Z3V

 
 ADVICE 
 
 IN THE 
 
 PURSUITS OF LITERATURE, 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, AND CRITICAL 
 REMARKS. 
 
 BY SAMUEL L. KNAPP. 
 
 1 Clear arguments may rise 
 
 In short succession i yel th 1 historic draught 
 Shall occupy attention's steadfast souL" 
 
 " Hen may the historic instance give effect 
 To nmral i>ortntns." 
 
 " Here let us breathe ; and happily institute 
 A course of learning and in enlous studies." 
 
 PUBLISHED BY GEORGE H. EVANS, 
 
 GRAXVILLE, MIDDLETOWW, N. J. 
 
 \mi SOLD B1 Tin: PRISCIPAI. BOOKSXLUEfifl THKOUCDOUT 
 TBI I ."* J IF. Ii STATES.
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, January, 1832, by 
 J. K. Porter, in the office of the Clerk of the Southern District 
 of New- York.
 
 
 TO THE MEMBERS 
 
 CF THE 
 
 MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, 
 
 WHO, 
 
 AMIDST THE CARES AND BUSINESS 
 
 OF ACTIVE LIFE, 
 
 OR IN THE DOMESTIC CIRCLE, 
 
 ARE ENGAGED IN THE PURSUIT OF THAT KNOWLEDGE 
 
 WHICH GIVES EXPANSION TO THOUGHT ; 
 
 STRENGTH TO THE MIND , 
 
 FIRMNESS TO PURPOSE J 
 
 I 
 
 REFINEMENT TO MORALS ; 
 
 AND WEIGHT TO CHARACTER J 
 
 THIS VOLUME, 
 
 CONTAINING A FEW HINTS, BY WAY OF ADVICE, 
 
 UPON AUTHORS AND ERAS OF LITERATURE 
 
 AND OTHER RELATIVE MATTERS, 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY THEIR SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 page. 
 
 Dedication, 3 
 
 Palace, 6 
 
 < HAPTER L 
 
 Introductory— Elementary Education— The Dible- Juvenile Books— Read 
 
 r Amusement— Method in Reading— Remarks to the Ladies— Gene- 
 ral Literature— State of Man before the Cultivation of Letters- "When 
 Letters were Invented— Lettered men of the Early Ages— Influence of 
 Letters upon Man— Effect of Letters decried by Certain Reasoners— Their 
 Assertions Denied— Letters more Glorious and Permanent than Art-The 
 English Language— The Saxon Language— The Saxons and Normans— 
 Lajman'l works-Robert De Brunne's History of England— Reign of 
 the Romans— Romances— Age of Chivalry— Fictions of the present day- 
 Johnson's Rasaelas— Godwin's St Leon— Caleb Williams-Sir Walter 
 Scott—Novels founded on Pact— The father of English Poetry-Objects of 
 the Poetry of his Predecessors— These Ol^ects Reformed by Chaucer— Ge- 
 nius of Chaucer— Byron's opinion of him— Chaucer's Contemporaries— 
 Chaucer's Satire— Dryden and Pope's opinion of him, &c— John Gower— 
 Originality and Genius— Gower's Monument— John the Chaplain— Tho- 
 mas Occleve— Henry - v.— Society— Lydgate— Criticism Evidence of Mental 
 Light— The Laurel Crown of Italy and England— John Kay, Poet Laureate 
 
 mid IV -Poetical Distinctions -Barclay— Skelton— Lord fcsurry— 
 The Father of English Blank Verse— Blank Verse— Sir John Mandeville, 
 tl.c Traveller— Effect of the Accounts of MB Travels— Ralph Higden— Tre- 
 vlsa— His translation of the Bible— Wickliffe, the Reformer— Malice of the 
 Popes against I.ls Memory— Founder of the Protestant Religion— Bishop 
 
 ck-81r John Fortescue— Use of Printing— William Caxton— The 
 first book printed in England— Chronicles of England-Similarity of 
 Thought and Expression in Different Languages— Effect of Expelling the 
 
 -: Scholars from Constantinople-^ r TbOmai M a, the 
 
 Rhetorician-Figurative Language-Will lam Fullward The relgni of 
 Edward and Mary-Reign of Eliza!- rei Lady Jane 
 
 Grey— Source of American I illel between the Literature 
 
 of thai sge and the present— General Diffusion of Literature. - - 9
 
 VI 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The age of Elizabeth— Spenser— The Fairy Queen— Its characteristics— Mo- 
 nument to Spenser, by Ann, Countess of Dorset— Imitations of his Stanzas 
 —Extracts, " Description of Prince Arthur"—" Description of Belphebe"— 
 Drayton— Extract, " Description of Lady Geraldine"— Roger Ascham— 
 The Schoolmaster— John Fox— Hollingshead— Raleigh— Selby— Cecil- 
 Stow— Knolles— Agard— Richard Hooker— Ecclesiastical Polity— Shaks- 
 peare— Youthful Indiscretion— Flight to London— Entry upon the Stage— 
 His plays— Power of his Genius and Imagination— His Education— His 
 ■Writings the Production of Profound Thought— The Stage— The Mind of 
 Man— Richard HI.— Lady Macbeth— Macbeth— Shades of Character— Suc- 
 cessful Delineations of the Human Passions— Inferior and Super-human 
 Beings— Caliban— Ariel— Shakspeare's universal Exhibition of Character 
 —The Poet of Nature— Francis Bacon, the Great Reformer in Philosophy— 
 The English Language— Sufferings of Bacon from the Meanness of those 
 around him— Robert Burton— Anatomy of Melancholy— Milton— His in- 
 timation to do something for the Honor of his Country— Made Latin Se- 
 cretary of State— Loss of his Eye-sight— Paradise Lost— Extract from 
 "the Mask of Comus." -.--.'-'--- M 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Sir "William Davenant-Cowley— Dryden— Little and Shad well— Sir Chris- 
 topher Wren— Matthew Prior— De Foe— Addison— Sir Isaac Newton- 
 Pope— Young— Thomas Parnell -Dr. Arbuthnot— Gay-Swift-Bolingbroke 
 —Sir Wm. Temple— Dr. Watts— Extract, the " Indian Philosopher." - 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Lord Lyttleton— Earl of Chesterfield— Thomson— Extract, " The Temple of 
 Liberty"— Sterne— Akenside— Extract from the "Pleasures of Imagina- 
 tion"— Shenstone— Extract, "Jemmy Dawson"— Collins— Extract, "To 
 Fear"— The Elder Pitt— Lord Mansfield— Goldsmith— Extract from the 
 "Deserted Village"— Edmund Burke— Fox— Sir Joshua Reynolds— Dr. 
 Johnson— Beattie— Junius — Churchill— Lloyd — John Wilkes — Thomas 
 and Joseph Warton— Extracts, " The Suicide"—" Ode to Superstition." 83 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Cowper-Extract from" The Task"-Sir William Jones-Extract, "Soli- 
 ma"— Souchey— Coleridge— Godwin— Rogers— Extract, " Verses, written 
 to be spoken by Mrs. Siddons"— Thomas Campbell-Extracts from the 
 'Pleasures of Hope"-" Hohenlinden." ns
 
 -vn 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 •Crabbe— Extract, " Phcebe Dawson"— Hume, the Histowan-Lln^ard— Sha- 
 ron Turner— CTOly-Thomas Moore— Extract, "Go where Glory waits 
 thee"— William L. Bowles— Extract, " To Time"— Rev. Henry Mllman— 
 Extract, " Ode to the Saviour"-Byron- Extract, "Stanzas"— Shelly— Ex- 
 tract, " Dedication to the Revolt of Islam"— Pursuits of Literature, by 
 Mathias— The age of Tiction— Mrs. Radcliff— Miss Edgeworth— Walter 
 Scott. 167 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Classical Learning-Extract from Milton— History— Biography— Eloquence 
 —Geography— Homer— Account of his Birth and Life, supposed by Hero- 
 dotus— His Works— Extracts, " Watch of the Trojans before the walls of 
 Troy"— Part of the " Hymn to Apollo"— Hesiod— Extract, " Combat of 
 Hercules and Cygnus"— Pindar— Extract from the "Second Olympic 
 Ode"-The Dramatic Poets— The Age of Philosophy— Plato— Demosthe- 
 nes— Extract from "Olynlhiac the Third"— Isocrates— Greek Historians 
 —Herodotus— Thucydidcs— Xenophon. - - - - - 167 
 
 CHAPTER VHI. 
 
 The History of the Roman Empire— Numa— Lucius Junius Brutus— The 
 lis— The Dictator— The Tribunes— Coriolanus— Spurius Cassius 
 Viscillinus— The Twelve Tables— The Decemvir— Applus Claudius and 
 Vlrglnltm I*1J lltnnt of Soldiers— Rome Burnt and Re-built— The Punic 
 Wars against the Carthagenlans, ending with the destruction of Carthage 
 —Rome conquers Greece— The Gracchil— Corruption of the Senate— Mn- 
 rtus and Sylla— Lepldus and Pompey — Catillne'sConspiracy— Ctesar— The 
 Triumvir. .peror—Mecrenas— Tiberius-Caligula— Claudius- 
 Nero— Vespaclan— Trajan— Adrian— The Antonies— Constantino — Livy 
 —Tacitus— Pliny the Elder- Pliny tin; Younser— Policy of the Romans— 
 Their Architecture— Poets ami Pi. The Moderns more indebt- 
 ed t" in to Rome— Lucretius and Catullus— Virgil— Extracts, 
 'Tityrus and Mcllbceus"— " Polllo"— Horao- Ode to Lollius" 
 — •' Ode to Mecainas"— Ovid— Extract, " Elegy on his Exile"— Juvenal— 
 Claudlan— Extract, "The Old Man of Verona"-The Am lent Oracles and 
 Mystenc»— Sybilllne Oracles— Extract from Milton— Superstitions traced 
 to the dUeases of the Body or Mind- Modern Witchcraft— Extract from 
 Beattle. 9U 
 
 CHAFTKK IX. 
 
