exultingly, as they beheld steeples, roofs, masts, and heights, teeming with their thousands of eyes, bent on the show of their bright array. As the British lines moved in open view of the little redoubt, and began slowly tc gather around its different faces, gun after gun became si- lent, and the curious artillerist, or tired seaman, lay ex- tended on his heated piece, gazing in mute wonder at the spectacle There was just then a minute when the roar of the cannonade seemed passing away like the rumbling uf distant thunder. " They will not fight, Lincoln," said the animated leader at the side of Lionel " the military front of Howe hai chilled the hearts of the knaves, and our victory will h* b oodless !" 288 COMiMON-IM.ACE HOOK OF I'ROSE. " We shal! see, sir we shai! see !" These words were barely uttered, when platoon aftei platoon, among the British, delivered its tire, the bla/.e of musketry flashing swiftly around the brow of the hill, an-j was immediately followed by heavy volleys that ascended from the orchard. Still no answering sound was heard from the Americans, arid the royal troops were soon lost to the eye, as they slowly inarched into the white cloud which their own fire had alone created. " They are cowed, by heavens ! the dogs are cowed !" once more cried the gay companion of Lionel, " and Howe is within two hundred feet of them unharmed !" At that instant a sheet of flame glanced through the smoke, like lightning playing in a cloud, while at one re- port a thousand muskets were added to the uproar. It was not altogether fancy, which led Lionel to imagine that he saw the smoky canopy of the hill to wave, as if the trained warriors it enveloped faltered before this close and appalling discharge ; but, in another instant, the stimulating war-cry, and the loud shouts of the combatants, were borne across the strait to his ears, even amid the horrid din of the com- bat. Ten breathless minutes tlew by like a moment of time, and the bewildered spectators on Copp's were still gazing intently on the scene, when a voice was raised among them, shouting " Hurrah ! let the rake-hellies go up to Breed's ; the people will teach 'em the law !" "Throw the rebel scoundrel from the hill! Blow htm from the muzzle of a gun !" cried twenty soldiers in a breath. " Hold !" exclaimed Lionel " 'tis a simpleton, an idiot, a fool !" But the angry and savage murmurs as quickly subsided, and were lost in other feelings, as the bright red lines of the royal troops were seen issuing from the smoke, waving nd recoiling hefore the still vivid fire of their enemies. " Ha !" said Burgoyne " 'tis some feint to draw th rebels from their hold !" " 'Tis a >alpable and disgraceful retreat !" muttered the stern warrior nigh him, whose truer eye detected at a glance COMMMN-IM.irK I<"K UK PKOSH. 2S* the discomfiture of the. assailants. -" 'Tis another ba.su re- treat before the rebels !" "Hurrah!" shouted the reckless changeling again; ' thf.re coiiie the reg'lars out of (lit orchard loo! see tu* gianniefl skulking behind the kili.s ! Let them go on 1- Breed's ; the people will teach 'em the law !" No cry of vengeance preceded the act this time, but fifty oi the soldiery rushed, as by a common impulse, on their prey. Lionel had not time to utter a word of remonstrance, before Job appeared in the air, borne on the uplifted armf of a dozen men, and at the next instant he was seen roll- ing down the steep declivity, with a velocity that carried him to the water's ed-e. Springing to his feet, the un- daunted changeling once more waved his hat in triumph, and shouted forth again his offensive challenge. Then turning, he launched his canoe from its hiding place among (he adjacent lumber, amid a shower of stones, and glided across the strait; his little bark escaping unnoticed in the crowd of boats that were rowing in all directions. But his progress was watched by the uneasy eye of Lionel, who saw him land and disappear, with hasty steps, in the silent treets of the town. While this trilling by-play was enacting, the great dra- ma of the day was not at a stand. The smoky veil, which clung around the brow of ihe eminence, was lifted by the air, and sailed heavily away to the south-west, leaving the srcnr- of the bloody struggle again open to the view. Li- HIL-I witnessed the grave and meaning glances which the two lieutenants of the king exchanged as they simultane- ously turned their glasses from the fatal spot, and, taking the one proffered by Burgoyne, he read their explanation in the numbers of the dead that lay profusely scattered in front of *he redoubt. At this instant, an otlicer from the field held an earnest communication with the two leaders; when, having delivered his orders, he hastened back to his boat, like one who felt himself employed in matters of life and death. " It shall be done, sir," repeated Clinton, as the other departed, his own honest brow sternly knit under high mar- tial excitement. " The artillery have their orders, and the work will he accomplished without delay." 25 ( OMM OX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE " This, Major Lincoln !" cried his more sophisticated cinpanion, " this is one of the trying duties of the soldier ! ! o t : ^ht, ID bleed, or even to die, for his prince, is his hap- j-y privilege ; hut it is sometimes, his unfoitunate lot to be- come the instrument of vengeance." Lionel waited hut a moment for an explanation the flaming halls were soon seen taking their wide circuit in the air, and carrying their desolation among the close and inflammable roofs of the opposite town. In a very few minutes, a dense, Mack s-noke arose from the deserted buildings, and forked flames played actively along the heat- ed shingles, as though noting in their unmolested posses- sion of the place. He regarded the gathering destruction in painful silence ; and, on bending his looks towards his companions, lie fancied, notwithstanding the language of the other, that he read the deepest regret in the averted eye of him. who had so unhesitatingly uttered the fata 1 mandate to destroy. In scents like these we are attempting to describe, hours appear to he minutes, and time flies as imperceptibly as life slides from !>eneaih the feet of age. The disordered ranks of the British had been arrested at the base of the hill, and were again forming under the eyes of their leaders, with admi- rable disci !i:i>', and extraordinary care. Fresh battalions, from Bosto 1 , nuirciicii with high military pride into the line, and every 'hing betokened that a second assault was at hand. Wti ;! the moment of stupid amazement, which succeeded e re'rcat of the royal troops, had passed, the troops and ".lies poured out their wrath with tenfold fury on th^; enemies. Shot were incessantly glancing up the ger acclivity, madly ploughing across its grassy surface, while black and threatcMiing shells appeared to hover above 'hi- work, like the monsters of the air, about to stoop ui">n their prey. Still all ! v .. --iei and immoveahle within the low ioountls of earth, a if none there had a stake in the issve of the bloody da\ ' or a few moments only, the tall figure of an aged mm was seen slowly moving along the summit of the rampa: > '".limlv regarding the dispositions of the Eng- "'?h general MI 'he more distant part of his line, and, after xchngiii - lew words with a gentleman, who joimef COMMON-PLACE BOoK OF PROSR. 291 him in his dangerous lookout, they disappeared together behind the grassy banks. Lionel soon 1 1 cii- (.?<>ow sunk sullenly back, a few hurling stones at their foes, in desperate indignation. The cannon of the British had been brought to enfilade their short breast-work, which was no longer tenable ; and, as the celumns approached closer to the low rampart, it be- came a mutual protection to the adverse parties. " Hurrah ! for the Royal Irish !" again shouted M'Fuse, rushing up the trifling ascent, which was but of little more 'han his own height. "Hurrah:" repeated Pitcairn, waving his sword on mother anglf of the work " the day's our own !" One more sheet of flume issued out of the bosom of the work, and all those brave men, who had emulated the ex COMMON-PLACL HOOK OK I'ltOSK. 295 jinples of their officers, were swept aw:iy, a< though whirlwind had passed along. The grenadier g.\ve his war try once more, before he pitched headlong ,im ifice one more worthy victim to the manes ot his country:nen. The whole of the tumultuous scene vanished from the senses of Lionel at the flash of the mus- ket of this man, and he sunk beneath the feet of the combatants, insensible of further triumph, and of every danger. The fall of a single officer, in such a contest, was a cir- cumstance not to be regarded ; and regiments passed over him. without a single man stooping to inquire into his fate Wben the Americans had disengaged themselves from the 296 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. troops, they descended into the little hollow between th two hills, swiftly, and like a disordered crowd, bearing off most of their wounded, and leaving but few prisoners in the hanus of their foes. The formation of the ground fa- voured their retreat, as hundreds cf bullets whistled hai.ii- lessly above their heads ; and, by the time they gained the acclivity of Bunker, distance was added to their security. Finding the field lost, the men at the fence broke away in a body from their position, and abandoned the meadows : the whole moving in confused masses behind the crest of the adjacent height. The shouting soldiery followed in their footsteps, pouring in fruitless and distant volleys; but, 011 the summit of Bunker, their tired platoons were halted, and they beheld the throng move fearlessly through the tremendous lire that enfiladed the low pass, as little injured as though most of them bore charmed lives. The day was now drawing to a close. With the disap- pearance of their enemies, the ships and batteries ceased their cannonade ; and, presently, not a musket was heard in that place, where so tierce a contest had so long raged. The troops commenced fortifying the outward eminence, on which they rested, in order o maintain their barren Conquest ; and nothing further ' mained for the achieve- ment of the royal lieutenants, ' at to go and mourn over their victory. Autumn and Spring. PAULDINO. THB Summer passed away, and Autumn began to hang out his many-coloured flag upon the trees, that, smit- ten by the nightly frosts, every morning exhibited less of the green, and more of (he gaudy hues, that mark the waning year in our western climate. The farmers of El- singburgh were out in their fields, bright and early, gath- ering in 'the fruits of their spring and summer's labours, or busily employed in making their cider; while the ur- chins passed their holydays in gathering ni'fs to crack by the winter's fire. The little quails began to whistle their autumnal notes ; the grasshopper, having had his season COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 07 of idle sport and chirping jollity, began now to pay the penalty of his thoughtless improvidence, and might be seen sunning hii.iself at mid-day, in melancholy silence, as if anticipating the period when his short and merry race would be run. Flocks of robins were passing to the south, to seek a more genial air ; the sober cattle began to assume their rough, wintry coat, and to put on that desperate ap- pearance of ennui, with which all nature salutes the ap- proach of winter. The little blue-bird alone, the last to leave us, and the first to return in the spring, sometimes poured out his pensive note, as if bidding farewell to the nest where it had reared its young. Now the laughing, jolly Spring began sometimes to show her buxom face in the bright morning ; but ever and anon, meeting the angry frown of Winter, loath to resign his rough sway over the wide realm of nature, she would retire again into her southern bower. Yet, though her visits were but short, her very look seemed to exercise a magic influence. The buds began slowly to expand their close winter folds ; the dark and melancholy woods to assume an almost im- perceptible purple tint ; and here and there a little chirp- ing blue-bird hopped about the orchards of Elsingburgh. Strips of fresh green appealed along the brooks, now re- leased from their icy fetters ; and nests of little variegated flowers, nameless, yet richly deserving a name, sprung up in the sheltered recesses of the leafless woods. By and by, the shad, the harbinger at once of spring and plenty, came up the river before the mild southern breeze ; the ruddy blossoms of the peach tree exhibited their gorgeous pageantry ; the little lambs appeared frisking and gambol- ing about the sedate mother ; young, innocent calves be- gan their first bleatings ; the cackling hen announced her daily feat in the barn-yard with clamorous astonishment; every day added to the appearance of that active vegetable and animal life, whiiin nature presents in the progress of the genial spring ; and, finally, the flowers, the zephyrs, and the warblers, and the maiden's rosy cheeks, announced to the eye, the ear, the senses, the fancy, and the heart, the return and the stay of the veinal year. 195 COMMON-PLACE BUOK OF I ROSE. The Storm-Ship. IRVING. In the golden age of the province of the New Nethei lands, when it was under the sway of Wouter Van Twiller otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Mauhafe toes were alarmed, one sultry afternoon, just about the time of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning. The rain descended in such torrents as ab- solutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. It seem- ed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the very roofs of the houses ; the lightning was seen to play about the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three times, in vain, to strike its weathercock. Garret Van Home's new chim- ney was split almost from top to bottom ; and Doffue Mil- deberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare, just as he was riding into town. In word, it was one of those unparalleled storms, that only happen once within the memory of that venerable personage known in all towns by the appellation of " the oldest inhabitant." Great was the terror of the good old women of the Man- hattoes. They gathered their children together, and took refuge in the cellars ; after having hung a shoe on the iron point of every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning. At length the storm abated ; the thunder sunk into a growl, and the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed bor- ders of tiie clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea of molten gold. The word was given from the fort that a ship was stand- ing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival of a ship, in those early times of the settlement, was an event of vast importance to the inhabitants. It brought them news from the old world, from the land of their birth, from which *hey were so completely severed : to the yearly ship, too, they looked for their supply of lux- uries, of finery, of comforts, and almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have her new cap nor new gown until the arrival of the ship ; the artist waited for it for his tools, the burgomaster fir his pipe and his supply of Hollands, the schcolboy for h.s top and marbles, and the COMMON-PLACE BOOK Of I'KuSfi. 