 DtTtitonand Decline of th* Roman Emptoe The Huns-The Goths— Ala- 
 rie Hubduca Rome— AUlU-riii.-o.lonc— West and East Ooths-Bcllsa-
 
 vu-i 
 
 rius-Christians and Pagans— Mahomet— The Koran— Progress in Build- 
 ing and Sailing Ships— Spread of Christianity— Spread of Literature and 
 Philosophy— Foundation of Venice— Its Civil Government— The Doge- 
 Commerce of Venice— Florence— The Arabs— The Enthusiasm for Litera- 
 turein the Ninth Century— The Arabic Language— The Pandects of Justi- 
 nian— France and England— The Magna Charta— Polarity of Magnetized 
 Iron— Constantinople Conquered by the French and Venetians— Abandon- 
 ed by the Conquerors— Held by the Greeks— Taken by the Turks— Pro- 
 gress of Navigation— Portugal— Commencement of Discoveries— Madeira 
 Islands— Cape De Verd Islands— The Azores— Passing of the Line— Cape 
 of Good Hope— The Genoese— The Tuscans— Casmo De Medicis— Lorenzo 
 the Magnificent— Columbus' first Voyage of Discovery— The Mediterra- 
 nean— Columbus— Jealousy of the Portuguese— Henry VII.— The Brother 
 of Columbus— Juan Peres— Isabella— Jealousy of the Spanish— The Fleet 
 of Columbus— Sailing of the Expedition— Irving's Life of Columbus— 
 Ojeda— Amerigo Vespucci— Derivation of America^— The Fame of Colum- 
 bus—John Cabot— The Discoverer of the Western Continent— Newfound- 
 land— Sebastian Cabot— South America— Cabral— Brazil— Luther and Cal- 
 vin—Settlement of America— The Characters of Columbus and Cabot— His- 
 tory of Cortes— Conquest of Montezuma— History of Guatimozin-Cruelty 
 ofCortes-Pizarro-Crueltiesofthe Spaniards, and Forbearanceof the Chil- 
 dren of the Sun— Tupac Amaru— His Execution— The Republics of South 
 America— Queen Elizabeth-Sir Humphrey Gilbert— Takes formal Pos- 
 session of Newfoundland— Budeius— Gilbert's Ship founders in a Storm 
 —Energy of Sir Walter Raleigh— Amadas and Barlow— Their Character 
 of the Aboriginals of America— Sir Richard Grenville— Governor Lane— 
 Herriat— Object of those who first came to this Country— Governor Lane 
 and his Colony return home— Sir Richard Grenville leaves a new colony 
 on the Island of Roanoke— Sir Walter Raleigh introduces the use of To- 
 bacco in England— Continues his efforts to settle Virginia— Gosnold— 
 James II.— Elizabeth— Richard Hackluyt— Capt. John Smith— First Settle- 
 ment on Manhattan Island— Blok and Christaonse— Monopoly of the States 
 General— The first Governor— The Government— Trade— First Child born 
 in America of European Parents— The Waaloons— De Leet's History of the 
 New World— Pirates— Governor Minuit's Deputations to the Governor 
 and Council of Plymouth— Governor Bradford's Reception and Treatment 
 thereof—Courtesy and Good Faith between the Settlements— Von Twiller 
 —Legitimacy of the Settlement acknowledged— The first Settlers— Settle- 
 ment of Plymouth— Their Early Disaster— Their Arrival and Landing 
 upon Cape Cod— Their Title to the Lands— Reflections upon the Settle- 
 ment of America— Conclusion. ...... 263
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It is said that the Romans were the first people who set up mile- 
 stones along their roads into die country, for the benefit of the way- 
 faring man. The wealthy travellers could tak.- guides, when they 
 wanted them, to sa\- ves labour and trouble, on their excur- 
 
 sions ; and the professed tourist had skill and science enough to find 
 his way by the great guides of nature, — the rivers and mountains — 
 die sun, moon, and stars — and die landmarks set up by his pre- 
 cursors; — but the business man required these speaking stones 
 :y in his way, to guide him on his journey. So, in die paths 
 of knowledge, those who have leisure, and are not under the neces- 
 sity of measuring time by hours, or distances by time, can course 
 along at will, and find amusement and instruction in every thing 
 they look upon ; and the professed scholar knows the tracks of his 
 predecessors in the walks of literature, and can examine all the 
 monuments they have established without fear or anxiety, for he 
 can easily correct his errors, if he should fall into any. But those 
 engaged in the busy scenes of life, and to whom literature is inci- 
 dental, suffer for want of a few directions in getting the most inform- 
 ation from the best sources in the shortest possible time. They 
 are thankful for being directed to die most splendid epochs of human 
 knowledge, and fairly introduced to some of the best authors of any 
 age of intelligence. If there be no royal road to geometry, there is 
 a short cut to a respectable share of knowledge, both ancient and 
 modem. 
 
 The f«w remarks found in this volume are, in furtherance of my 
 purpose, made historical, biographical, and critical, with a view to 
 furnish an outline in the miscellaneous reading of the English 
 scholar. These remarks, — with what success the reader will best 
 judge, — are intended to point out some of the most valuable authors, 
 whose works he may safely peruse, and some of those passages in 
 the progress of human knowlt'ltre with which it is necessary to be 
 familiar, in order to give one a reputable standing in this enlight- 
 ened community. 
 
 The time has come when no one can be ignorant, and still re- 
 ■pectablc. A good share of knowledge is requisite for the daily 
 demands of society, in almostevery grade of life. The work-shop, 
 the counting-roorn, the factory, and even i\\c dar.cing-hall, as die 
 world goes, must liave a portion of modern intelligence, to be respect-
 
 able. If the few mile- stones I have set up are rough-hewn, and 
 the directions rudely sculptured, the figures are honest, and the 
 directions safe ; they pretend not to point out the way to Byzan- 
 tium, but only to the next village. 
 
 My arrangement is, in a good degree, historical, in reference to 
 particular eras of literature, rather than to general chronology; but 
 the course I should venture to recommend for the general English 
 reader, would be, to make himself well acquainted with the writers 
 of Queen Anne's reign, as Young, Addison, Swift, Pope, Parnell, 
 Akenside, Chesterfield, and many others, are called; and from them 
 go up to the earliest ages I have mentioned, and come down to the 
 present day, enlarging the circle of reading until it embraces the 
 best portions of English literature. I begin at this point to form 
 the sweep of the compass of knowledge, for it was an age of taste 
 and pure English. 
 
 There are some things in this work 1 have touched upon before. 
 When I wrote my lectures on American Literature, I had not con- 
 templated this work ; and if I had, I must have given some slight 
 account of English literature, in order to come properly to our own. 
 When I first thought, last winter, of touching upon this wide field 
 of English literature, I engaged my friend, James Nack, — a young 
 gentleman known to the community for his virtues, his talents, his 
 acquirements, and his misfortunes, (being deaf and dumb,) — to 
 assist me in the undertaking. On that plan, — if we could have 
 carried it into execution, — our labours would have extended to 
 several volumes ; but on consulting those wise in publications, they 
 discouraged the enterprise, and I confined myself to this small 
 volume, giving up all thoughts of going farther; and this was 
 well, for it would have been taking him from the groves of the 
 muses to drudge in the details of literature, and me from profes- 
 sional labours, — if not so pleasant, certainly quite as profitable. 
 
 It has long been my opinion, that we were greatly deficient in 
 works which might be called directors of youth in the paths of 
 knowledge. I mean 'those paths which should be pursued, after 
 the elementary course of education has been completed. I agree 
 that the mind should not be in leading strings long, but it should 
 always be under the direction of sound principles and forcible 
 aphorisms. In the course of life there should be no step taken with- 
 out advice, and no clay passed without its duties. 
 
 SAMUEL L. KNAPP. 
 New- York, January, 1832.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " None, 
 
 But such as are good men, can give good tilings ; 
 
 And that, which is not good, is not delicious 
 
 To a well-govern'd and wise appetite." — Milton. 
 
 We are a reading community: the press is every 
 day teeming with works of all sorts, in our mother 
 tongue, of more or less value in forming the mind. — 
 It is not now difficult to procure books ; they are scat- 
 tered abroad through every city, town, and village in 
 our extensive country, in great profusion ; but it often 
 happens, that the youthful mind is without a guide in 
 this wilderness of sweets, for it falls to the lot of but a 
 few to have a Mentor always at hand to point out the 
 medicin;d from the poisonous flower. The first rudi- 
 ments of knowledge can hardly be called learning; 
 they only fit the mind to receive it; nor do they con- 
 tain any directions for keeping the intellect sound 
 and healthy. There is no instinct in our natures that 
 directs us to whatever is good and wholesome, as in 
 the honey bee or other humble creatures of earth or 
 air. If youths would not wander without knowing 
 whither, and waste their time in useless reading, they 
 must, in some measure, seek out and trust to those 
 guides who have experience in the pathway of know- 
 ledge—those who have tasted and tried the qualities of 
 all that makes up the literary banquet which is set 
 before them. This is not all ; the necessary quantity 
 of that which is nutritious and desirable should be
 
 8 
 
 known, for the most proper and natural food may be 
 taken so unadvisedly as to cause a surfeit. It is for- 
 tunate, however, that elementary education among 
 us is so well conducted as it is. There are a few books 
 dedicated to the household gods, which lie near the 
 cradle and are opened and partially read without direc- 
 tion or calculation. The Bible is among these, and the 
 historical sketches and dramatic incidents in that vo- 
 lume, attract and fix the attention of children at a very 
 early age. This is well, for the language of the Bible 
 is pure, good English, and easily understood. And 
 even some of the poetical descriptions are eagerly 
 read, and although the images left on the mind are 
 indistinct and visionary, still the mental struggle to 
 grasp them awakens the powers of the imagination, 
 opens the reasoning faculties, and prepares the child to 
 read and reflect on those subjects which are presented 
 to him in a different form, with a wish for improve- 
 ment. From a benevolent zeal to improve the rising 
 generation, all classes of men of intellect have labored 
 to provide juvenile books; and sometimes, perhaps, 
 these well-meant endeavors push the mind onward 
 with too much rapidity, and in this pressure of acqui- 
 sition, the storing the memory may be considered by 
 some the same thing as cidtivating the mind ; but it is 
 not precisely the same. The other books about the 
 house are in general well calculated to improve his 
 memory, taste and judgment ; so that when the child 
 is given up to the school master some foundation for 
 his future inclinations and pursuits is laid. He is 
 then confined to elementary knowledge, and all the 
 exertion* of the instructor to throw a charm around 
 geography, arithmetic, history and philosophy, amount
 
 
 
 to but little in the way of making the acquisition of 
 knowledge palatable. The strong stimulant of distinc- 
 tion is at this period the most efficacious. Those who 
 are about to prepare themselves for an active life are 
 obliged to leave school when only half their teens are 
 gone ; without restraint or direction, even with the 
 best of habits, their acquisitions in general knowledge 
 are of slow growth. They read merely for amuse- 
 ment, without a thought of treasuring a stock of infor- 
 mation for future use. They dislike to be plodding 
 when they can recreate themselves by slight and care- 
 less reading. The scope of my remarks, I wish it to be 
 understood, is to induce the youth to correct this desulto- 
 ry habit, and to set out right, and continue so, until the 
 mind of the man is formed. By method in reading, it is 
 Mtoninhing how much can be effected in the course of 
 a few years. The intellectual distinction among men 
 on the exchange, and in all the business walks of life, 
 is more owing to the different ways in which young 
 men pass their leisure hours from fifteen to thirty than 
 tn any other cause. By a rigid course of disciplining 
 the mind in these important years, early defects may 
 be cured, and even a common-place mind strengthen- 
 ed to show no ordinary powers, while a course of ten 
 years' negligence in reading will enfeeble an intellect 
 which was once thought vigorous and promising. 
 
 The same n marks are applicable to young ladies; if 
 they throw aside their useful books as soon as they are 
 D from school, and ramble through the light read- 
 ing of the day, forming no plans for improving their 
 minds, they (fill never come to maturity; there will 
 be an infancy abort them even in old a^e, while an 
 hour or two in a day will keep them bright, increase
 
 10 
 
 their stock of knowledge, and give a finish to their 
 charms, the place of which no fashion can supply. It 
 is only by reading works of taste and merit that a lady 
 can learn to think right and talk well. She in gene- 
 ral has more leisure hours to devote to literature than 
 young gentlemen, and would improve quite as fast as 
 they, if she would set about it. It is of the utmost impor- 
 tance for those just forming and developing- a charac- 
 ter to understand the duties of life— those that regard 
 one's self, and those required by the community. It is 
 true that life is short and science long, but this should 
 be used not to discourage the young, but as an in- 
 ducement to industry and perseverance. 
 
 The young should learn what is meant by literature, 
 and then look at its value, and consider the means 
 of its acquisition, its fields, Ms importance, and the best 
 course to pursue to acquire a sufficiency of it to re- 
 fine and elevate the mind, to prepare us to sustain a fair 
 character for intelligence, and to give each one curren- 
 cy as a well educated man in the society of this and 
 other countries. This is the great object of these pages. 
 
 Literature, in an extensive sense — such as should en- 
 gage the attention of those who intend to make them- 
 selves acquainted with the great duties of life — contains 
 the records of all ages and countries ; the thoughts of 
 men in all their struggles for knowledge, and in all 
 their inspirations; everything that the human mind 
 has contemplated and brought forth in a manner not 
 offensive to taste or decency. It is this literature that 
 should be studied and made familiar to us all, in a greater 
 or less degree. The advantages of having this trea- 
 sure to put our hands in, and to take from it at will, is 
 incalculable ; for, without letters, man was but a sa-
 
 11 
 
 vage : he knew nothing of the past, except by memory 
 and tradition ; the first was deceptive, and the second 
 vague and unsatisfactory. Without letters, knowledge 
 of a moral or an intellectual kind could not have in- 
 creased to any considerable extent ; for however ma- 
 ture the thoughts of out great mind might have been, 
 lie had no means of transmitting his wisdom to poste- 
 rity in any permanent form. He could only give his 
 knowledge in keeping to the feeble and ordinary minds 
 around him, and instead of increasing the great mass 
 he might have accumulated, it was generally lost or 
 frittered away after a short period. 
 
 Letters were invented when man was passing from 
 a savage to a barbarous state, on his way to refinement. 
 The influence of the invention of letters was soon seen 
 in the character and conduct of those who were fortu- 
 nate enough to possess them. 
 
 Those accustomed to darkness see much by a little 
 light ; and, therefore, it is unsafe to form an estimate 
 of the knowledge which nations possessed in ancient 
 times, t.y examining, at the present day, the amount of 
 literature they had acquired. The lettered men of the 
 early aiyes appear to us as glow-worms in the path- 
 fires were pah qmd ineffectual; — but then 
 the eyes <>f man were open to discover every thing 
 ind him, and he saw things without any occasional 
 too notch liffht from any particular 
 quarter, as is ofu n the case in our tine 
 
 the infl "f letters, man was soon brought 
 
 arative civil 
 tion |y. by the means of m ,| ;i a 
 
 n it had borne before. By 
 fed lii'' of the warrior;
 
 12 
 
 and by them, statesmen recorded their laws, and the 
 sages their maxims of wisdom. 
 
 The sentiments of one age being preserved for ano- 
 ther by letters, each additional store enhanced the value 
 of the former collection ; for the errors of the earlier 
 ages were corrected by the criticisms of the following ; 
 but their blessings did not become so generally diffused 
 as they have been since the invention of printing which 
 happened in a comparatively late age of the world. 
 
 It has been the object of some reasoners to decry let- 
 ters, as giving an effeminacy to a people, particularly 
 polite literature ; but this reasoning is as amusing as 
 that of the Roman knights at the supper of Lucullus, 
 who, when revelling on a hundred dishes at the table 
 of that luxurious epicure, discussed the flavor and nu- 
 tritiousness of the primitive food of man, such as 
 acorns, Jigs, roots, and berries, and decided that man in 
 a state of nature was most happy. 
 
 Without stepping out of our way to describe the ef- 
 fect of letters upon past ages, or turning to the pages 
 of those workswhich it could be proved had humanized 
 the world, we can say, in general, that letters have 
 been the most useful, the most glorious, and the most 
 permanent monument of national greatness, to be found 
 in the history of man. 
 
 They have been the most useful ;— for letters have 
 assisted in advancing and in preserving the arts and 
 sciences, as well as themselves, and in elevating the 
 character of man. 
 
 They have been the most glorious and permanent ;— 
 for while the great things of art have crumbled to dust, 
 and ten thousand demi-gods have perished from off 
 the earth, the letters of an early age have been pre-
 
 13 
 
 served ; and whatever names are now to be found 
 among the mighty and the wise of early time, come 
 down to us embalmed in the literature of the age in 
 which they lived, or in which their deeds were recorded. 
 All the little princes and potentates of the Trojan and 
 Grecian armies would have been no more known, if 
 they had not been preserved in the Iliad, than the an- 
 cestors of Red Jacket, or those of Tecumseh. There 
 were deeds of the aborigines of this country that had 
 more of daring and prowess in them than can be 
 found in the sack of Troy. Letters live longer than 
 temples or monumental arches. The prayer of Solo- 
 iii- hi. at the dedication of the Temple, is still preserved 
 in all its piety and sweetness, but the house of the 
 Lord La demolished, and the angels who guarded it 
 ascended to their celestial abodes. 
 
 It i- wi^er, in the first place, to examine the history 
 of our native language, and to ascertain, as far as is 
 practicable, the treasures of knowledge we have in it ; 
 they are abundant and of great value. These treasures 
 are ours by birthright ; tliey were won by mental toil 
 from age to age; preserved and improved by deep 
 thinkers and patient reasoners, who were prou 1 of their 
 nation, and who scorned to have their tongues tied, 
 even by their conquerors. Taste, philosophy, divinity, 
 polities, and eloquence ask for nothing more than can 
 be found in the English language. Should not the 
 writer* in English be our constant study? 
 
 Our language is indeed a modern one compared with 
 some other living languages. Notwithstanding its co- 
 piousness, it is still a growing and improving lan- 
 uuagc ami is \et susceptible of new beauties; but we 
 
 deprecate a rage for changing that which is already so 
 
 2*
 
 14 
 
 admirable. Let us not be in haste to make it more 
 copious. The English language has a singular origin, 
 and one that shows more decidedly what the spirit of 
 a people can effect silently and quietly, by the force of 
 intellectual power, than that of any event in history. 
 
 The Saxon language was in general use in the Island 
 of Great Britain in 1066, when the conquest of Wil- 
 liam of Normandy was effected. It was a copious and 
 well constructed language, and had much more phi- 
 losophy in it than that brought from Normandy ; but 
 the conqueror insisting on his right to change the lan- 
 guage, as well as the laws of the people, had all his 
 records and laws put into Norman French. The Saxon 
 legends were now turned into Norman rhyme, and 
 within a century after the conquest, a new language, 
 made from the Saxon and Norman, had grown up to 
 no inconsiderable character, which took the name of 
 the English language. The Saxons had more inven- 
 tion and more sound philosophy than the Normans, 
 and their mind was seen in this new and wonderful 
 work most distinctly. Layman wrote some where be- 
 tween the years 1 135 and 1 180. His works show more 
 than any other of his age, how far the new language 
 had advanced towards its present excellence. In the 
 course of the time from 1200 to 1300, the process of 
 improvement was going on rapidly. There is extant 
 a dialogue, written between this period, after Layman's 
 time, between an owl and a nightingale, disputing for 
 superiority. This, much more decidedly than the 
 works of Layman, shows the great change which had 
 taken place in the growth of our language. 
 
 In 1300, or thereabouts, Robert de Brunne wrote a 
 history of England in metre. He composed tales iu
 
 15 
 
 Terse. He was a man of genius, a satirist, but not des- 
 titute of tenderness, ami was full of romance. Some of 
 his works having been five hundred years in manu- 
 script, have lately been printed for the gratification of 
 the curious. 
 
 From 1300 to 1400 — a century — was the reign of 
 romances. The devotion of all classes to them was 
 great as it is in the present day. Then, as now, they 
 Mere paramount to all other literature. King Arthur, 
 Richard C'u?ur de Lion, Amadis de Gaul, were subjects 
 of romance. Young ladies learned to write for the 
 sake of copying these works ; and when printing was 
 discovered, these works soon issued from the press as 
 rapidly as possible. These romances were seen and 
 read in the groves of learning as well as in the alcoves 
 of taste and beauty, as the Waverley Novels now are 
 found not only at the toilet of the reigning belle, but 
 in the study of the grave statesman and solemn divine. 
 Under proper directions this may not be an evil. When 
 the soi/l it waked hy all the tender strokes of art, the 
 genius inspired by master touches of fancy, and the 
 whole current of thought is elevated by the deep know- 
 e of human nature in these productions of the 
 imagination, who can resist the desire to become ac- 
 quainted with their contents? But this taste is 
 sometimes found to degenerate to a cormoranl appetite 
 for the whole mass of fictions, of every hue and quali- 
 ty. Tl. - is full of evils, and as deleterious to the 
 wholesome desire fur knowledge, in a plain and honest 
 form, as confectionary is to our natural desire for plain 
 and succulent food to sustain our animal frames. This 
 
 vitiated ta>te is to 1c deplored ; but. to our eomfort, it. 
 
 often happens that a surfeit cun i what reason will not.
 
 16 
 
 If these romances did not exactly grow out of the 
 ages of chivalry, they were matured by them, and lasted 
 until the wit of Cervantes had laughed them down, or 
 the habits of man, as well as his manners, had changed. 
 If these romances were the offsprings or the nurslings 
 of chivalry, ours had no such origin or nursing ; for 
 although these fictions of ours grew up in an age of 
 wonders, they did not, in most instances, relate to them 
 directly or indirectly. The fictions of the present day 
 owe their popularity to two causes ; the first, the power 
 of the genius and learning of the writers, for if not the 
 first and most voluminous of these works, certainly one 
 of the sweetest tales of the whole of the mass is John- 
 son's Rasselas. It was followed, after some length of 
 time, by Godwin's St. Leon, Caleb Williams, and others 
 of the same school ; but it was reserved for Sir Walter 
 Scott to become the legitimate sovereign of the world 
 of fiction. To this throne he was elected and anoint- 
 ed by public opinion, and probably will hold his em- 
 pire without a brother near him for some ages to come. 
 The second cause of this universal passion for fiction, 
 or novels founded, on fact, (a sort of deceptive epi- 
 thet, to cheat those who wish to become acquainted 
 with history, and who have not the courage to sit down 
 and study it,) is the general appetite for reading, now 
 so distinctly abroad in England and this country ; and 
 which, instead of being regulated and directed to par- 
 ticular objects, is desultory and miscellaneous, as we 
 have before remarked. The progress in the arts, and 
 the multiplicity Of inventions of labor-saving machines, 
 have given leisure to millions, who in former days de- 
 voted themselves principally to industrious methods for 
 producing clothing or food.
 