299 ordly landholder for the bricks with which he was to build his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great and small, looked out lor the arrival of the ship. It was the great yearly event of the town of New Amsterdam ; and, from one end of the year to the other, the ship the ship- the ship was the continual topic of conversation. The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the popu- ace down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight. It was not exactly the time when she had been expected to arrive, and the circumstance was a matter of some spec- ulation. Many were the groups collected about the bat- tery. Here and there might be seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous .gravity, giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old women and idle boys. At another place was a knot of old, weather-beaten fellows, who had been seamen or fishermen in their times, and were great authorities on such occasions ; these gave different opinions, and caused great disputes among their several adherents : but the man most looked up to, and followed and watched by the crowd, was Hans Van Pelt, an old Dutch sea captain retired from service, the nautical oracle of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient telescope, covered with tarry canvass, hummed a Dutch tune to himself, and said nothing. A hum, however, from Hans Van Pelt, had always more weight with the public, than a speech from another man. In the mean time the ship became more distinct to the naked eye : she was a stout, round, Dutch built vessel, with high bow and poop, and bearing Dutch colours. The evening sun gilded her bellying canvass, as she came riding over the long waving billows. The sentinel, who had given notice of her approach, declared, that he first got sight of her when she was in the centre of the bay ; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out ot the bosom of the black thun^or-cloud. The bystanders looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say to this report : Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together, and said nothing ; upon which some shook their heads, and others shrugged their shoulders. The ship was now repeatedly hailed, hut made DJ reply, nd, passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun 800 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. wrs brought to bear on her, and, with some difficulty, load- ed and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being ex- pert in artillery. The shot seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and to skip along the water on the other side ; but no notice was taken of it ! What was strange, she had all her sails set, and sailed right against wind and tide, which were both down the river. Upon this Hans Van Pelt, who was likewise harbour-master, ordered his boat, and set off to board her ; but, after rowing two or three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes he would gel within one or two hundred yards of her, and then, in a twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said it was because his oars-men, who were rather pursy and short- winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and spit on their hands ; but this, it is probable, was a mere scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the crew ; who were all dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in doublets and high hats and feathers : not a word vras spoken by any one on board ; they stood as motionless as so many statues, and the ship seemed as if left to her own govern- me-nt. Thus she kept on, away up the river, lessening and lessening in the evening sunshine, until she faded from sight, like a little white cloud melting away iu the summer sky. The appearance of this ship tnrew the governor into one of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole course of his administration. Fears were entertained for the security of the infant settlements on the river, lest this might be an enemy's ship in disguise, sent to take posses- sion. The governor called together his council repeatedly, to assist him with their conjectures. He sat in his chair if state, built of timber from the sacred forest of the Hague, *nd smoking his long jasmin pipe, and listened to all that hrs counsellors had to say on a subject about which they knew nothing ; but, in spite of all the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest heads, the governor still continued to doubt. Messengers were despatched to different places on the river ; but they returned without any tidings the ship had made no port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed, but she never returned down the Hudson. As r , however- UUMMliM-Pl.ACE BOOK \iV t f ,OB. 301 me council s-'cincd solicitous for intelligence, they had i in dbmuUnce. The captains of the sloops seldom arrived without bringing some report of having seen the strange ship at different parts of the river; sometimes near the Palisadoes, sometimes off Crol^u Point, and sometimes in the Highlands ; but she never was reported as 1'aving been seen above the Highlands. The crews of the sloops, it ia true, generally differed among themselves in their accounts of these apparitions ; hut th'at may have arisen from the uncertain situations in which they saw her. Sometimes it was hy the llashes oi' the thunder-storm lighting up a pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering across Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Hay. At one mo:::ent she would appear close upon them, as if like- ly to run them down, and would throw them into great bustle and alarm ; but the next flash would show her far off, always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights, she would be seen under some high bluff of the Highlands, all in deep shadow, excepting her top- sails glittering in the moonbeams ; by the time, however, that the voyagers would reach the place, there would be no ship to be seen ; and, when they had passed on for some distance, and looked back, behold ! there she was again, with her top-sails in the moonshine ! Her appearance was always just after, or just before, or just in the midst of un- ruly weather ; and she was known by all the skippers and voyagers of the Hudson by the name of "the storm- ship." These reports perplexed the governor and his council more than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the con- jectures and opinions that were uttered on the subject. Some quoted cases in point, of ships seen olF the coast of New England, navigated by witches and goblins. Old Hans Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch colony at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this must bi the Hying Dutchman, which had so long haunted Table Bay ; but, being unable to make port, had now sought anoth- er harbour Others suggested, that, if it really was a super- natural apparition, as there was every natural reason to be- lieve, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of the Halfmoon ; who, it was well known, had once run aground 26 802 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. in the upper part of the river, in seeking a north- west pas- sage to China. Thi.i opinion had very little weight with ih governor, but it passed current out of doors ; for, indeed it had already been reported, that Hendiick Hudson and his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it appear- ed very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infesl the river where the enterprise was baffled, or that it might hea' the shadowy crew to their periodical revels in the mountain. Other events occurred t-> occupy the thoughts and doubts f the sage Woiiter and his council, and the storm-ship Ceased to be a subject of deliberation at the board. It con- tinued, however, to be a matter of popular belief and mar- vellous anecdote through the whole *ime of the Dutch gov- ernment, and particularly just before the capture of New Amsterdam, and the subjugation of the province by the English squadron. A'.irut that time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee, and about Weehawk, and even down ag f *.r as Hoboken ; and her appearance was supposed to bi orjJious of the approaching squall in public affairs, and t!ie downfall of Dutch domination. Since that time v; e have no authentic accounts of her , though it is said she .still haunts the Highlands, and cruises about PoinVno-pohit. People, who live along the river, insist that they someames see her in summer moonlight ; and that, in a deep, scil! midnight, they have heard the chant of her crew, as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds are so deceptive along the mountainous shores, and about the wide bays ar.J long reaches of this great river, that 1 confess 1 have very strong doubts upon the subject. It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been seen in these Highlands in storms, which are considered as connected with the old story of the ship. The captains of the river craft talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch goblin, in trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat. with a speaking trumpet in his hand, which they say keeps about the Dun- derberg.* They declare that they have heard him, in stormy weather, in the midst of the turmoil, giving orders in Jow Dutch for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, of Tht is the " Thunder Mountain," so cnlled from i COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE, 303 the rattling off of another thunder-clap ; that sometimes he has been seen surrounded by a crew of little iiLj.s in broad breeches and short doublets; tumbling head over hels in the rack and mist, and phying a thousand gambols ;n the air ; or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's Noso ; and that, at such times, the hurry-scurry of the storrr. was always greatest. One time a sloop, in passing by the Dunderberg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, yet she laboured dreadfully, until the water came over the gun- wale. All the crew were amazed, when it was discovered that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat on the mast- head, which was known at once to be the hat of the Heer of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to the mast-head, and ge-t rid of this terrible hat. The sloop continued labouring and rocking, as if she would have roll- ed her mast overboard. She seemed in continual danger, either of upsetting or of running on shore. In this way she drove quite through the Highlands, until she had pass- ed PollopoPs Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she pass- ed this bourn, than the little hat, all at once, spun up into the air like a top ; whirled up all the clouds into a vortex, and hurried them back to the summit of the Dunderberg ; while the sloop righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as if in a mill-pond. Nothing saved her from utter wreck but the fortunate circumstance of having a horse-shoe nail- ed against the mast, a wise precaution against evil spirits, which has since been adopted by all the Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river. There is another story told of this foul-weather urchin, ny Skipper Daniel Ouslesticker, of Fish Hill, who was nev- er known to tell a lie. He declared, that, in a severe squall, he saw him seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the sloop ashore, full butt against Antony's Nose, and that he was exorcised by Dominie Van Gieson, of Esopus, who happened to be on board, and who sung the hymn of St. Nicholas; whereupon the goblin threw himself up in the air like a ball, and went off in a whirlwind, carrying away with him the night-cap of the Dominie's wife ; which wa $04 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. discovers! the next Siiuday morning hanging on the we* ther-*iok of Esopus' church steeple, at least forty mile* off! After several events of this kind had taken place, the regular skippers of the river, for a long time, did not venture to pass the Dunderberg, without lowering their peaks, out of homage to the Heer of the mountain : and it was observed that all such as paid this tribute of respect were suffered to pass unmolested.