 17 
 
 But to return from this digression to the current his- 
 tory of English literature. It may be unnecessary for 
 us to notice any other authors thai] those we have 
 named, until the time of Chaucer, from whom English 
 poetry generally has taken the date of its birth ; but if 
 time permitted, we could show that there was taste, and 
 genius, and poetry, before the time of this bard. Still, 
 however, he is justly entitled to the appellation of the 
   Father of English poetry? from the fact, that he 
 effected a revolution in poetry similar to that effected 
 by Shakspeare in the drama, or Scott in the novel. 
 Before Chaucer, poetry was only descriptive, and nar- 
 rative, without distinct character. The poets of his 
 day seemed to have no objects in their narrative poems, 
 except to tell a wonderful story. The persons con- 
 cerned in their incidents were regarded as mere ma- 
 chines, only proper to give these incidents a sort of 
 connexion. These poets presented us not with men 
 and women, but with adventures that might, or might 
 not have happened to men and women ; and if they 
 even aave us a glimpse of the characters introduced 
 into their story, it was only by accident, and even then, 
 only the most prominent features could be discovered. 
 " Chaucer reformed this altogether. He devoted his 
 principal attention to the delineation of hia characters ; 
 he made the incidents of his story all tend to the illus- 
 tration of the actors in it. He did not merely sketch 
 one or two of the most prominent features. lie drew 
 a full-length, 'and laid on the appropriate colors. He 
 made every thing distinct, even to the most delicate 
 shadowing. As his characti n glide before us, we for- 
 get it is an illusion ; we exclaim, ' They live— they 
 move— they breathe— they are our fellow-creatures, 1
 
 18 
 
 and as such awaken our sympathies to a degree that 
 imparts to the story a far more intense interest than it 
 could derive from the most romantic incidents. 
 
 None of Chaucer's characters can be confounded 
 with one another ; numerous as they are, each has its 
 dramatic features ; no action is ascribed to one which 
 might as well be expected of another. In this respect 
 Chaucer is a dramatic poet, and one of the highest or- 
 der ; indeed a distinguished critic has drawn an inge- 
 nious parallel between a regular comedy and the series 
 of the Canterbury tales.' 
 
 Lord Byron, in his journal, intimates that we reve- 
 rence Chaucer not for his poetry, but for his antiquity, 
 and passes a criticism upon him as dull, and vulgar, 
 and obscene ; but this was before ithe noble poet wrote 
 Don Juan, or probably when he had read only some 
 of Chaucer's first pieces. If he had ever read him 
 thoroughly, in his maturer years, he probably would 
 have recalled his opinion ; most certainly if he were 
 too proud to have done this, he would have reversed 
 his judgment ; at least, he would not have called him 
 dull, whatever else he might have said of the " Father 
 of English poetry.'''' We wish not to be misunderstood 
 as defending Chaucer in all his freedoms ; but these 
 freedoms were the errors of the age in which he lived. 
 Indecency in that day was often taken for wit ; and at 
 the present time is often substituted for it. We can 
 have but little to say on that score, against our ances- 
 tors, when we tolerate the poems of Little, and the 
 freedoms in some of Byron's later works. Moore has 
 atoned in some degree for his songs, by his sacred me- 
 lodies ; but who can forgive him for exhibiting Byron 
 in perpetual moral deformity, rioting in the polluted
 
 19 
 
 saloons of Venetian fascination and depravity. Chau- 
 cer is not without other faults common to his age. The 
 authors of his period were apt to encumber their sto- 
 ries with minute descriptions, which, however just or 
 beautiful, became tedious, by having nothing to do with 
 the subject. The writers seem not to have been aware 
 that misplaced beauties lose their charms. 
 
 In closing our remarks upon this poet — and we have 
 •been somewhat minute, as he stands confessedly at the 
 head of the catalogue of English poets— we must say, 
 that for his comic and satirical vein, he was superior 
 to all his predecessors and his contemporaries. He 
 knew the ihlicatf from the coarse, and could easily 
 distinguish between keen and vigorous satire, and vul- 
 gar abuse-, between the club, the tomahawk, and the 
 fleying-knife of the savage— and tfie shafts of "the 
 lord of the unerring bow." 
 
 M my works have been charged to Chaucer which 
 he never wrote, and therefore he should not be answer- 
 able for them. The grtal talents of Dryden and Pope, 
 in their v< rsions of Chaucer, have, it must be confessed, 
 given him some new charms ; but at the same time, we 
 nrasl -ay. that in getting rid of some of ins peculiari- 
 ties, they have obscured many of his jrreat beauties. 
 To be relished, the works of Chaucer should be read 
 in the original, and with the accent intended by the 
 author. That such pods as Dryden and Pope should 
 have thought this early poet, of B rude a»e. worthy 
 
 imitation, ii Baying how much they venerated his me- 
 mory H a poet 
 Chaucer was a politician, as well as a poet. He was 
 ' an ambassador to the Doge of Venice, in 1890. 
 
 II- was for many years in fa\or with Edward III,
 
 20 
 
 but lost his good will, and was imprisoned by him ; 
 but on the accession of Henry, was restored to favor, 
 and died in 1410, eighty-two years of age. 
 
 John Gower was senior and contemporary to Chau- 
 cer. He wrote some works before Chaucer. He was 
 a favorite with Edward II. He wrote much, and was 
 considered the first moral poet of his age. He dis 
 ciplined the minds of his countrymen, for he was a 
 philosopher, as well as a poet. His English is mora 
 correct than Chaucer's.' He was a better grammarian 
 than Chaucer. His tales had matter in them, for Turner 
 says that modern bards have founded many of their 
 tales on his. To be truly original, is not the lot of any 
 man. Who is there that can say, this sentence, or this 
 thought, or this production, is all my own ? No one. 
 Art, and science, and letters, are progressive ; none 
 but a well stored mind can produce any thing worth 
 remembering, and every well stored mind is pregnant 
 with the best thoughts of his predecessors. Genius 
 does not consist so much in originating thoughts, as in 
 giving new force to those already known. 
 
 Gower has a most splendid monument in St. Sa- 
 vior's Church, at Southwark. See description of it 
 in the English Mirror of Literature, Vol. 13, p. 225. 
 
 John the Chaplain, as he was called, did much in 
 giving form and beauty to the English language. He 
 lived in the reign of Henry IV. 
 
 Thomas Occleve soon followed Chaucer, and acknow- 
 ledged him as his father in poetry. He too, was a 
 grammarian, and a philosopher, and was patronized by 
 Henry IV, and by his son, the famous Hal— Henry V. 
 He was a poet, and a good moralist. These men did 
 much towards fixing the English language, but his
 
 21 
 
 patron, the fifth Harry, was too rmich engaged in wars, 
 and had too short a reign to become distinguished as a 
 patron of letters. His own poet did not give him his 
 true dory. It was reserved for an after age to do him 
 justice Some sketches of his times were worked up by 
 Shakspcare. which have brought down to us this wild, 
 elegant, and gifted Prince, in a blaze of light. His great- 
 q( n was d< veloped after he bead sown the wild oats of 
 his youth. Oecleve was a business man, and his labors 
 - retarv were of great service to the government. 
 It is pleasanl to mark the utility of the labors of these 
 men of minstrelsy of early days. Society may be 
 compared to an inverted pyramid, supported, not- by 
 the laws of gravitation, but by the hand of Deity, of 
 which every human being forms one stone of the great 
 ad on this great mass he may write his charac- 
 ter: and leave it, if he have time, ability, and opportu- 
 nity, for posterity. If Oecleve was cold, he was sensi- 
 ble, and such men are often destined to live longer than 
 many of more fire. He was probably too much of a 
 business man to think of immortality as a poet. 
 
 Lydgate, his contemporary, was of a more sensitive 
 
 1 1 1 even complained of critics, and his is the first 
 
 mention of that race of nun. so eoniinon in our day, 
 
 listing in England. The ancients had known-them. 
 
 The very existence of criticism is a proof that some 
 
 mental light exists, for we cannot declare that to be 
 
 confused,4rregular, and tasteless, without light enough 
 
 to -ii it. There was no ver\ enlightened criticism, 
 however, in England, until a much later period of her 
 
 tory than the time of Lydgate. 
 
 The English nation followed in part the practice of 
 
 Italv of Crving the lame] crown to the In st poet of the
 
 22 
 
 country. In Italy the pomp of the ceremony wag- 
 half of the charm of the acquisition. In England the 
 laurel was only a poetical wreath : but sometimes at- 
 tended with a hogshead of malmsey or port and some 
 pieces of substantial gold. 
 
 The first poet laureate, that the books I have exa~ 
 mined on the subject mention, is John Kay, in the 
 reign of Edward IV. The universities of England had, 
 probably, their laureates before this period. There is 
 not a vestige left of the poetry of laureate Kay. Some 
 of his prose translations are extant. 
 
 This poetical distinction from the earliest days in 
 England has not, in itself, given immortality to any 
 one ; for a greaier portion of those crowned, have been 
 of the second or third rate poets, who happened to be 
 in court favor. The sycophant who prostituted his 
 muse to the courtier was recommended to the king, 
 and his majesty not always being the best judge of 
 poetry, was either deceived in the talents of his poet, 
 or loved the pliancy of his poet's muse. When Shad- 
 well was made poet laureate, in preference to Dry- 
 den, and Pye has received the crown as above his con- 
 temporary brothers of song, who will ever say that 
 the laurel is proof of superiority in sense or rhyme ? 
 
 In the reign of Henry VIII, something was done for 
 English literature, rather by indirection than by direct 
 influence. Barclay had written without taste or judg- 
 ment, but was nevertheless distinguished, and in vogue 
 when Henry received his education. Barclay was 
 a moralist, and so far was well : of nature he knew no 
 more than a very cit does of the country. Skelton, 
 his rival, received the Oxford laurel. Erasmus praised 
 him j he pronounces him the " Brittannicarum litera-
 
 Turn lumen et decus ;" but a foreigner's opinion of 
 native literature is not worth much, except he speaks 
 the name language with great accuracy, even if he be 
 a> great a man as Erasmus himself. Skelton was 
 vehement, and vehemence is sometimes an indication 
 of genius, but not a proof of it. Lord Surry follow- 
 ed him, and was an ornament to the reign of Hen- 
 ry VIII. Surry had more polish than all hia pre- 
 decessors. Many works of his were graceful and 
 natural. He translated a portion of Virgil into blank 
 
 as. Surry may be considered the father of blank 
 verse, in English; which kind of verse reached the 
 fulness of its glories in .Milton; but which has held its 
 high rank in all the vicissitudes of poetical measure. 
 It is susceptible of magnificence, ease, sweetness.; 
 and of nearly all the euphony of rhyme. It is suited 
 rather to the didactic and the tragic, than to the 
 sprightly, and the comic muse: but there can be no 
 perfect canons of criticism for exuberant genius, team- 
 ing with inspiration. Writers in prose should be taken 
 notice of as well as those in verse, in our notice of the 
 progress of -our mother tongue, and our native train 
 of thought The first among the number was the re- 
 nowned traveller. Sir John Mandeville.' He was horn 
 at St. Albans, 1300. He was well educated, and pos- 
 sessed an ardent curm-iiy to see other countries; such 
 a curiosity as in more modern times possessed the 
 breasts of our extraordinary Ledyard, and the English 
 m ago Park. He set out on his travels in 1332, and 
 
 - a wanderer for thirty-four yeans. He was hardly 
 known on sis return; the grace of manly beamy had 
 •hanged t<> the gray hairs of age. He had swept over 
 a great portion of Asia Minor, Asia and Africa, and
 
 24 
 
 brought back most wonderful tales, more of which are 
 believed at this day, than were then. Whatever he 
 says he saw may be generally believed. It is that part 
 of his history that recounts the legends he had learnt, 
 which is among the marvellous. 
 