* Anecdote of James Otis. J. ADAMS. OTIS belonged to a club who met on evenings ; of which club William Molineuxt was a member. Moly- neux had a petition before the legislature, which did not succeed to his wishes, and he became for several even- ings sour, and wearied the company with his complaints of services, losses, sacrifices, &c., and said "That a man who has behaved as I have should be treated as 1 am is * Among the superstitions which prevailed in the colonies, during the early times of the settlements, there seems to have l>eeii a singular one about phantom shi|is. The superstitions fancies of men are always" apt to turn upon those objects wlikh concern their daily occupations. The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came like a raven in the wilderness, bringing to the inhabitants of a settlement the comforts of life from the world from which they were cut off, was apt to be present to their dreams, whether sleeping or waking. The accidental si^lit from shore of a sail gliding nlutig the horizon in those, as yet, lonely seas, was apt to be a matter of much talk and speculation. There if mention mr.de in one of the early .New England writers, of a ship i;a\ icaterl by witches, with a gre:it horse that stood by the mainm;>t. I have met with another story, si iinc where, of a ship that drove onshore, in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, with sails all set, and a table spread in the cabin, as if to regale a niimlier of euests, yet not a living being on board. These phantom ships always sailed in the eye of the wii>d. or ploughed their way with great velocity, making the smooth sea foam before their bows, when not a breath of air was stirring. Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of the sea in great deal, no doubt," said Molineux. " Shall we say two hundred sterling a year ? " " Ay, more, I believe," said Molineux. " Well, let it be two hucdred; that, for ten years, h two thousand. " In the next place, I have been obliged to relinquish the greatest part of my business at the bar. Will you set that at two hundred morer" "Oh! I believe it much more than that." " Well, let it be two hundred ; this, for ten years, is two thousand more. You allow, then, 1 have lost fbur thousand pounds sterling." " Ay, and much more too," said Molirusux. "In the next place, I have lost an hundred friends ; among whom were the men of the first rank, fortune and powar in the province. At what price will you estimate them .'" " At nothing," said Molineux ; " you are better without them, than with them." A loud la".gh. " Be it so," said Otis. "In (he next place, I have made a thousand enemies, among whom are the government of the province ai.d the nation. What do you think of this item ?" " That is as it may happen," said Molineux. " In the next place, you know, I love pleasure ; but I have renounced all amusement for ten years. What if that worth to a man of pleasure ?" " No great matter," said Molineux ; " you have made politics your amuse- ment." A hearty laugh. " In the next place, I Ircive ruined as fine health, and \s good a constitution of body, as nature ever gave to man." "This is melancholy indeed," said Molineux; " there it nothing to be said on that point." "Onee more," said Otis, holding his head down before Molineux ; " look upon this head !" (where was a scar, in 26* 106 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. which ft man might bury his finger ;*) " what do yoi think of this .' and, whet is worse, my friends think I have a monstrous crack in my skull." This made all the company very grave, and look very solemn. But .Otis, setting up a laugh, and with a gay countenance, said to Molineux " Now, Willy, my* ad- vice to you is, to say no more about your grievances ; for you and 1 had better put up our accounts of profit and loss in our pockets, and say no more about them, lest the world should laugh at us." This whimsical dialogue put all the company, and Moli- aeux himself, into good humour, and they passed the rest of 'the evening in joyous conviviality. Interesting Passage in the Life of James Otis. 1 UDOR. OTIS had long been so conspicuous as a leader of the patriotic party, his power of exciting public feeling was se irresistible, his opposition to the administration was so bold and vehement, his detestation against those who were bringing ruin on the country was so open and mortifying, that secret representations had long been making to render him particularly obnoxious to the ministry, and to stimulate them to arrest and try him for treason. At length, in the course of this summer, copies of several of the letters of Governor Bernard, and of the commissioners, filled with insinuations, and even charges of a treasonable nature, were procured at the public offices in England, and trans- mitted to him ; leaving no doubt, that, if these persons had ventured on such a crimination in official letters, they had gone much further in their private correspondence. He was stung to madness by the discovery and proofs of these malignant calumnies, ami this secret treachery. Agitated as he was by the actual mid impending evils, that threatened the whole country, and that were more espc The manner in which he rect-m I tin- wnmul is related In tto fol towing extract. ED. COMMON-PLACE HOOK OP PROSE. 30*7 rlally directed, at this period, against his own province, and hi? ovr town ; penetrated with anxious responsibility for (he expediency of those measures of opposition* of which he was one of the chief advisers, an i had long been the ostensible leader ; these attempts to destroy hi* character if not his \il-., excited the deepest indignation. In defend* ing the cau&j of the colonies, he had looked forward to the time when justice would be done them, and when he should derive advantage and honour for all his exertions and sac- rifices. He was not acting as a demagogue, nor as a rev- olutionist. He was proud of his rank in society ; and' h> opposing the ministerial schemes he still felt loyalty to- wards the sovereign, and affection for England ; and longed for the period, when he might give proofs of both, not 1n opposing, but in supporting the views of government; while, at this very time, he found that the crown officers had been assiduously labouring to blast his reputation, and endeavouring to have him torn from his home, to undergo imprisonment and persecution in the mother country. With the proofs of their conduct in his possession, he could nt longer restrain himself, but hurled his defiance and con. '.empt in the following notice.* " Advertisement. Whereas 1 have full evidence, thai Henry Hutton, Charles Paxton, William Hurch, and John Robinson ,1 Esquires, have frequently and lately treated the characters of all true North Americans in a manner that is not to be endured, by privately and public- ly representing them as traitors and rebels, and in a general combination to revolt from Great Britain ; and whereas the said Henry, Charles, William and John, without the leas! provocation or colour, have represented me by name, as inimical to the rights of the crown, and disaffected to his majesty, to whom I annually swear, and am determined at all events to bear true and faithful allegiance ; for all which general as well as personal abuse and insult, satis- faction has been personally demanded, due warning given, Sut DO sufficient answer obtained ; these ar<> humbly t * Boston Gazette, September 4th, 1769. T These were the oiinmissioTierH of the custom*. 808 COMMON-PLACE BOOM OF HHOSK. desire the lords commissioners of his majesty's treasury, his prinoipal secretaries of state, particularly my lord Hillsborou^h, the board of trade, and all others whom it may concern, or who may condescend to read this, to pty lo kind of regard to any of the abusive representation of ij'.o or my country, that may be transmitted by the said Henry, Charley, William and John, or their confederates ; *br they are no more worthy of credit, than those of Sir Francis Bernard, of Nettlehain, Bart., or any of his cabal ; which caba! may be well known, from the papers in the liouse of commons, and at every great office in England." JAMES OTIS i There were some further documents inserted in the same Gazette, such as a correspondence with the collector, and some extracts from the letters of these officers to the treas hry and board of trade in England The next evening, about seven o'clock, Mr. Otis went to the British coffee-house, where Mr. Robinson, one of the Commissioners, was sitting, as also a number of army, navy, and revenue officers. As soon as he came in, an alterca- tion took place, which soon terminated in Robinson's strik- ing* him with a cane, which was returned with a weapon of the same kind. Great confusion then ensued. The lights were extinguished, and Otis, without a friend, was surrounded by the adherents of Robinson. A young man, by the name of Gridley, passing by, very boldly en- 'ered the coffee-house to take the part of Otis against so many foes; but he was also assaulted, beaten, and turned out of the house After some time the combatants were separated, Robinson retreated by a back passage, and Otis was led home wounded and bleeding. This affair naturally excited much attention. Various and contradictory statements were given in the newspapers Respecting it. It was said, that this intentional assault was the result of a meditated plan of assassination. Five ot Six bludgeons and one scabbard were found on the floor after the struggle. Otis received a deep wound on the head, which the surgeons, Doctors Perkins and Lloyd, tes- tified must have been given by a sharp instrument. The accusation of a preconcerted intention to murder, is doub- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 3( 9 lets unfounded; but, from all the evidence in the cs^se, il is plain, that it was a brutal and cowardly assault, in which several persons took part, with a disposition, that, in the fury of the moment, sought to disable this great patriot, whom they so rancorously hated. If such was their purpose, i( to a considerable degree succeeded. Th.3 natural indignation that was roused against the au- . thors of this ruffian-like attack, the animosity that existed towards the revenue officers, for their insolent and oppres- sive conduct : the keen feelings natural to a state of violent political excitement; the sympathy and admiration that were cherished for the liberal character, powerful talents and efficient services of the leading patriot of his day, all con- spired to make the public give this transaction the odium of a scheme of assassination. Pity for the sufferer made them also impute the impairment of his reason to this event, exclusively. It is not, however, necessary to believe, that an assassination had been planned, in order to cover the perpetrators of t-his barbarous assault with ignominy. No* can the mental alienation, which afterwards afflicted him, and deprived the world of his great talents, in the vigoui 3f manhood, for he was at this time only in his forty-sixth year, be wholly attributed to the wound he received. His disposition was so ardent, and his mind so excitable, that its natural tendency, under aggravating circumstances, was, to insanity. Had he lived in ordinary times, in the usual; exercise of professional or political duties, undisturbed by adverse events, he might have escaped the misfortune that befell him. His generous and social humour, his wit and ready talent, would have rendered his career easy and tran-. quil. But he was called upon to act in public affairs at a most arduous epoch : he had to maintain a continual struggle against insidious placemen and insolent oppressors : he him- self was denounced, proscribed, and frequently insulted. The feelings of his own injuries, joined to those for his country, kept his mind in constant action, anxiety and irritation., Having espoused the cause of his fellow-citizens, with all his strength and all his mind, at a time when new wiongi aud new difficulties were incessantly recurring, he knew no repose. His faculties were perpetually agiUleti.. m.l be did not sufficiently master and subdue his in bjjruti.nj 10 COMMOM-IM.A* i; BOOK OK PROSE. against subaltern agents, though prime movers in this nis chief, yet who were in reality deserving only of his con tempt. It was an unfortunate yielding to his anger, th* placing himself, as he did in some degree, on a level with the commissioner:! of the customs, whom he ought merely to have unmasked and left to public scorn, without degrad- ing himself to a personal rencounter. The injuries he sustained in it impaired his power of self-control, and con trihuted essentially to his subsequent derangement. Close of the Lives of Adams and Jefferson. WEBSTER. IN 1820 Mr. Adams acted as elector of president an J vice-president, and in the same year we saw him, then at the age of eighty-five, a member of the convention of this commonwealth, called to revise the constitution. Forty years before, he had been one of those who formed that con- stitution ; and he had now the pleasure of witnessing that there was little which the people desired to change. Pos- sessing all his faculties to the end of his long life, with an unabated love of reading and contemplation, in the centre of interesting circles of friendship and affection, he \vas blessed in his retirement with whatever of repose and felicity the condition of man allows. He had, also, other enjoyments. He saw around him that prosperity and general happiness, which had been the object of his public cares and labours. No man ever beheld more clearly, and for a longer time, the great and beneficial effects of the services rendered by himself to his country. That liberty, which he so early defended, that independence, of which he was so able an advocate and supporter, he saw, we trust, firmly and securely established. 