 These accounts falling into the possession of the 
 ecclesiastics of that day, made them desirous of visiting 
 the Holy Land. The continent was not behind Eng- 
 land in travellers. The Mirabellia Mwidi, were stu- 
 died by all who could read, and communicated to those 
 who could not; and it may be said that the public 
 mind was inflamed for oriental wonders. These tra- 
 vels excited the reading community of those days, and 
 thousands read who had not enthusiasm and courage 
 enough to become travellers. Mandeville was acquaint- 
 ed with many languages ; and he sent his book into the 
 world in three different, tongues. 
 
 In the thirteenth century, Ralph Higden had compi- 
 led in Latin, a chronicle of events, which was translated 
 by Trevisa. It is made up of history, fiction, and tradi- 
 tions, such as he found, but probably he did not add 
 any thing to them. There are some fine sketches of 
 natural character in this work, particularly of the Irish 
 and Welsh. This author translated portions of the 
 Bible, at the instance of a patron of learning — Lord 
 Berkely. It does not appear that this translation or 
 any portion of it is now extant. 
 
 Not long after Trevisa, followed Wickliffe — the pio- 
 neer in English history, of bold and liberal doctrines. 
 He was learned, and distinguished in college halls ; 
 having been a professor of divinity at Oxford. He 
 felt the influence of a master spirit, and came out upon 
 various orders of friars with the indignant feeling of a
 
 25 
 
 hater of abuses, and scourged them with the strong 
 hand of a reformer. For his temerity he lost his of- 
 fice, by the authority of the Archbishop of Canterbu- 
 rv; In' appealed from him to the Pope; and finding 
 thr I'npe no friend, he came out in full force against 
 His Holiness. He was "a root and branch man." 
 The Popes pursued his memory with such malice, that 
 thirty years after his death, Martin V issued a bull to 
 dig up his bones and 'throw them en a dung-hill. 
 What impotent malice*! Wiel liMj   m m a voluminous 
 Writer; his English is among the best of 'his age. He 
 may be truly considered the founder of *he Protestant 
 religion, for he gave the people the -word of God in 
 their vernacular, and they were anxious to read it. 
 Wieklifie was sound in all the doctrines of the Protes- 
 tant faith. 
 
 The work containing those portions of the Old and 
 New Testament translated by Wickliffe, has come 
 down to us, and is now a curiosity; and not less so 
 from its being the fountain of the Biblical knowledge 
 of many of our ancestors, who were not acquainted 
 with the original language of the Scriptures. He died 
 BXtei ii vi -ars before Chaucer, a younger man at his 
 -i!i 'than the poet. 
 
 M aderiHe, Wickliffe, and Gower, were styled "the 
 (bree evangelists of our tongue," but still these were 
 r Las inferior to Chaucer; and to continue the 
 language of the quotation—" though all elder in birth 
 than Chancer, yet they did nol begin so < to work 
 upon I I their native language.*' Thes v. rifc is 
 
 had genius, and language bea a plastic in the hands 
 
 ,,i masters of thought and expression. 
 
 Bishop Peacock wwi n learned writer of Shis age, 
 
 :r
 
 26 
 
 and his works added more to the English language 
 than they did to theology, or his own happiness. He 
 was a tolerant sensible man, and of course persecuted 
 in that age. 
 
 Divinity alone did not monopolize the reformers of 
 style, language and taste of that age ; the law puts in 
 claims also. Sir John Fortesctie, an eminent lawyer, 
 was a distinguished writer of that age. He was ho- 
 nored by the king, but was a portion of his life an ex- 
 ile. He was a learned lawyer and a fine scholar, and 
 is the first English writer I know of, who has given a 
 distinction between a limited, and what is called an 
 absolute monarchy. Sir John is the pride of lawyers. 
 
 We come now to a period in which it may be said 
 that the fountains of the great deep of knowledge were 
 broken up, and the floods of light and intelligence fell 
 upon the children of men. This period is that of the 
 invention, or rather of the use of printing. The indi- 
 vidual who brought printing into England, and issued 
 from his press any thing English, was William Cax- 
 ton. He was learned and zealous in the cause of 
 learning. He was taught the sublime art of printing 
 in Holland, and brought it to his native land in the 
 year 1474. The first book printed in England was 
 " The Game of Chess." In four years afterwards a 
 press was established at Oxford, and not long after, at 
 St. Albans. Caxton printed many books; some of his 
 editions have come down to us, besides Wickliffe's Bi- 
 ble. He was a sincere lover of literature. Caxton did 
 much for the language of his native country, while 
 many others were busy in ancient literature. He 
 printed the Chronicles of England. These chronicles 
 were legendary tales — full of romance, and generally
 
 27 
 
 -as far from elegance as from truth; they had often 
 the absurdities of the Arabian tales without any consi- 
 derable shan sof their genius or character. But they 
 were, no doubt, illcsiitiinatedeseendantsof that stock of 
 literature. These tales have an Arabic physiognomy 
 about them, but sufficient only to show the family 
 likeness. 
 
 It is clear to every mind, from looking at the early 
 history of every civilized country, that ballads and 
 tales, and chronicles, in the nature of ballads and tales, 
 wore the first specimens of literature; and that these 
 rose to the dignity of- poems and histories as the mass 
 of the people made progress in intelligence ; and if any 
 writer was in advance of his age, that his works were 
 neglected until the great body of the people reached his 
 standard. When the taste for these compositions grew 
 too rapidly for the supply of native works, a disposi- 
 tion for translation was cultivated, so that the spirit of 
 one nation was virtually infused into another; hence 
 the similarity of thoughts and expressions of passion 
 which are found in different languages, and, perhaps, 
 after a lapse of years, it was difficult to say whence 
 this or that sentiment originated. 
 
 Soop as printing had quickened the appetite of the 
 people the supply of letters was equal to the demand; 
 this is the law of i mt\ market. The expulsion of the 
 Greek scholars from Constantinople, then the most 
 
 learned nun of the world, gave lecturers and sehool- 
 
 masters to all Europe. \r this momenl the convei 
 gave up their classical treasures, and learned commen- 
 taries followed each oilier in rapid succession : all pour- 
 ing from the press under the fostering care of the 
 DObilitj, Who began to have a taste for learning. The
 
 28 
 
 universities were agitated to their very foundation ; 
 particularly the university of Oxford. This seminary, 
 conspicuous in all the ages of English literature, had 
 its factions. The reformers took the appellation of 
 Greeks, and the supporters of the old system that of 
 Trojans. All these discussions, and excitements, and 
 quarrels, were productive of great good. In this col- 
 lision of minds are found the scintillations of genius; 
 unfortunately, however, the niceties and subtleties of 
 scholastic divinity retarded the progress of taste and 
 letters, for the fierce contentions of angry polemics 
 have seldom but little to do with expansion or refine- 
 ment. 
 
 Sir Thomas More, the author of the Eutopia, was 
 one of the very great men of that age. He was born 
 in 1480. He was educated in the best manner of the 
 times. He was a man of first rate talents, and was call- 
 ed to discharge many high and important duties as a 
 public functionary. He was undoubtedly pre-eminent 
 even among the great scholars of his time. Sir Tho- 
 mas invited Erasmus to visit England, and conferred 
 on this great scholar and wit, many signal marks of 
 his favor and friendship. 
 
 From his exalted genius and official stations, he 
 might be considered as the first literary character of his 
 time, not only in England, but in Europe. He was 
 skilled in all classical learning; but what is more to 
 our purpose, his English was the most copious, cor- 
 rect, and elegant, of all the literati of the age. He had 
 drank deeply of the wells of knowledge, and his verna- 
 cular had the benefit of his draughts. He was, in wri- 
 ting English, rather making, than looking for a standard. 
 It is well for the world when such men as Sir Thomas
 
 ->9 
 
 More arc found to direct, and, in a measure, fix tlie 
 taste of an age. If lie labored for the beau ideal in po- 
 litics, and our experience has never found his republic, 
 \ . i he left thoughts that are imperishable, embalmed in 
 words of taste and beauty. 
 
 Wilson, the rhetorician, deserves to be remembered 
 among the sturdy advocates of English literature. He 
 lived in several reigns, but was most conspicuous in 
 that of Elizabeth. He printed his work, on rhetoric in 
 thr tirst year of Mary- reign, 1553. It was entitled 
 ••The Art of Rhetoric, for the use of all such as are 
 studious of eloquence — set forth in English, by Thomas 
 Wilson." This work, says Burnett, in his specimens 
 of English prose writers, may justly be considered as 
 the first system of criticism in our language. He de- 
 scribes the four parts of elocution — plainness, aptness, 
 cmiijiosition, and e.i-a mi nation. He is a sturdy cham- 
 pion for the free, bold, i r '»"J use of our mother tongue. 
 Wilson is a philosopher who reasons and feels rightly. 
 He read nature and the poets with a true spirit of criti- 
 cism. His rules for declamation are admirable, and 
 such as every great orator has followed — that is, in 
 making a speech for a departed great man, to summon 
 up the soul and character of the deceased, and make 
 them speak out. His defence of figurative language 
 deserve- to he held in remembrance. "Some time 
 (soj I lu) it is good to make CJod, the country, or some 
 one town, to speak; and look what we would say in 
 
 our own person, to frame the whole tale to them. Such 
 rarii ii iniieh good to avoid tedlousnessj for he 
 
 who speak' th all things in one sort, though lie -peak 
 Hunt's ever so wittily, shall soon weary his bear) ri 
 Figures, therefore, were invented to avoid satiety and
 
 30 
 
 cause delight ; to refresh with pleasure and quicken 
 with grace the dullness of man's brain. Who will look 
 on a white wall an hour together, where no workman- 
 ship is at all 2 Or who will eat one kind of meat and 
 never desire a change '?" 
 
 Wilson's rules for composition are good and sound. 
 He abhors all affectation in composition. He calls on 
 writers to take every thing, old and new, for the pur- 
 poses of excitement, illustration, and effect, and work 
 them to the best advantage. This was not all ; he 
 translated much of Greek literature, and particularly 
 from Demosthenes. His rules contain, in fact, all the 
 great principles incorporated in the best and boldest 
 modern compositions. 
 
 The lettered men of the age seem not to have been 
 confined to courts or college halls. William Fullward, 
 a merchant in 1555, or somewhere thereabouts, wrote a 
 work he called the " Enemy of Idleness, teaching the 
 manner and style how to endite and write all sorts of 
 epistles and letters." This was partly in verse. 
 
 The reign of Edward was full of polemic discus- 
 sions, and the muses slept on the dull and ponderous 
 tomes of laborious ecclesiastics. The reign of his suc- 
 cessor, Mary, was still more unpropitious to literature. 
 The just, in her time, were persecuted, and the learned 
 silenced. Some of the brightest geniuses of the na- 
 tion were made immortal at the stake. The stake was 
 fixed and the faggot dried in every part of the land for 
 the service of God alone, an avenging God, as he was 
 taught to the people. The English Bible was pro- 
 scribed, and it was treason and death to be found drink- 
 ing at the well of eternal life. Those who were not 
 prepared for martyrdom fled. " To turn or burn," was
 
 31 
 
 the fate of every Protestant. It may be said of her 
 reign, that every sun rose and set in blood. At matins 
 and vespers the crimson torrent flowed, and with the 
 curfew's knell were mingled the groans of expiring 
 saints. 
 
 In 1558, Elizabeth came to the throne. The reign 
 of terror had indeed at her accession passed away, but 
 the elements of society were still in no small confu- 
 sion. The exiled clergy returned from Holland, which 
 had been their asylum during the lifetime of Mary. 
 They came home deeply imbued with the doctrines of 
 the great reformer, Calvin, and fierce discussions were 
 held by the Protestants and those of the Church of 
 England. These very discussions had in the end a be- 
 neficial effect, although very troublesome at the time. 
 The minds of men grew robust by these wars of intel- 
 lect, when they went no farther than fiery altercations. 
 The scriptures were now read by all classes of the peo- 
 ple. It has been the good fortune of reading commu- 
 nities at all times to find a love of inquiry, and a taste 
 fur knowledge, growing out of the reading of the scrip- 
 tures. 
 
 The love of learning was not confined to the clergy 
 alone, but was found extending to all ranks of society, 
 particularly among the higher orders. The ladies 
 caught the enthusiasm, and became admirable profi- 
 cients in classical learning. Lady Jane Grey, as well 
 as the queen, were illustrious examples of female taste 
 and acquirements of that day. They were all ac- 
 quainted with household affairs, while celebrated school- 
 
 masten wire learning them to construe Greek. The 
 
 learned men were busy, at the same tune, in translating 
 the most valuable works in other languages for the 
 English reader.
 
 32 
 
 This excitement produced some matters of learning 
 in bad taste ; but after a few years, things became set- 
 tled, and sound judgment corrected the errors which en- 
 thusiasm had scattered among her brilliant productions. 
 Spenser and Shakspeare now arose, with a host of 
 mighty minds, in the several walks of learning, which 
 left their stamp on the age, as imperishable as the Eng- 
 lish language itself. 
 
 This was the age of English literature, from which 
 our literature emanated. It was tinged, no doubt, with 
 a portion of the polemic severity which belonged to 
 the reign of Henry VIII, and Edward VI, and which 
 came down to later times ; but there was a depth, a 
 strength, and boldness, in the intelligence of those days, 
 which, if it has in some measure been polished by time, 
 was from the same stock as that of the reformers ; and, 
 thank heaven, it ran on, gaining purity, and losing none 
 of its virtues, for a century and a half after it had been 
 found in this country. I freely grant, that the litera- 
 ture, as it came to us at that time, had not the polish of 
 the literature of the present day ; but it was well calcu- 
 lated to prepare our fathers for the great labors of body 
 and mind which they were called to perform. The dif- 
 ference between the literature of that day and the pre- 
 sent, I mean that which is current among a majority of 
 the community, is this — their literature was best to form 
 the mind ; ours to fill it. From theirs grew resolution, 
 'perseverance, and faith, and all that gave hardihood 
 and energy to character. In ours, there are extensive 
 and liberal views of society, a great accumulation of 
 facts, much refinement of taste, and an abundance of 
 topics for conversation. They read much, we many 
 things. In our course of training the mind, we should
 
 33 
 
 look back, as well as go forward ; we should make our- 
 selves masters of the past ages of knowledge, as well 
 as possessors of the floods of light which are now pour- 
 ed in upon us. I glory in seeing colleges arise, and the 
 corner-stones of universities laid ; but these institu- 
 tions alone will never make a literary people of us. 
 This great object can only be effected by enlightening 
 the community at large. There were no great artists 
 in Greece or Italy until a good taste was generally dif- 
 fused among them. To bring us to a high standard of 
 literature, female enthusiasm and taste must be brought 
 in aid of the cause. Letters must, before that day 
 comes, take the place of a thousand trifling amusements 
 that now fill up the measure of time that can be spared 
 fniin important duties. These portions of time, even 
 if they are mere shreds, may, by method and perseve- 
 rance, be made up into something of importance. The 
 good housewife, by carefully saving the shreds as she 
 makes up her family wardrobe, and by occupying some 
 of her leisure hours in sewing them together, is soon 
 readv for a quilting-match — a union of industry and 
 amusement Then starts from the frame a variegated 
 patch-work of a thousand pieces, of all hues — a com- 
 farter in the cold and storms of wintry time — a thing 
 twice blest, in the industry of her who made it, and in 
 the gratitude of those made happy by its warmth. 
 
 Literature, to have its full effect, must be generally 
 diffused It must not be confined to any class of the 
 community, hut open to all, and encouraged by all. 
 We must not look for the spirit of literature in the pul- 
 pit and halls of legislation, or school-rooms only ; but 
 must find it, like the sweet breeze of the summer's 
 morn, in all our walks, and in all our household do-
 
 34 
 
 mains, passing from the library to the toilet, from the 
 toilet to the nursery, and there kindling the eye of the 
 mother and opening the cherubic lips of the infant. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 We come now to the age of Elizabeth. Spenser 
 was the first poet who was pre-eminently distinguished 
 in the reign of the virgin queen. He was a well edu- 
 cated man. He found himself a poet in the midst of 
 some affair of the heart. His effusions were so much 
 admired, that some kind friend made him acquainted 
 with Sir Philip Sidney, the Mecaenas of the age. Sir 
 Walter Raleigh was also his friend and patron. Spen- 
 ser, as well as some of the earlier poets, was employed 
 by government, and received a liberal support from 
 persons in power. He died at the early age of 46 ; 
 early for one who had written so much. His works 
 are voluminous. The Fairy Queen is at the head. 
 This great labor of Spenser is said to be wanting in 
 plan. This, however, the reader forgets, in the lovely 
 personifications of his author. The muse never suffered 
 him to slumber, if she sometimes led him through the 
 labyrinth of flowers, until his imagination was bewil- 
 dered. The characteristic traits of the Fairy Queen 
 are imagery, feeling; and melody of versification. His 
 imitators have been numerous in every age of poetry 
 since, and many of these imitators became his equals, 
 and some his superiors. Milton openly avowed his 
 obligations to Spenser, and Beattie built his Minstrel 
 upon Spenser's models. Many men of literaTy renowrr
 
 35 
 
 have become hie commentators. Hurd, Justin, Upton, 
 Thomas Warton, and Pope. Hurd says that Kpen- 
 iry Qui. r. is rather a Gothic than a classical 
 poem. Ii la too deeply tinged with the lightsorm fan- 
 ofAriosto, to be strictly Gothkfc Pope said of the 
 works of Spenser, that he read them with as pinch de- 
 lighl in his old age, as he did in his youth. 
 
 •- . q» r vi Derat< I I haucer, and affected his ancient 
 language T memight think was well, or at least 
 
 thai tins antiquarian spirit did not injure th< tness 
 
 of his lines. 
 
 Some years after the death of Spenser, Ann, Coun- 
 ts as of Dorset, erected a monument in Westminster 
 Abbey to his memory. To be honored by the great 
 when living, and venerated and admired by beauty and 
 when dead, was the fate of Spenser; one which 
 seldom falls to the lot of poets or historians. 
 
 It is more fashionable, at the present day, to imitate 
 the stanzas of Sp< 081 1, than those of any other poet in 
 the English language, They are capable certainly of 
 great beauty, and. in the hands of genius and skill, may 
 be succinct or open, terse or expanded, as the occasion 
 may require. 
 
 r was born in 1653, and was eleven years se- 
 nior to Shakspeare ; and as printing WSS the rage at 
 that time, the great bard of nature was probably ac- 
 quainted with the Fairy Queen and other works of 
 r. The following extracts from Spenser are 
 taken from hifl - works without regard to con- 
 
 on.
 
 36   
 
 DESCRIPTION OF PRINCE ARTHUR. 
 
 At last she chanced by good hap to meet 
 A goodly knight, fair marching by the way, 
 Together with his squire, arrayed meet : 
 His glittering armour shined far away, 
 Like glancing light of Phoebus' brightest ray j 
 From top to toe no place appeared bare, 
 That deadly dint of steel endanger may : 
 Athwart his breast a bauldric brave he ware, 
 That shin'd like twinkling stars, with stones most 
 precious rare. 
 
 And in the midst thereof one precious stone 
 Of wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous mights, 
 Shap'd like a lady's head, exceeding shone, 
 Like Hesperus amongst the lesser lights, 
 And strove for to amaze the weaker sights ; 
 Thereby his mortal blade full comely hung 
 In ivory sheath, ycarv'd Avith curious slights ; 
 Whose hilts were burnish'd gold, and handle strong' 
 Of mother pearl, and buckled with a golden tongue. 
 
 His haughty helmet, horrid all with gold, 
 Both glorious brightness and great terror bred ; 
 For all the crest a great dragon did enfold 
 With greedy paws, and over all did spread 
 His golden wings ; his dreadful hideous head 
 Close couched on the beaver, seem'd to throw 
 From flaming mouth bright, sparkles fiery red, 
 That sudden horror to faint hearts did show ; 
 And scaly tail was stretched adown his'back full low. 
 
 Upon the top of all his lofty crest 
 
 A bunch of hairs discolour'd diversely,
 
 37 
 
 AVith sprinkled pearl, and gold full richly dress'd, 
 
 Did shake, and seem'd to dance for jollity, 
 
 lake to an almond tree y mounted high 
 
 On top of green Selinis all alone, 
 
 "With blossoms brave bedecked daintily ; 
 • Whose tender locks do tremble every one 
 I At every little breath that under heaven is blown. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF BELPHEBE. 
 
 Her face so fair as flesh it seemed not, 
 
 But heavenly portrait of bright angels' hue, 
 
 Clear as the sky, withouten blame or blot, 
 
 Through goodly mixtures of complexions due ; 
 
 And in her cheeks the vermeil red did shew 
 
 Like roses in a bed of lilies shed, 
 
 The which ambrosial odours from them threw, 
 
 And gazers' sense with double pleasure fed, 
 
 Able to heal the sick, and to revive the dead. 
 
 In her fair eyes two living lamps did flame, 
 Kindled-above at th' heavenly maker's light, 
 And darted fiery beams out of the same, 
 So passing piercing, and so wondrous bright, 
 That quite bereav'd the rash beholder's sight ; 
 In them the blinded god his lustful fire 
 I indie oft essay'd, but had no might; 
 Foi with dread majesty, and awful ire, 
 She brokt Ins wanton darts, and quenched base desire. 
 
 Het ivory forehead, full of bounty brave, 
 Like a broad table did itself dispread, 
 
 For love Ins lofty triumphs to engrave, 
 And write the battles of bis great godhead; 
 
 I
 
 38 
 
 All good and honour might therein be read ; 
 
 For there their dwelling was. And when she spake, 
 
 Sweet words, like dropping honey, she did shed, 
 
 And twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake 
 
 A silver sound, that heavenly music seem'd to make, 
 
 Upon her eyelids many graces sate, 
 
 Under the shadow of her even brows, 
 
 Working belgards, and amorous retreat, 
 
 And every one her with a grace endows ; 
 
 And every one with meekness to her bows. 
 
 So glorious mirror of celestial grace, 
 
 And sovereign monument of mortal vows, 
 
 How shall frail pen describe her heavenly face, 
 
 For fear, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace! 
 
 So fair, and thousand thousand times more fair 
 She seemed, when she presented was to sight. 
 And was yclad (for heat of scorching air) 
 All in a silken camus, lily white, 
 Purfled upon with many a folded plight 
 Which all above besprinkled was throughout 
 With golden agulets, that glistered bright, 
 Like twinkling stars, and all the skirt about 
 Was hemmed with golden fringe. 
 