'The population of the country thickened around him faster, and extended wider, than his own sanguine predictions had anticipated , tnd the wealth, respectability and power of the r.ation pnng up to a magnitude, which it is quite impossible he e*>''lJ have expected to witness in his <;ay. He lived, ilo, to l-ehold those principles of civil frecdoip \\ 'uch had *>eea developed, established, \\nd prar'ically -ipplied. in CtJMMHN-1't.Arl-: BOOK UK PKOSK. 311 America, attract attention, oiuniiaini rc-.-pcct, and awaken imitation, in oilier region.- ul the globe ; and well might, and well did, he uxclaim, " Where will the consequences ot the American revolution end .!" If any thing yet remain to till thi.s cup ul happiness, let it be added, that he lived to see a gre*t and intelligent people bestow the highest honour in their gift, where he bad bestowed his own kindest parental affections, and lodged his fondest hopes. Thus honoured in life, thus hap- py at death, he saw the Jubilee, and he died ; and with the last prayers which trembled on his lips, was the fer- vent supplication for his country, " Independence for- ever !" From the time of his final retirement from public life, :*u 1807, Mr. Jefferson lived as became a wise man. Sur- -ounded by affectionate friends, las ardour in the pursuit of knowledge uiidiininished, with uncommon Health, and unbroken spirits, he was al>le to enjoy largely the rational pleasures of life, and to partake in that public prosperity, which he had so much contributed to produce. His kind- ness and hospitality, the charm of his conversation, the ease of his manners, the extent of his acquirements, and especially the full store of revolutionary incidents, which he possessed, and which he knew when and how to dis- pense, rendered his abode in a high degree attractive to his admiring countrymen, while his high public and scien- tific character drew towards him every intelligent and ed- ucated traveller from abroad. Both Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson had the pleasure of knowing, that the respect, which they so largely received, was not paid to their offi- cial stations. They were not men made great by office, but great men, on whom the country, for its own benefit, had conferred office. There was that in them, which of- fice did not give, and which the re'lv^ui.-^rrient of office did not, and could not, take away. In their retirement, in the midst of their fellow-citizens, themselves private, citi- zens, they enjoyed as high regard and esteem, as whcu filling the most important places of public trust. There remained to Mr. Jefferson yet one other work of patriotism and beneficence, the establishment of a univer- lity in his native state. To this ohject he devoted yeari S12 COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. of incessant and anxious attention, and, by the enlightenea liberality of the legislature of Virginia, and the co-opera- tion of other able and zealous friends, he lived to see it ac- complished. May all success attend this infant sec.iaary ; and may those who enjoy its advantages, a,< often as fheif eyes shall rest on the neighbouring height, recollect what they owe to their disinterested and indefatigable benefac- tor ; and may letters honour him, who thus laboured it the cause of letters. Thus usefui, and thus respected, passed the old age of Thomas Jefferson. But time was on its ever-ceaseless wing, and was now bringing the last hour of this illustri- ous man. He saw its approach with undisturbed serenity. He counted the moments, as they passed, and beheld that his last sands were falling. That day, too, was at hand, which he had helped to make immortal. One wish, one hope, if it were not presumptuous, beat in his tainting breast. Could it be so might it please (iod he would desire once more to see the sun, once more to look abroad on the scene around him, on the great day cf liberty. Heaven, in its mercy, fulfilled that prayer. He saw that sun he enjoyed its sacred light he thanked (*od for his mercy, and bowed his aged head in the grave. " Fe- lix, mm vita tantum claritatt, sed etiam opportimitate mortis." Moral of Chess, FRANKLIN PLAYING at chess is the most ancient and uriversal game knov/n among men ; for it? original is beyond the memory of history, and it has for numberless ages been the amusement of all the civilized nations of Asia, the Persian*, the Indians, and the Chinese. Europe has had it above- a thousand years ; the Spaniards Iwve spread it over their part of America, and it begins to make its ap- pearance in these States. It is so interesting in itself as not to need the view of gain to induce entrntcing in it ; and thence it is never played for money. Those, thtrefore : who have leisure for such diversions cannot find one that COMMON-PLACE 11OOK OF : ROSE. 313 is more innocent; and the following piece, written with a v'luw to correct (among a lew young friends) some little^ improprieties in the practice of it, shows, at the same time, : ii.it it may, in its effects on the mind, be not merely inno- cent, but advantageous, to the vanquished as well as the victor. The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement Several very valuable qualities of the mind, useful in the course of human life, are to be acquired, or strengthened, i'>y it, so as to become habits, ready on all occasions. For life is a kind of chess, in which we have points to gain, and competitors or adversaries to contend with, and in which there is a vast variety of good and ill events, that are, in some degree, the e/Tects of prudence or the want of it. Hy playing at chess, then, we learn, 1. Foresight, which looks a little into futurity, considers the consequences that may attend an action ; for it is con- tinually occurring to the player, " If I move this piece, what will be the advantage of my new situation ? What use can my adversary make of it to annoy me ? What other moves can 1 make to support it, and to defend myself from his attacks ?" 2. Circumspection, which surveys the whole chess- board, or scene of action, the relations of the several pieces and situations, the dangers they are respectively exposed to, the several possibilities of their aiding each other, the probabilities that the adversary may lake this or that move, and attack this or the other piece, and what different means can be used to avoid his stroke, or turn its consequences against him. 3. Caution, not to make our moves too hastily. This habit is best acquired by observing strictly the laws of the game, such as, " If you touch a piece, you must move it somewhere; if you set it down, you must let it stand '" and it is therefore best that these rules shq^ild be observed ; is the game thereby becomes more the image 'if humvn life, and particularly of war; in which, if you KAVS incau- tiously put yourself into a bad and dangerous pos tiun, you cannot obtain your enemy's leave to withcra.iv your froops, an" 1 place them more securely, but you must abide all the cw -equences of your rashness. 27 314 COMMON-PLACE IK OK OF PROSE. And, lastly, we learn by chess the habit of not discouraged by present bad appearances in the state qf our affairs, the habit of hoping for a favourable change, and that of persevering in the search of re.sourr.es. The game is so full of events, there is such a variety of turns in it, the fortune of it is so subject to sudden vicissitudes, and one so frequently, after long contemplation, discovers the means of extricating one's self from a supposed insur mountable difficulty, that one is encouraged to continue the contest to the last, in hope of victory by our own skill, 01 at least of giving a stale mate, by the negligence of our adversary. And whoever considers, what in chess he often sees instances of, that particular pieces of success are apt to produce presumption, and its consequent inattention, by which the loss may be recovered, will learn not to be too much discouraged by the present success of his adversary, nor to despair of final good fortune, upon every little check he receives in the pursuit of it. That we may, therefore, be induced more frequently tc choose this beneficial amusement, in preference to others, which are not attended with the same advantages, every circumstance which may increase the pleasure of it should be regarded ; and every action or word that is unfair, dis- respectful, or that in any way may give uneasiness, should be avoided, as contrary to the immediate intention of both the players, which is, to pass the time agreeably. Therefore, first, If it is agreed to play according to the strict rules; then those rules are to be exactly ob- served by both parties, and should not be insisted on foi one side, while deviated from by the other for this is not equitable. Secondly, If it is agreed not to observe the rules exact- ly, but one party demands indulgences, he should then b<> as ' -' ling to. allow them to the other. TL rdly, No fsf se move should ever be made to extricate yours-lf out of a difficulty, or to gain an advantage. There . can Le no pleasure in playing with a person once detected n such unfair practices. Fourthly, If your adversary is long in playing, you oughi not to hurry him, or to express any uneasiness at his delay You ihuuld not sing, nor whistle, nor look at your watoh COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROS P.. 316 nor take up a book to read, nor make a tapping with your feet ou the floor, or with your fingers on the table, nor do any thing that may disturb hie attention. For all these things displease ; and they do not show your skill in play- ing, but your craftiness or your rudeness. Fifthly, You ought not to endeavour to amuse and de- ceive your adversary, by pretending to have made bad moves, and saying that you have now lost the game, in order to make him secure and careless, and inattentive to your schemes ; for this is fraud and deceit, not skill in the game. Sixthly, You must not, when you have gained a victory, use any triumphing or insulting expression, nor show too much pleasure ; but endeavour to console your adversary , and make him less dissatisfied with himself, by every kind of civil expression that may be used with truth ; such as, " You understand the game better than I, but you are a little inattentive ; or, you play too fast ; or, you had the best of tho game, but something happened to divert your thoughts, and that turned it in mj favour." Seventhly, If you are a spectator while others play, o'^- servc the most perfect silence. For if you give advice, you offend both parties; him against whom you give it, because it may cause the loss of his game ; and him in whose favour you give it, because, though it be good, and he follows it, he loses the pleasure he might have had, if you had permitted him to think until it had occurred to himself. Even after a move or moves, you must not, by replacing the pieces, show how it might have been plated better ; for that displeases, and may occasion disputes and doubts about their true situation. All talking to the players lessens or diverts their attention, and is therefore unpleas- ing. Nor should you give the least hint to either party, by any kind of noise or motion. If you do, you are un- worthy to be a spectator. If you have a mind to exercise or show your judgment, do it in playing your own game, when you have an opportunity, not in criticising, or med- dling with, or counselling the play of others. Lastly, If the game is not to be played rigorously, ac- cording to the rule? above-mentioned, then moderate your desire of victory over your adversary, and he pleased with 316 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. une over yourself. Snatch not eagerly at every advantage iflTered by nis unskilfulness or inattention ; but point out to him kindly, that by such a move he places or leaves a piece in danger and unsupported ; that by another he will put his king in a perilous situation, &.c. By this generous chility (so opposite to the unfairness above forbidden) you may, in- deed, happen to lose the game to your opponent; but yoi 1 will win what is better, his esteem, his respect, and his affection ; together with the silent approbation and good will of impartial spectators. The Hospital in Philadelphia during the Pestilence. C. B. BROWN. I WAS seized with a violent fever. I knew in what manner patients wre treated at the hospital, and removal thither was to the last degree abhorred. The morning arrived, and my situation was discovered. At the first intimation, Thetford rushed out of the house, and refused to re-enter it till I was removed. I kn<".v not iny fate, till three ruffians made their appearance at my bedside, and communicated their commission. I called on the name of Thetford and his wife I en- treated a moment's delay, till I had seen these persons, and endeavoured to procure a respite from my sentence. They were deaf to my entreaties^ and prepared to execute their office by force. I was delirious with rage and terror. I heaped the bitterest execrations on my murderer; and by turns invoked the compassion of, and poured a torrent of re- proaches oiij (he wretches whom he had selected 'for his ministers. My struggles and outcries were vain. I have no nc.rti-ct recollection of what passed till my ar- rival at the hi'-nihil. My passions combined with my disease to make me iV.in'ic and wild. In a state like mine, the slightes' motion rould not be endured without agony. What then must I have felt, scorched and dazzled by the sun. sustained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rug- ged pavement ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 31? I cauuot make you comprehend the anguish of my feelings. To br disjointed and torn piece-meal by the rack, was a torment inexpressibly inferior to this. Nothing ex- cites my wonder, but that 1 did not expire before the cart hal nr'ved three paces I kijew not how, or by whom, I was moved from thU vehicle. Insensibility came at length to my relief. After a tin e I opened my eyes, and slowly gained some knowl- edge of my situation. 