 Drayton was bom in 1563, and died in 1631. He 
 wrote with great taste and beauty for that age. He was 
 a man of learning, and took great pride in it; and from 
 his subjects, and from the names of the persons to whom 
 they were addressed, it is easy to see that he lived much 
 in the gay world. His writings are numerous, and[ 
 abound in beautiful descriptions ; — that of the Lady 
 Geraldine is not surpassed by any other of his brothers 
 of song in a later period.
 
 39 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF LADY GERALDINE. 
 
 When for thy love I left the Belgic shore, 
 Divine Erasmus, and our famous More, 
 Whose happy presence gave me such delight, 
 As made a minute of a winter's night ; 
 With whom a while I staid at Rotterdame, 
 Not so renowed by Erasmus' name : 
 Yet every hour did seem a world of time, 
 Till I had seen that soul-reviving clime, 
 And thought the foggy Netherlands unfit, 
 A watry soil to clog a fiery wit. 
 And as that wealthy Germany I past, 
 Coming unto the Emperor's court at last, 
 Great-leam'd Agrippa, so profound in art, 
 Who the infernal secrets doth impart, 
 When of thy health I did desire to know, 
 Me in a glass my Geraldine did show, 
 Suk in thy bed ; and for thou could'st not sleep, 
 By a wax taper set the light to keep ; 
 I do remember thou dicTst read that ode, 
 Sent back whilst I in Thanet made abode, 
 Where when thou cam'st unto that word of love, 
 l'.\ n in thine eyes I saw how passion strove : 
 Thai snowy lawn which covered thy bed, 
 Hi thought look'd white, to see thy cheek so red ; 
 Thy rosy cheek oft changing in my Bight, 
 
 \ • -till wa< reel, to see tin- lawn so white : 
 
 I iper which should give the light, 
 
 S§ thought waxM dim, to sec thy eyes bo bright; 
 Tin i sup^ly'd the taper's turn, » 
 
 And with In* beama more brightly made u hum: 
 
 Th<- shrugging air aboul th\ temples hurls, 
 And wrapt thy breath in little clouded curls
 
 40 
 
 And as it did ascend, it straight did seize it, 
 
 And as it sunk it presently did raise it. 
 
 Canst thou by sickness banish beauty so, 
 
 Which, if put from thee, knows not where to go 
 
 To make her shifts, and for succour seek 
 
 To every rivel'd face, each bankrupt cheek 1 
 
 " If health preserved, thou beauty still dost cherish ; 
 
 If that neglected, beauty soon doth perish." 
 
 Care draws on care, woe comforts woe again, 
 
 Sorrow breeds sorrow, one grief brings forth twain, 
 
 If live or die, as thou do'st, so do I ; 
 
 If live, I live ; and if thou die, I die ; 
 
 One heart, one love, one joy, one grief, one troth, 
 
 One good, one ill, one life, one death to both. 
 
 If Howard's blood thou hold'st as but too vile, 
 Or not esteem'st of Norfolk's princely stile ; 
 If Scotland's coat no mark of fame can lend, 
 That lion plac'd in our bright silver bend, 
 "Which as a trophy beautifies our shield, 
 Since Scottish blood discolour'd Floden field ; 
 When the proud Cheviot our brave ensign bare, 
 As a rich jewel in a lady's hair, 
 And did fair Bramston's neighboring vallies choke 
 With clouds of cannons fire-disgorged smoke ; 
 If Surrey's earldom insufficient be, 
 And not a dower so well contenting thee : 
 Yet I am one of great Apollo's heirs, 
 The sacred Muses challenge me for theirs. 
 By Princes my immortal lines are sung, 
 My flowing verses grac'd with ev'ry tongue : 
 The little children when they learn to go, 
 By painful mothers daded to and fro, 
 Are taught by sugar'd numbers to rehearse, 
 And have their sweet lips season'd with my verse.
 
 41 - 
 
 When heav'n would strive to do the best it can, 
 And put an angel's spirit into man, 
 The utmost power it hath, it then doth spend, 
 When to the world a Poet it doth intend, 
 That little (Kff'rence 't\\ ixt me nods and us, 
 (By them confirm'd) distinguished only thus: 
 Whom they in hirth ordain to happy da\ s, 
 The gods commit their glory to our praise; 
 T' eternal life when they dissolve their breath, 
 W< likewise share a second pow'r by death. 
 
 When time shall turn those amber locks to gray, 
 M\ \. rse again shall gild and make them gay, 
 And trick them up In knotted curls anew, 
 And to thy autumn give a summer's hue; 
 That sacred power, that in my ink remains, 
 Shall put fresh blood into thy withered veins, 
 And on thy red decay'd, thy whiteness dead, 
 Shall set a white more white, a red more red: 
 When thy dim sight thy glass cannot descry, 
 Nor thy cra/.M mirror can discern thine eye ; 
 M ae, to tell th' one what the other was, 
 
 Shall represent them both, thine eye and glass: 
 Where both thy mirror and thine eye shall see, 
 What once thou saw'st in that, that saw in thee; 
 And to them both -hall tell the simple truth, 
 What that in pureness was. what thou in youth. 
 
 Among the prose-writers of the reign of Elizabeth^ 
 her school mast r should not be forgotten. Roger As- 
 cham wroU elegant English, free from quaintriess and 
 affectation, or KtiirtliiiK antithesis so common in his 
 
 day. Aacham regarded the Aristotelian maxim, as ex-
 
 42 
 
 pressed by himself. " He that will write well in any 
 tongue, must speak as the common people do, think as 
 wise men do j as so should every man understand him, 
 and the judgment of wise men allow him." 
 
 This tutor of queens wrote a work he called The 
 Schoolmaster. It is a fine treatise on education, and 
 contains all the elements which are found in the mo- 
 dern treatises upon that subject. He was for uniting 
 the Gymnasia, the Lyceum, and the Academy together ; 
 only he did not name the workshop, as Pellendorff and 
 others have since done, in systems of education. It is 
 said, by one of his biographers, that Ascham became a 
 Protestant through the medium of Greek literature. He 
 was an admirer of Sir Thomas More, and followed his 
 example in bringing out his works in the English lan- 
 guage. He was one of the formers of the literary cha- 
 racter of the reign of Elizabeth, she having been known 
 as a scholar of his, previous to her coming to the throne. 
 He was born in 1515, and lived ten years into the reign 
 of Elizabeth. 
 
 John Fox, the ecclesiastical historian, was only two 
 years younger than Ascham. He was an instructor of 
 youth and a proof-reader for the German presses. He 
 wrote the lives, or rather the accounts of the Martyrs. 
 This has been held in great veneration by the Protes- 
 tants of England and this country ever since ; but it is 
 more the subject than the power of the historian that 
 interests us, in reading his gloomy history. He was, 
 however, a very accurate scholar in the learned lan- 
 guages, and wrote very good English. 
 
 Many good prose-writers were at this time to be 
 found in England. Hottingshed, Sir Philip Sidney, 
 whose name we have before mentioned, and Raleigh,
 
 43 
 
 were fine writers ; the two latter, politicians, soldiers, 
 and men of the world. Selby, Cecil, Stow, Knolles, 
 and Agard, wrote works of fancy and history, and were 
 great benefactors to the nation. But we must not pass 
 over so hastily the works of Richard Hooker. The 
 great work of this distinguished scholar and sound di- 
 vine was his Ecclesiastical Polity. He wrote many 
 other works ; but this has come to us, a fine argument, 
 ami one that did much towards settling the disputes on 
 religious subjects in those days. The work is read 
 now by all students in divinity who wish to make 
 themselves reasoners in theology. Like Butler's Ana- 
 logy, of a later date, this work is found in the hands of 
 the young ph\ sicians and lawyers, as they are marking 
 out the great outlines of their professional course. In 
 such works there is matter and forms of reasoning 
 which every professional man should be master of. He 
 handled the Puritans with great power and effect, yet 
 h.- has been honored and respected by the most en- 
 lightened of them ever since. They acknowledged 
 the style of Hooker's works to have been superior to 
 any thing in the English language before Bacon's works 
 appeased. It is perspicuous, forcible, elevated, and 
 manly. The mind of Hooker was rich in thoughts, 
 original and acquired, and his soul was evidently in his 
 works. It is, in my opinion, a model for modern wri- 
 ti r- j and evident traces of Hooker's influences may be 
 found in the style of < 'hatham, Burke, and other states- 
 men. 
 
 It is almost impossible to speak of Shakspeare, with- 
 out falling into some errors of taste, feeling, or criti- 
 
 i, nor do we expect entirely to shun them. He 
 •H truly the poet of nature. He was horn a few years
 
 44 
 
 before Elizabeth came to the throne of England. He 
 was a sprightly country lad when first known, who 
 had excited some attention by his talent at versifying. 
 In some wild frolic, he trespassed on the hunting- 
 grounds of a rich neighbor. This indiscretion was fol- 
 lowed up by a lampoon on the same gentleman. There 
 was much scurrility in his satire, at that time, but no 
 great proofs of genius. The subject of the verse was 
 indignant, and threatening vengeance, young Shak- 
 speare fled to London, and probably, went directly to 
 the theatre, for he had a townsman on the boards, and 
 perhaps a relation. The story of his holding horses 
 at the door of the theatre, or bearing torches to light 
 the lovers of the drama to their seats, is all done away 
 with by the late commentaries upon his works. These 
 were the gossipings of his early admirers, who loved 
 the marvellous changes in the destinies of men. The 
 probability is that he took some small employment in 
 the business of the stage, until his talents as a dramatic 
 writer became in some measure developed. He was 
 born 1564, was eighteen years of age, or more, when 
 he went to London, and in five years, some say seven, 
 he was distinguished as a dramatic writer ; so that his 
 progress must have been rapid. The queen was fond 
 of plays, but the dramatic writers of a previous age 
 had been wretched, and any thing that bore the marks 
 of nature, or genius, was, in the nascent growth of the 
 stage, readily discovered, and acknowledged. He lived 
 easily, that is, comfortably, and on acquiring a compe- 
 tency, retired to his native village, satisfied with what 
 he had done ; but heaven did not suffer him long to 
 enjoy his well earned ease, for he died on his birth- 
 day, April 23, 1616, aged 52. There were but eleven
 
 45 
 
 of his plays in print at his death ; nor were his plays 
 collected until seven years after this period. During 
 the whole of the seventeenth century there were but 
 four editions of his plays printed. Fie was admired 
 by th» court in the reign of James, and Charles the 
 first and second. Our ancestors, particularly the puri- 
 tan-; wlm came to this country, did not favor the drama 
 in any shape or form, but engaged themselves to put 
 down all theatricals, although, in Christian days, these 
 dramas were first got up by the appendages of religions 
 institutions. It was until nearly or quite a century 
 had elapsed from the death of Shakspeare, before we 
 find a quotation from his works in any American au- 
 thor ; and strange as it may seem, in about half a cen- 
 tury after Shakspeare's death, we hear the great John 
 Dry den gravely saying, that Shakspeare was growing 
 Obsolete They then did not feel what we do, that the 
 pyramids will crumble to the dust, and the Nile be dry, 
 and the Ethiop change his skin, and the leopard his 
 
 to, before Shakspeare will grow obsolete with us. 
 II looked on man, and at once became master of the 
 inmost r< » m - of his soul, as it were by intuition. He 
 s.iw the* defects of character at once, as well as the 
 brighter parts; and all the advantages, as well as the 
   »f customs and laws, he struck off as though 
 
   one bad been the study of his life. There is no 
 var: baracter in the lists of men, that he did not 
 
 portray at full length, or give it- semblance by profile, 
 
 plane, or Bhfl low. Sometime* be painted wiili rare, 
 
 and at other times lie traced with a hurried, but \met~ 
 
 I hand. The Dramatic Muse brought him to the 
 
 • fountain of her inspirations, and as he bent to 
 
 quaff the waters, he saw all the nature', moral, polift-
 
 46 
 
 cal, and intellectual world, reflected in the pure mirror, 
 which attracted his vision ; aye, and other worlds be- 
 yond this, were there also — for he " exhausted worlds, 
 and then imagined new." 
 