1 lay upon a mattress, whose condi- tion proved that a half-decayed corpse had recently been dragged from it. The room was large, but it was covered with beds like my own. Between each, there was scarce- ly the interval of three feet. Each sustained a wretch, . whose groans and distortions bespoke the desperateness of his condition. The atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. A va- pour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to breathe. No suitable receptacle was provided for the evac- ,-iatiorB produced by medicine or disease. My nearest neighbour was struggling with death, and my bed, casually extended, was moist with the detestable matter which had flowed from his stomach. You will scarcely believe that, in this scene of horrors, the sound of laughter shoul . be overheard. While the upper rooms of this building are filled with the sick arid the dying, the lower apartments are the scene of carousals and mirth. The wretches who are hired, at enormous wages, to tend the sick and convey away the dead, neglect their duty, and lOiisume the cordials, which are provided for the patients, in debauchery and riot. A female visage, bloated with malignity and drunken- ness, occasionally looked in. Dying eyes were cast upon ?her, invoking the boon, perhaps of a drop of cold water, or her assistance to change a posture which compelled him to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful smile of his neighbour. The visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to see who was dead. If she entered the room, blinking eyes and reeling steps showed her to be totally unqualified fo ministering the aid that was needed. Presently, she dis- 27 318 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. appeared, and others ascended the staircase : a coffin ^ras deposited at the door : the wretch, whose heart still quiver- ed, was seized by rude hands, and dragged along the floor into the passage. Oh ! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, by the fortunate lew, of the sufferings to which millions of theii fellow-beings are condemned ! This misery was more frightful, because it was seen to flow from the depravity of the attendants. My own eyes only would make me credit the existence of wickedness so enormous. No wonder that to die in garrets, and cellars, and stables, unvisited and un- known, had, by so many, been preferred to being brought hither. A physician cast an eye upon my state. He gave some directions to the person who attended him. I did not com- prehend them ; they were never executed by the nurses, and, if the attempt had been made, I should probably have refused to "receive what was offered. Recovery was equally beyond my expectations and my wishes. The scene which was hourly displayed before me, the entrance of the sick, most of whom perished in a few hours, and their departure to the graves prepared for them, reminded me of the fate to which I, also, was reserr .d. Three days passed awaj, in which every hour was ex- pected to be the last. That, amidst an atmosphere so con- tagious and deadly, amidst causes of destruction hourly ac- cumulating, I should yet surv^e, appears to me nothing less than miraculous. That, of so many conducted to this house, the only one who passed out of it alive should be myself, almost surpasses my belief. Some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those po- tent enemies of human life. My fever subsided and van- ished. My strength was revived, and the first use that 1 made of my limbs was, to bear me far from the coatempTfc tiop and sufferance of these evils. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 319 Shipwreck of the Ariel. COOPER. Ariel continued to struggle against the winds and ocean for several hours longer, before the day broke on the tempestuous scene, and the anxious mariners were enabled to form a more accurate estimate of their real danger. As the violence of the gale increased, the canvass of the schooner had been gradually reduced, until she was unable to show more than was absolutely necessary to prevent her driving, helplessly, on the land. Barnslable watched the appearance of the weather, as the light slowly opened upon them, with an intensity of anxiety, which denoted, that the presentiments of the cockswain were no longer deemed idle. On looking to windward, he beheld the green masses of water that were rolling in towards the land, with a violence that seemed irresistible, crowned with ridges of foam ; and there were moments when the air appeared filled with sparkling gems, as the rays of the rising sun fell upon the spray that was swept from wave to wave. Towards the land, the view was still more appal ling. The cliffs, but a short half league under the lee of the schooner, were, at times, nearly hid from the eye by the pyramids of water, which the furious element, so sud- denly restrained in its violence, cast high into the air, as if seeking to overstep the boundaries that nature had affix ed to its dominion. The whole coast, from the distant head- land at the south, to the well known shoals that stretched far beyond their course, in the opposite direction, displayed a broad belt of foam, into which it would have been cer- tain destruction, for the proudest ship that swam, to have en'.ered. Still the Ariel floated on the billows, lightly and in safety, though yielding to the impulses of the waters, and, at times, appearing to be ingulfed in the yawning chasms, which, apparently, opened beneath her to receive the little fabric. The low rumour of acknowledged dan- ger, had found its way through the schooner, and the sea men, after fastening their hopeless looks on the small spo* of canvass that they were enabled to show to the tempest, would turn to view the dreary line of coast, that seem* ed to offer so gloomy an alternative. Even Dillon, to whom 520 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. the report of their danger had found its way, crept from his place of concealment in the cabin, and moved about the decks unheeded, (Devouring, with greedy ears, such opinions as fell from the lips of the sullen mariners. At this moment of appalling apprehension, the cockswain exhibited the most calm resignation. He knew that all had been done, that lay in the power of man, to urge their little vessel from the land, and it was now too evident to his experienced eyes, that it had been done in vain ; but, considering himself as a sort of fixture in the schooner, he was quite prepared to abide her fate, be it for better or for worse. The settled look of glocm, that gathered around the frank brow of Barnstabie, was, in no degree, connect- ed with any considerations of himself, but proceeded from that sort of parental responsibility, from which the sea- commander is never exempt. The discipline of the crew, however, still continued perfect and unyielding. There had, it is true, been a slight movement made by two of the oldest seamen, which indicated an intention to drown the apprehensions of death in ebriety ; but Barnstable bad called for his pistols, in a tone that cb.eck.ed the procedure instantly, and, although the fatal weapons were untouched by him, but were left to lie exposed on the capstan, where they had been placed by his servant, not another symptom of insubordination appeared among the devoted crew There was even, what to a landsman might seem, a dread- ful affectation of attention to the most trifling duties of the vessel ; and the men, who, it should seem, ought to be de- voting the brief moments of their existence to the mighty business of the hour, were constantly called to attend to the most trivial details of their profession. Ropes were coiled, and the slightest damages occasioned by the waves, that, at shrrt intervals, swept across the low decks of the Ariel, were repaired, with the same precision and order, as if she yet lay embayed in the haven from which she had just been driven. In this manner, the arm of authority was kepi extended over the silent crew, not with the vain desire to preserve a lingering, though useless exercise of power but with a view to maintain that unity of action, that now ;ould alone afford them even a ray of hope COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 32S " She can make no head against this sea, under that rag f canvass," said Barnstable, gloomily ; addressing the cockswain, who, with folded arms, and an air of cool resig- nation, was balancing his body on the verge of the quarter- deck, whiU the schooner was plunging madly into waves that nearlj buried her in their bosom ; ' the poor little thing trembles like a frightened child, as she meets the water." Tom sighed heavily, and shook his head, before he an- swered "If we could have kept the head of the main-mast an hour longer, we might have got an offing, and fetched to windward of the shoals ; but, as it is, sir, mortal man can't drive a craft to windward she sets bodily in to land, and will -be in the breakers in less than an hour, unless God wills that the winds shall cease to blow." " We have no hope left us, but to anchor ; our ground tackle may yet bring her up." Tom turned to his commander, and replied, solemnly and with that assurance of manner, that long experience only can give a man in moments of great danger " If our sheet-cable was bent to our heaviest anchor, this sea would bring it home, thojgh nothing but hei launch was riding by it. A north-easter in the German Ocean must and will blow itself out; nor shall we get the crown of the gale until the sun falls over the land. Then, indeed, it may lull ; for the winds do often seem to rever- ence the glory of the heavens too much to blow their might in its very face !" " We must do our duty to ourselves and the country," returned Barnstable , " go, get the two bowers spliced, and have a kedge bent to a hawser; we'll back our two an- chors together, and veer to the better end of two hundred and forty fathoms ; it may yet bring her up. See all clear there for anchoring, and cutting away the masts we'll ieave the wind nothing hut a naked hull to whistle over." " Ay, if there was nothing but the wind, we might yet live to see the sun sink behind them hills," said the cock- swain , " hut what I smp can stand the strain of a crafl that is buried, halt the time, to hsr fo-emast in tne water !" 822 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The order was, however, executed by the crew, with i Bort of desperate submission to the will of their comman- der ; and, when the preparations were completed, the an- chors and kedge were dropped to the bottom, and the in- stant that the Ariel tended to the wind, the axe was ap- plied to the little that was left of her long raking masts The crash of the falling spars, as they came, in succession, across the decks of the vessel, appeared to produce no sen- sation amid that scece of complicated danger ; but the sea- men proceeded in silence in their hopeless duty of clear- ing the wrecks. Every eye followed the floating timbers, as the waves swept them away from the vessel, with a sort of feverish curiosity, to witness the effect produced by their collision with those rocks that lay so fearfully near them ; but, long before the spars entered the wide border of foam, they were hid from view by the furious element in which they floated. It was, now, felt by the whole crew of the \riel, that their last means of safety had been adopted, and, at each despeiate and head'.ong plunge the vessel took into the bosom of the seas that rolled upon her forecastle, the anxious seamen thought they could perceive the yield- ing of the iron, that yet clung to the bottom, or could hear the violent surge of the parting strands of the cable, that still held them to their anchors. While the minds of the sailors were agitated with the faint hopes that had been excited by the movements of their schooner, Dillon had been permitted to wander about the vessel unnoticed ; his rolling eyes, hard breathing, and clenched hands, exciting no observation among the men, whose thoughts were yet dwelling on the means of safety. But now, when, with a sort of frenzied desperation, he would follow the retiring waters along the decks, and venture his person nigh the group that had collected around and on the gun of the cock- swain, glances of fierce or of sullen vengeance were cast at him, that conveyed threats of a nature that he was too much agitated to understand. " If ye are tired of this world, though your time, like my own, is probably but short in it," said Tom to him, u he passed the cockswain in one of his turns, " yon can go forward among the men ; but if ye have need of the mo- *>eo s to foot up the reck ning o* your doings among mer, ttACX BOOK OF PROSE. 323 V* * brought to fait your Maker, and hear the log- fleaveri, 1 would advise you to keep as nigh as pos- sible M captain Barnstable or myself." " Wlii you promise to save me, if the vessel is wreck- ed .'" exclaimed Dillon, catching at the first sounds ol friendly interest that had readied his ears, since he had been recaptured ; " oh ! if you will, 1 can secure you future ease ; yes, wealth, for the remainder of your days !" " Your promises have been too ill kept, afore this, for the peace of your soul," returned the cockswain, without bit- terness, though sternly ; " but it is not in me to strike even a whale, that is already spouting blood." The intercessions of Dillon were interrupted by a dread- ful cry, that arose among the men forward, and which sounded with increased horror, amid the roaring of the tem- pest. The schooner rose on the breast of a wave at the same instant, and, falling off with her broad side to the sea, she drove in towards the cliffs, like a bubble on the rapid* of a cataract. " Our ground tackle has parted," said Tom, with his re- signed patience of manner undisturbed ; " she shall die a? eiisy as man can make her !" While he yet spoke, he seized the tiller, and gave to the vessel such a direction, as would he most likely to cause her to strike the rocks with her bows foremost. There was, for one moment, an expression of exquisite anguish betrayed in the dark countenance of Barnstable : but, at the next, it passed away, and he spoke cheerfully to his men " Be steady, my lads ; be calm : there is yet a hope of life for you our light draught will let us run in close to the clifis, and it a still falling water set your boats clear, and be steady." The crew of the whale-boat, aroused, by this speech, from a sort of stupor, sprang into their light vessel, which was quickly lowered into the sea, and kept riding on the foam, free from the sides of the schooner, by the powerful exertions of the men. The cry for the cockswain was earnest and repeated, but Tom shook his head', without re- plying, still grasping the tiller, and keeping his eyes 824 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. ily bent on the chaos of waters, into which they wer driving. The launch, the largest boat of the two, w js cul loose from the " gripes," and the bustle and exertion of the moment rendered the crew insensible to the horror of the scene that surrounded them. But the loud, hoarse call of the cockswain, to " look out secure yourselves i" suspended even their efforts, and at that instart the Ariel settled on a wave that melted from under her, heavily on the rocks. The shock was so violent as to throw all, whc disregarded the warning cry, from their feet, and the uni- versal quiver that pervaded the vessel was like the last shudder of animated nature. For a time long enough to breathe, the least experienced among the men supposed the danger to be passed ; but a wave of great height fol- lowed the one that had deserted them, and, raising the ves- sel again, threw her roughly still farther on her bed of rocks, and at the same time its crest broke over her quar- ter, sweeping the length of her decks, with a fury that was almost resistless. The shuddering seamen beheld their loosened boat driven from their grasp, and dashed against the base of the cliffs, where no fragment of her wreck could be traced, at the receding of the waters. But the passing wave had thrown the vessel into a position which, in some measure, protected her decks from the violence ot those that succeeded it. " Go, my boys, go," said Bankable, as the moment of .'.readful uncertainty passed ; " you have still the whale- boat, and she, at least, will take you nigh the shore ; go into her, my boys ; God bless you, God bless you all ; you have been faithful and honest fellows, and I believe he will not yet desert you ; go, my friends, while there is a lull." The seamen threw themselves, in a mass of human bod- ies, into the light vessel, which nearly sunk under the unusual burthen ; but when they looked arouud them, Barnstable, and Merry, Dillon, and thu cockwain, were yet to be seen on the decks of the Ariel. The former wa pacing, in deep, and perhaps bitter melancholy, the wet planks of the schooner, while the boy hung, unheeded, on bis arm, uttering disregarded petitions to his commander, o desert the wreck. Dillon approached the side wtierf COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 323 the boat lay, again and again, but the threatening counte nances of the seamen as often drove him back in despair Tom had seated hi nself on the heel of the bowsprit, where he continued, in an attitude of quiet resignation, return- ing no other answers to the loud and repeated calls of his shipmates, than by waving his hand toward the shore. " Now hear me," said the boy, urging his request te tears; "if not for my sake, or for your own sake, Mr. Barnstable, or for the hopes of God's mercy, go into the boat, for the love of my cousin Katherine." The young lieutenant paused in his troubled walk, and, for a moment, he cast a glance of hesitation at the cliffs ; but, at the next instant, his eyes fell on the ruin of his ves- tel, and he answered " Never, boy, never; if my hour has come, I will not shrink from my fate." " Listen to the men, dear sir ; the boat will be swamped along-side the wreck, and their cry is, that without you they wfll not let her go." Barnstable motioned to the boat, to bid the boy enter it, and turned away in silence. " Well," said Merry, with firmness, " if h be right that a lieutenant shall stay by a wreck, it must also be right for a midshipman; "shove off; neither Mr. Barnstable ncr myself will quit the vessel." " Boy, your life has been intrusted to my keeping, and it my hands will it be required," said his commander, lift- ing the struggling youth, and tossing him into the arms of the seamen. " Away with ye, and God be with you ; (here is more weight in you, now, than can go safe to /and." Still, the seamen hesitated, for they perceived the cock- swain moving, with a steady tread, along the deck, and they hoped he had relented, and would yet persuzde the lieutenant to join his crew. But Tom, imitating the ex- ample of his commander, seized the latter, suddenly, in his powerful grasp, and threw him over the bulwarks with vn irresistible force. At the same moment, he cast the last of the boat from the pin that held it, and, lifting hi broad hands i.igh ii to the air, his voice was heard in the %b. est. 126 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. " God's will be done with me," be cried ; " I saw the first timber of the Ariel laid, and shall live just long enough to see it torn out of her bottom ; after which I \vi=h to live QO longer." But his shipmates were swept far beyond the sounds of his voice, before half these words were uttered. All com- mand of the boat was rendered impossible, by the num- bers it contained, as well as the raging of the surf; and, as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his be- loved little craft for the last time ; it fell into a trough of the sea, and in a few moments more its fragments were ground into splinters on the adjacent rocks. The cock- swain still remained where he had cast off the rope, and beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising, at short intervals, on the waves ; some making powerful and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were be- coming visible as the tide fell, and others wildly tossed, in the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old seaman gave a cry of joy, as he saw Barnstable issue from the surf, bearing the form of Merry in safety to the sands, where, one by one. several seamen soon appeared also, iripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were carried, in a similar manner, to places of safety ; though, s Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not conceal, from his reluctant eyes, the lifeless forms, that were, in other spots, driven against the rocks, with a fury that soon left them but few of the outward vestiges of hu- manity. Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their dreadful station. The former stood, in a kind of stupid despair, a witness of the scene we have related ; but, as his curdled blood began again to flow more warmly through his heart, he crept close to the side of To%, with that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless misery more tolerable, when endured in participation with Another. " When the tide falls," he said, in a voice that betrayed the agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal jf hope, " we shall be able to walk to land." '' There was One, and only One, to whose feel the wa ten were the same as a dry deck," returned the cock COMMON-PLACE BOOK >F PKOSK. 327 swain ; 4i and none but such as have his power will ever be able to walk from these rocks to the sands." The old seaman paused, and, turning his eyes, which exhibited i mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on his com- panion, he added, with reverence " Had you thought more of him in fair weather, your case would be less to he pitied in this tempest." " Do you still think there is much danger ?" asked Dillon. " To them that have reason to fear death : listen ! do you hear that hollow noise beneath ye ?" " 'Tis the wind, driving by the vessel-!" " 'Tis the poor thing herself," said the affected cock- swain, " giving her last groans. The water is breaking up her decks, and, in a few minutes more, the handsomest model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips that fell from her timbers in framing !" " Why, then, did you remain here ?" cried Dillon wildly. " To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God," returned Tom : " these waves to me are what the land is to you ; I was born on them, and I have always meant that they should be my grave." " But I I," shrieked Dillon, " I am not ready to die ! [ cannot die ! I will not die !" " Poor wretch !" muttered his companion; " you must go, like the rest of us ; when the death-watch is called, none can skulk from the muster." " I can swim," Dillon continued, rushing, with frantic eagerness, to the side of the wreck. " Is there no billet of wood, no rope, that I can take with me ?" " None ; every thing has been cut away, or carried off by the sea. If ye are about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout heart and a clean conscience, and trust tire rest to God !" " God !" echoed Dillon, in the madness of his frenzy ; " I know no God ! there is no God that knows me !'* " Peace '" said the deep tones of the cockswain, in voice fnat seemei to speak m the elements; "blasphemer, 528 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSB The heavy groaning, produced by the water, in the tin* Oers of the Ariel, at that moment, added its impiflse U the raging feelings of Dillon, and he cast himself headlong into the set.. The water, thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach, was necessarily returned to the ocean, in eddies, in differ- ent places, favourable to such an action of the element. Into the edge of one of these counter-currents, that was produced by the very rocks on which the schooner lay, and which the watermen call the " under-tow," Dillon had, unknowingly, thrown his person, and when the waves had driven him a short distance from the wreck, he was met by a stream that his most desperate efforts could not over- come. He Avas a light and powerful swimmer, and the struggle was hard and protracted. With the shore imme- diately before his eyes, and at no great distance, he was ted, as by a false phantom, to continue his efforts, although they did not advance htm a foot. The old seaman, who, at first, had watched his motions with careless indifference, understood the danger of his situation at a glance, and, for- getful of his own fate, he shouted aloud, in a voice that was driven over the struggling victim, to the ears of his shipmates on the sands " Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow ! sheer to the southward !" Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much obscured by terror to distinguish their object ; he, how- ever, blindly yielded to the call, and gradually changed his direction, until his face was once more turned towards the ressel. The current swept him diagonally by the rocks, and he was forced into an eddy, where he had nothing to contend against but the waves, whose violence was much broken by the wreck, in this state he continued still to ttruggie, but with a force that was too much weakened to overcome the resistance he itet. Tom looked around him for a rope, but not one presented itself to his hands ; all had gone over with the spars, or been swept away by the waves. At this moment of disappointment, his eyes met those of the de&pente Dillon. Calm, and inured to hor- rors, as was the veteran seaman, he involuntarily passed bis hand before his brow, as if to exclude the look of deipau COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 829 he encountered ; and when, a moment afterwards, he re- moved the rigid member, lie beheld the sinking form of the victim, as it gradually settled in the ocean, still strug- gling, with regular but impotent strokes of the arms and feet, to gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence that naitobeen so much abused in its hour of allotted proba- tion " He will soon know his God, and learn that his God knows him !" murmured the cockswain to himself As he yet spoke, the wreck of the Ariel yielded to an overwhelm- ing sea, and, after a universal shudder, her timbers and planks gave way, and were swept towards the cliffs, bear- ing the body of the simple-hearted cockswain among the ruins. Destruction of a Family of the Pilgrims by the Savages. Miss SEDGWICK. ALL was joy in Mrs. Fletcher's dwelling. " My dear mother," said Everell, " it is now quite time to look out for father and Hope Leslie. 1 have turned the hour- glass three times since dinner, and counted all the sands, I think. Let us all go on the front portico, where we can catch the first glimpse of them, as they come past the elm trees. Here, Oneco," he continued, as he saw assent in his mother's smile, " help me out with mother's rocking chair : rather rough rocking," he added, as he adjusted the rockers lengthwise with the logs that served for the floor- ing, " tut mother won't mind trifles just now. Ah ! blessed babe, brother," he continued, taking in his arms the beautiful infant, " you shall come, too, even though you cheat me out of my birthright, and get the first em- brace from father." Thus saying, he placed the laughing infant in his go-cart, beside his mother. He then aided his little sisters in their arrangement of the playthings they had brought forth to welcome and astonish Hope ; and finally he made an elevated position for Faith Leslie, where she might, he said, as she ought, catch the very first glimpse at her sister. 28* 330 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. " Thank, thank you, Everell," aid the little girl, as at mounted her pinmcle : " if you knew Hope, you wou.d want to see her first, too ; every body loves Hope. We shall always have pleasant times when Hope gets here." It was one of the most beautiful afternoons at the close of the month of May. The lagging Spring had at Wast come forth in all her power ; " her work of gladness" waa finished, and forests, fields and meadows were bright with renovated life. The full Connecticut swept triumphantly on, as if still exulting in its release from the fetters of win- ter. Every gushing rill had the spring-note of joy. The meadows were, for the first time, enriched with patches of English grain, which the new settlers had sown scantily, oy way of experiment, prudently occupying the greatest portion of the rich mould with the native Indian corn This product of our soil is beautiful ia all its progress, from the moment when, as now it studded the meadow with hil- locks, shooting its bright pointed spear from its mother earth, to its maturity, when the long golden ear bursts from the rustling leaf. The grounds about Mrs. Fletcher's house had been pre- pared with the neatness of English taste ; and a rich bed of clover, that overspread the lawn immediately before the portico, already rewarded the in-tustry of the cultivators. Over this delicate carpet, the domestic fowls, the first civ- ilized inhabitants of the country of their tribe, were now treading, picking their food here and there like dainty little epicures. The scene had also its minstrels ; the birds, those min- isters and worshippers of nature, were on the wing, filling the a' r with melody, while, like diligent little housewives, they ransacked the forest and field for materials for their house-keeping. A mother, encircled by healthful, sporting children, is always a beautiful spectacle a spectacle that appeals to nature in every human breast. Mrs. Fletcher, in obedi- ence to matrimonial duty, or, it may be, from some lingering of female vanity, had on this occasion attired herself with extraordinary care. What woman does not wish to look in the ey >s of her husband ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 331 Mother," said Everell, putting aside the exquisitely nne lace that shaded her cheek, " I do not believe you look- ed more beautiful than you do to-day, when, as I have heard, they called you ' the rose of the wilderness.' Our little Mary's cheek is as round and as bright as a peach, but it is not so handsome as yours, mother. Your heart has sent this colour here," he continued, kissing her tender- ty ; " it seems to have come forth to tell us that our father s near." " It would shame me, Everell," replied his mother, em- bracing him with a feeling that the proudest drawing-room belle might have envied, " to take such flattery from any lips but thine." " Oh, do not call it flattery, mother look, Magawisca for Heaven's sake cheer up look, would you know mother's eye ? just turn it, mother, one minute from that road and her pale cheek too with this rich colour on it ?" "Alas! alas!" replied Magawisca, glancing her eyes at Mrs. Fletcher, and then, as if heart struck, withdrawing them, " how soon the flush of the setting sun fades from the evening cloud!" "Oh, Magawisca!" said Everell, ii ipatiently, "why are you so dismal*? your voice is too sweet for a bird of ill-omen. I shall begin to think as Jennet says though Jennet is no text book for me I shall begin to think old Nelema has really bewitched you." " You call me a bird of ill-omen," replied Magawisca, half proud, half sorrow ful, " and you call the owl a bird of ill-omen, but we hold him sacred ; he is our sentinel, and, when danger is near, he cr'es, ' Awake ! awake !' " " Magawisca, you are positively unkind. Jeiemiah's lamentations on a holyday would not be more out of time than your croaking is now. The very skies, etrth, and air, seem *o partake of our joy at father's return, and you only make a discord. Do you think, if your father was near, I iro'ik. not share your joy .'" Tears fell fust from Magawisca's eyes, but she made no reply, and Mrs. Fletcher, observing and compassionating her emotion, and thinking it probably arose from comparing her orphan stite to that of the merry children about her, called her, and said, " Mugawisca, you are neither a stran. 32 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. g er nor a servant ; will you not share our joy ? lo ywt not love us '" " Love you I" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "lov you ! I would give my life for you." " We do not ask your life, my good girl," replied Mrs. Fletcher, kindly smiling on her, " but a light heart, and a cheerful look. A sad countenance doth not become this joyful hour Go and help Oneco ; he is quite out of breath blowing those soap bubbles for the children." Oneco smiled, and shook his head, and continued to send off one after another of the prismatic globes, and, as they rose and floated on the air, and brightened with the many-colour- ed ray, the little girls clapped their hands, and the baby stretched his to grasp the brilliant vapour. " Oh !" said Magawisca, impetuously covering her eyes, " I do not like to see any thing so beautiful pass so quickly away." Scarcely had she uttered these words, when suddenly, as if the earth had opened on them, three Indian warriors darted from the forest, and pealed on the air their horrible yells. " My father ! my father !" burst from the lips of Ma- gawisca and Oneco. Faith Leslie sprang towards the In- dian boy, and clung fast to him, and the*children clustered about their mother ; she instinctively caught her infant, and held it close within her arms, as if their ineffectual shelter were a rampart. Magawisca uttered a cry of agony, and, springing for- ward with her arms uplifted, as if deprecating his approach, she sunk down at her father's feet, and, clasping her hands, " Save them ! save them !" she cried ; " the mother the children oh ! they are all good : take vengeance on ycur enemies, but spare, spare our friends ! our benefactors ! I bleed when they are struck; oh ! command them to stop !" she streamed, looking to the companions of her father, who, unchecked by her cries, were pressing on to their deadly work. Monouotto was silent and motionless : his eye glanced wildly from Magawisca to Oneco. Magawisca replied to the glance of fire : " Yes, they have sheltered us they have spread the wing of love over us save them save them oh I it will be too late," she cried, springing froo COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK PROSE. 333 her father, whose silence and fixedness showed that, if his better nature rebelled against the work of revenge, there was no relenting of purpose. Maguwi.sca darted before the Indian, who was advancing towards Mrs. Fletcher with an uplifted hatchet. " You shall hew me to pieces ere you touch her," she said, and planted herself as a shield befor< her benefactress. The warrior's obdurate heart, untouch- ed by the sight of the helpless mother and her little ones, was thrilled by the courage of the heroic girl he paused. and grimly smiled on her, when his companion, crying, " Hasten ! the dogs will be on us !" levelled a deadly blow at Mrs. Fletcher ; but his uplifted arm was penetrated by a musket shot, and the hatchet fell harmless to the floor. " Courage, mother!" cried Everel!, reloading the piece ; but neither courage nor celerity could avail : the second Indian sprang upon him, threw him on the floor, wrested his musket from him, and, brandishing his tomahawk over his head, he would have aimed the fatal stroke, when a cry from Mononotto arrested his arm. Everell extricated himself from his grasp, and, a ray of hope flashing into his mind, he seized a bugle horn, which hung beside the door, and winded it. This was the con- ventional signal of alarm, and ke sent forth a blast long and lud a death-cry. Mrs. Grafton and her attendants were just mounting their horses to return home. Digby listened for 3 moment . then, exclaiming, " It comes from our i ter's dwelling ! ride for your life, Hutton !" he towjd away a bandbox thai encumbered him, and spurred his horse to its utmost speed. The alarm was spread through the village, and, in a brief space, Mr. Pynchon, with six armed men, was pressing towards the fatal scene. In the mean time the tragedy was proceeding at Bethel. Mrs. Fletcher's senses had been stunned with terror. She had neither spoken nor moved after she grasped her infant. Everell's gallant in- tei position restored a momentary consciousness; she scream- ed to him, " Fly ; Evereil, my son, fly ; for your father's ake, fly !" " Never!" h; replied, springing to his mother's side. The sivages, always rapid in their movements, wen *ow aware that their safety depended on despatch. " Fin 534 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Ish your work, warriors !" cried Mononotto. Obedient to the command, and infuriated by his bleeding wound, the Indian, who, on receiving the shot, had staggered back, and leaned against the wall, now sprang forward, and tore the infant from its mother's breast. She shrieked, and in that shriek passed the agony of death. She was un- conscious that her son, putting forth a strength beyond na- ture, for a moment kept the Indian at bay ; she neither saw nor felt the knife struck at her own heart. She felt not the arms of her defenders, Everell and Magawisca, aa ihey met around her neck. She fainted and fell to the floor, dragging her impotent protectors with her. The savage, in his struggle with Everell, had tossed the infant bay to the ground : he fell, quite unharmed, on the turf at Mononotto's feet ; there, raising his head, and look- ing up into the chieftain's face, he probably perceived a gleam of mercy : for, with the quick instinct of infancy, that with unerring sagacity directs its appeal, he clasped the naked leg of the savage with one arm, and stretched the other towards him with a piteous supplication, that nc words could have expressed. Mononotto's heart melted within him : he stooped to raise the sweet suppliant, when one of the Mohawks fierce- ly seized him, tossed him wildly around his head, and dash- ed him on the door-stone. But the silent prayer, perhaps the celestial inspiration of the innocent creature, was not lost. " We have had blood enough," cried Mononotto ; " you have well avenged me, brothers." Then, looking at Oneco, who had remained in one cor- ner of the portico, clasping Faith Leslie in his arms, he commanded him to follow him with the child. Everell was torn from the lifeless bodies of his mother and sisters, and dragged into the forest. Magawisca uttered one cry of agony and despair, as she looked for the last time on the bloody scene, and then followed her father. As they passed the boundary of the cleared ground. Mononotto tore from Oneco his English dress, and, casting it from him, " Thus perish," he said, " every mark of the captivity of my children. Thou shall return to our forests," he continued, wrapping a skin around him, " with th badge of thy pe/- r ?e." ** COMMON-PLACE BOOH. OF PROSE. 335 We Lope our readers will not think we have wantonly sported with their feelings, by drawing a picture of calam- ity that only exists in the fictitious tale. No such events as we have feebly related were common in our early an- nals, and attended by horrors that it would be impossible for the imagination to exaggerate. Not only families, but villages, were cut off by the most dreaded of all foes the ruthless, vengeful savage. In the quiet possession of the blessings transmitted, we are, perhaps, in danger of forgetting or undervaluing the sufferings by which they were obtained. We forget that the noble pilgrims lived and endured for us; that, when they came to the wilderness, they said truly, though, it may be, somewhat quaintly, that they turned their backs on Egypt. They did virtually renounce all dependence on earthly support ; they left the land of their birth, of their homes, of their fathers' sepulchres ; they sacrificed ease and preferment, and all the delights of sense and for what ? to open for themselves an earthly paradise ? to dress their bowers of pleasure, and rejoce with their wives and children ? No ! they came not for themselves ; they lived not to themselves. An exiled and suffering people, they came forth in the dignity of the chosen servants of the Lord, to open the forests to the sun-beam, and to the light of the Sun of righteousness ; to restore man, man, oppressed and trampled on by his fellow, to religious and civil liberty and equal rights ; to replace the creatures of God on their natural level ; to bring down the hills, and make smooth the rough places, which the pride and cruel- ty of nvxn had wrought on the fair creation of the Father of all. What was their reward ? Fortune ? distinctions ? the sweet charities of home ? No but their feet were plant- ed on the mount of vision, and they saw, with sublime joy, a multitude of people where the solitary savage roamed the forest ; the forest vanished, and pleasant villages and busy cities appeared ; the tangled foot-path expanded tc the thronged highway; the consecrated church was planted on the rock of heathen sacrifice. And, that we might realize this vision, enter into thia promised land of faith, they endured hardship, and braved 336 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. death, deeming, as said one of their company, that " he is nit worthy to live at all, who, for fear of danger or death, shunneth his country's service or his own honour sinc death is inevitable, and the fame of virtue immortal " If these were the fervours of enthusiasm, it was an en thasiasra kindled and fed by the holy flame that glows or, the altar of God ; an enthusiasm that neVer abates, but gathers life and strength as the immortal soul expands in the image of its Creator. The Emigrant's Abode in Ohio. FLINT IN making remoter journeys from the town, beside the rivulets, and in the little bottoms not yet in cultivation, I discerned the smoke rising in the woods, and heard the strokes of the axe, the tinkling of bells, and the baying of dogs, and saw the newly-arrived emigrant either raising his log cabin, or just entered into possession. It has afford- ed me more pleasing reflections, a happier train of associ- ations, to contemplate these beginnings of social toil in the wide wilderness, than, in our more cultivated regions, to come in view of the most sumptuous mansion. Nothing can be more beautiful than these little bottoms, upon which these emigrants deposit, if I may so say, their household gods. Springs burst forth in the intervals between the high and low grounds. The trees and shrubs are of the most beautiful kind. The brilliant red-bird is seen flitting among the shrubs, or, perched on a tree, seems welcoming, in her mellow notes, the emigrant to his abode. Flocks of paroquets are glittering among the trees, and gray squir- rels are skipping from branch to branch. In the midst of these primeval scenes, the patient and laborious father fixes his family. In a few weeks they have reared a comforta- ble cabin and other outbuildings. Pass this place in two years, and you will see extensive fields of corn and wheat, a young and thrifty orchard, fruit trees of all kinds, the guarantee of present abundant subsistence, and of future luxury. Pass it in ten years, and the log buildings will have disappeared. Th shrub* and forest trees will b COMMON-PLACE Boou I'ROfeB. 337 gone. The Arcadian aspect of hm, .mil retired abun- dance and comfort will have given , < -i- to a brick house,, with accompaniments like those lli.ii iiiriul the same kind, of house in the older countries. l:\ iu> time, the occu- pant, who came there, perhaps, with . -mall sum of money,, and moderate expectations, from h. i lite, and with no. more than a common school education has been made, in. succession, member of the assembly . t>i-tice of the peace,, and finally county judge. I admit tli,.; the first residence- among the trees aflbrds the most agiv. .r.le picture to my. mind; am 1 , that there is an inex|>iv--iiile charm in the pastoral simplicity of those years, ln-loie pride and self- consequence have banished the repo-r of their Eden, and' when you witness the first struggling of social toiJ with; the barren luxuriance of nature. Melancholy Decay of th* Indians. CASS. NEITHER the government nor people of the United- States have any wish to conceal from themselves, nor from, the world, that there is upon their fioiitiers a wretched, forlorn people, looking to them for support and protection,, and possessing strong claims upon theii ju>tice and human- ity. Those people received our fort-fathers in a spirit of friendship, aided them to endure privations and sufferings, and taught them how to provide for many of the wants with; which they were surrounded. The Indians were then strong, and we were weak; and, without looking at the change- which has occurred in any spirit of morbid affectation, but with the feelings of an aat what immense personal sacrifices, we can never fully -.estimate. And it is melancholy to contrast their privation! nd iufferings, living and dying, with the fleeting memori COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 339 als of their labours. A few external ceremonies, affecting neither the head nor the heart, and which are retained like idle legends among somu of the aged Indians, are all that remain to preserve the recollection of their spiritual fa- thers ; arid I have stood upon the ruins of St. Ignace, on the shores of Lake Huron, their principal missionary estab- lishment, indulging those melancholy reflections, which must always press upon the mind, amid the fallen monu- ments of human piety. Object and Success of the Missionary Enterpritc. WAYLAND. OUR object will not have been accomplished till the tomahawk shall be buried forever, and the tree of peace spread its broad branches from the Atlantic to the Pacific ; until a thousand smiling villages shall be reflected from the waves of the Missouri, and the distant valleys of th. West echo with the song of the reaper ; till the wilderness and the solitary place shall have been glad for us, and the desert has rejoiced, and blossomed as the rose. Our labours are not to cease, until the last slave-shi] shall have visited the coast of Africa, and, the nations of Europe and America having long since redressed her ag- gravated wrongs, Ethiopia, from the Mediterranean to the Cape, shall have stretched forth her hand unto God. How changed will then be the face of Asia ! Bramins, and sooders, and castes, and shasters, will have passed away, like the mist which rolls up the mountain's side before the rising glories of a summer's morning, while the land on which it rested, shining forth in all its loveliness, shall, from its numberless habitations, send forth the high praises of God and the Lamb. The Hindoo mother will gaze upon her infant with the same tenderness, which throbs in the breast of any one of you who now hears me, and the Hin- doo son will pour into the wounded bosom of his wiJowed parent the oil of peace and consolation. In a word, point us to the loveliest village that smilei upon a Scottish or New England landscape, and compart 340 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROS*,. it with the filthiness and brutality of a Caflrarian kraal, and we tell you, that our object is to render that Caffrari- an kraal as happy and as gladsome as that Scottish or New England village. Point us to the spot on the face of the earth, where liberty is best understood and most perfectly enjoyed, where intellect shoots forth in its richest luxuri- ance, and where all the kindlier feelings of the heart are constantly seen in their most graceful exercise ; point u.s to the loveliest, and happiest neighbourhood in the world, on which we dwell ; and we tell you, that our object is to render this whole earth, with all its nations, and kindreds, and tongues, and people, as happy, nay, happier, than that neighbourhood. We do believe, that God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Our object is to convey to those who are perishing the news of this sal- vation. It is to furnish every family upon the face of the whole earth with the Word of God written in its own lan- guage, and to send to every neighbourhood a preacher of the cross of Christ. Our object will not be accomplished until every idol temple shall have been utterly abolished, and a temple of Jehovah erected in its room ; until this earth, instead of being a theatre, on which immortal beings are preparing by crime for eternal condemnation, shall be- come one universal temple, in which the children of men are learning the anthems of the blessed above, and be- coming meet to join the general assembly and church of the first born, whose names are written in heaven Oui design will not be completed until " One song employs all nations, and all cry, ' Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us ;' The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other , and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy; Till, nation after nation (aught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous husanna round." The object of the missionary enterprise embraces every child of Adam. It is vast as the race to whom its opera- tions are of necessity limited. It would confer upon every individual on earth all that intellectual or moral cultivation can bestow. It would rescue a world from the indignatiaa COMMON-PLACE BUCK OF PROSE. 341 and wrath, tribulation and anguish, reserved for every sot. ol man that doeth evil, and give it a title to glory, honour, ana immortality. You see, then, that our object is, not orty to affect every individual of the species, but to affec him in the momentous extremes of infinite happiness and infinite wo. And now, we ask, what object, ever under- taken by man, can compare with this same design of evan- gelizing the world ? Patriotism itself fades away before it, and acknowledges the supremacy of an enterprise, which seizes, with so strong a grasp, upon both the temporal and eternal destinies of the whole family of man. And now, my hearers, deliberately consider the nature of the missionary enterprise. Reflect upon the dignity of its object ; the high moral and intellectual powers which are to be called forth in its execution ; the simplicity, be- nevolence, and efficacy, of the means by which all this is to be achieved ; and we ask you, Does not every other en- terprise, to which man ever put forth his strength, dwindle into insignificance before that of preaching Christ crucified to a lost and perishing world ? Engaged in such an object, and supported by such an assurance, you may readily suppose, we can very well bear the contempt of those who would point at us the fin- ger of scorn. It is written, " In the last days there shall be scoffers." We regret that it should be so. We regret that men should oppose an enterprise, of which the chief object is, to turn sinners unto holiness. We pity them, and we will pray for them. For we consider their situation far other than enviable. We recollect that it was once said l jy the Divine Missi' nary, to the first band which he com- missioned, " He that despiseth you despiseth me, and he that despiseth me despiseth him that sent me." So that this very contempt may, at last, involve- them in a controversy infinitely more serious than they at present anticipate. The reviler of missions, and the missiotaryof the cross, must both stand before the judgment seat of him who said, "Go ye into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature." It is affecting to think, that, whilst the one, surrounded by the nation who, through his instru- mentality, have been rescued from everlasting death, shall receive the plaudit, " Well done, good and faithful serv ant!" 29" 842 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FhOSE. the other may be numbered among those despisers, wbc wonder and perish. " O that they might know, even