 The English language was at that time, copious, and 
 rich, but not precisely fixed : nor was the philosophy 
 of its etymology very distinctly understood. 
 
 Shakspeare was, classically speaking, an uneducated 
 man, for he had not been allowed to drink of the sweet 
 fountains of ancient learning ; but he lived at a period 
 when much of this literature had been done into Eng- 
 lish, by learned men. He had devoured all the tales, 
 romances, legends, and novels, that were to be found 
 in English ; nor did his reading stop there'; he was also 
 deeply read in such histories as were then extanj, and 
 he particularly studied biography. He is seldom wrong 
 in an incident, act, or a matter of fact. He sometimes 
 takes liberties with both, but he clearly shows you that 
 he is master of both. When Shakspeare was a school- 
 boy, the press had been teeming with vernacular lite- 
 rature — either original productions or translations — for 
 a century, and he had the advantage of all this. These 
 works were sufficient to set him lo thinking and wri- 
 ting, and his mind was free from all shackles. He 
 knew nothing of the logic of the schoolmen, nor was 
 he bound to regard their rules. He was indebted to 
 no Alma Miter for nursing him in learning. 
 
 Shakspeare took his words from the common peo- 
 ple, that is from all classes in the busy scenes of life, 
 arm from those books wnuen for popular reading. He 
 ban but little assistance from dictionaries, for but few 
 bad 'mned their attention* to the making of dictiona- 
 ries, nor could this be expected, while a language was
 
 47 
 
 fluctuating. The memory of the poet was richly stored 
 with words — good, domestic, household words— in his 
 mother tongae, and he had t nough of the grammar 6f 
 it. for all his purposes, ilis thoughts were all new 
 
 itions, however much lie might be indebted to oW 
 ones fur begetting tin in ; and he clothed them as the 
 fallen ones did themselves in paradise — with a fig-leaf, 
 a lion's skin, or any thing they chose, or considered 
 best for the pur rod his taste has stood the test 
 
 of every age since his own. He understood human 
 nature, and In- wisely wrote for two purposes, in some 
 sort to please those of his own times, and to secure all 
 those who should come after him. With Khakspeare, 
 posthumous fame never seemed to be a passion, lie 
 rather fell sure of it. than panted after it; he that 
 could so well judge of the present and the past, could 
 see what was to come. He took no pains for 
 monument, or epitaph, but simply said to those he left 
 behind him. spare my bone%. His mental strength 
 - playfully as the physical strength 
 of the N:r/:irite. who chose to slay tiie Philistines with 
 a jaw hone i . rather than draw his sword— and 
 
 •'i kill his enemies with a gibe, 
 rather than with an a nt. Samson's power only 
 
 crushed hi- - — Shakspeare's gave distinct, and 
 
 certain immortality to his friends, and all those he 
 
 preserving. 
 icr men share th of composition ; and 
 
 which are di to Momus, and all the 
 
 ritcr-loving train, have some lines of mental mo- 
 lancholy about I em <fot so with f ire, "Set to 
 
 suppose that (hose productions were not of profound 
 
 idit. would, indeed, be idle. He meditated, not only
 
 48 
 
 at noon, in the field, but in the dark watches of the 
 night. He read nature, from season to season, and 
 man in every hour of his existence ; but there was 
 about his doing this, the mild complacency of a supe- 
 rior being, not the swollen muscle, and bursting veins 
 of the gladiator ; nor was it ever known that he rolled 
 his eye in frenzy, although he glanced from heaven to 
 earth, and answered his own description of a poet, as 
 to the mental part of it. 
 
 u And as imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation, and a name." 
 
 This was all done by Shakspeare, without effort ; or at 
 least without the appearance of it. The ancients made 
 Apollo calm and composed in all his deeds ; no agita- 
 tion ever was seen in the actions of the far-darting 
 Apollo. So of Shakspeare ; he never foamed, or was 
 cast to the earth ; or wildly gazed on the heavens, or 
 threw up ejaculations to superior powers ; but he went 
 on in his own pathway, as though he was only the 
 humble, but true minister of Deity, proclaiming just 
 thoughts, and wholesome precepts to man. He was 
 fed by no ravens, nor asked, or expected a car of fire. 
 A well regulated stage may be likened to a Camera 
 Lucida, in which one desirous of taking minute re- 
 semblances of man, in every form of his .character, 
 may be indulged. Shakspeare saw that the stage, 
 which should " hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to na- 
 ture," did not, in ignorant hands, give precise images 
 of things, and he set about reforming this altogether j
 
 49 
 
 and no man was hotter formed for the task. A thou- 
 i might have been found to ha-. red nations, 
 
 and swi   empires, in all the greatness of the 
 
 conqueror, to on Id have t tagej 
 
 or rather human nature exhibited by the sti 
 Shakspeare, in the thirty-five plays proved to have 
 i from bis pen, has exhibited the mind of man irr 
 all its phas - propensities, bis habits, his prac- 
 
 tices, ins reasoning. and philosophical, were all 
 
 exhibited by him, in truth and power. His virtues, his 
 
 .' n his idio-yiierasies, 
 were all known to this great anatomist of the human 
 mind: his hopes, hi^ passions, his frivolities, were all 
 laid bare to him. Tthese plays, which seemed, per- 
 s, in the age in which he lived, only' written, to 
 amuse the populace of a city, contained the analysis 
 of tin human mind, and the history of the passions. 
 For instance, if he would give ambition, look at his 
 Richard III. when the passion is up, the means pa- 
 tiently pursued, and every principle sacrificed to the 
 : : rung, flattery, and diabolical 
 
 _ f v. all are used for his purposes. In all this, all 
 •tnral in its way — the monarch croaks morality, 
 and utt. " while he plots destruction, 
 
 and strikes the dagger; but he docs not hide his de- 
 formity, even from the mother who bare him. she 
 all his moral basem ss : and speaks it in words 
 wrung from her breaking heart 
 
 "Techy and wayward was thy infancy; 
 
 Thy schooldays frightful, desperate, wild, and furious; 
 Thy prime of manhood, daring, bold, and venturous; 
 Thv agfl coniinn'd. proud, subtle, sly, and bloody." 
 
 5*
 
 50 
 
 His lady Macbeth is even a finer delineation of cha- 
 racter, as it regards reckless ambition. She was bold 
 in her means, as well as anxious for results. She had 
 firmness of purpose, as well as insatiable passion for 
 power. She put heaven and hell at defiance, and drove 
 onward to expected enjoyment and distinction. She 
 spoke in all the boldness of her nature :— 
 
 " The raven himself is hoarse. 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 Under my battlements. Come, come you spirits 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here ; 
 And fill me from the crown to the toe, top-full 
 Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood, 
 Stop the access and passage to remorse ! 
 That no compunctious Actings of nature 
 Shake my fell purpose, nor keep pace between 
 The effect and it." 
 
 Notwithstanding she braced herself with all this 
 fiend-like energy, yet, he made her true to nature ; for 
 though she had plucked from her soul all remorse, 
 while she could concentrate her powers, no sooner 
 than she slept, her dreams and somnambulism spoke 
 all the horrors of her soul. Shakspeare developed 
 tliis truth in Richard and Clarence — neither of whom 
 shrunk from perjury or murder while awake and mas- 
 ters of themselves, but when the soul was naked and 
 in the lonely watches of the night, were very babies in 
 fortitude. A quiet conscience rarely sees a frightful 
 object in the repose of nature ; it has none of the 
 night-mare agonies of villany. Angels smooth the 
 pillows of the virtuous, and bring visions of delight to 
 the benevolent and the good. If we sleep each passing
 
 51 
 
 night so much better for doing well, who would not 
 \\ isfa to lie down in the long sleep of the grave, with 
 all quiet about his heart ? 
 
 Macbeth was of a more delieate fibre; he felt and 
 shrunk from his d< eda of blood ; he had some touches 
 of nature in him ; lie saw daggers, and heard warning 
 voices, and said aloud, 
 
 " I'll go no more ; 
 I am afraid to think what I have done ; 
 Look on't again I dare not.*' 
 
 by ambition to the use of reckless means 
 to bring about ends, tauntingly replies, 
 
 '• Infirm of purpose! 
 Give me thi rs; the sleeping, and the dead, 
 
 Are but as pictures -, "us the eye of childhood 
 That fears a painb i! devil." 
 
 Sfliakspeare ne\< r Buffers the shades of character to 
 run unnaturally into each other ; for the usurper of 
 the crown of Denmark did as foul a deed for power as 
 Lad} Macbi th and her husband : but though as trea- 
 and more vile, lor it was a brothers blood he 
 >■ hail no energy of character. He exhi- 
 bited n ul conscience, and yet could not refrain 
 from addin crime in seeking safety in tin death 
 
 Sha uccessful in describing love, 
 
 iiibuion. He has Bhown it in all its varieties, from 
 the sickly flame that glimmers in the breasts of tho* 
 whom interests mute, to tin simplicity, warmth, and
 
 52 
 
 truth of the cottager ; from the impassioned Queen of 
 Egypt to the melting Juliet, and the sweet violet Mi- 
 randa. He knew all the springs of the human heart, 
 and could describe their ebb and flow. 
 
 How admirably has he depicted " Avarice with his 
 blade and beam," in Shylock ; and yet how weak is 
 that- avarice when it walks hand in hand with revenge. 
 
 Pride is as well delineated in Coriolanus. Not only 
 has he made this character true to history, but he has 
 given the mighty patrician new thoughts of aristo- 
 cratic consequence. 
 
 " His nature is too noble for the world : 
 He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, 
 Or Jove for his power to thunder. His hearts 
 
 his mouth : 
 "What his breast forges that his tongue must vent ; 
 And, being angry, does forget that ever 
 He heard the name of death." 
 
 The inferior and superhuman beings the great poet 
 creates, are admirable productions. His Caliban is a 
 monster of malignity and ignorance ; a being to wJwse 
 nature nurture would not stick. He has many resem- 
 blances in crowded cities, in manners and in mind ; 
 but these are not dressed with the skins of wild beasts 
 nor confined to a desolate island, but they cannot name 
 the greater or lesser lights better than he.   It would 
 take more than Prospen's wand to exile them all to 
 the wilds of nature. 
 
 The delicate Ariel was a lovely creature of the ima- 
 gination ; probably, a personification of the imagina- 
 tion itself, which is first a slave to ignorance, obliged
 
 53 
 
 to bear the earthly and abhorred commands of capri- 
 cious malignity ; but when enlarged from confinement 
 by the waul of science, is ready to answer the best 
 pleasure of us master, 
 
 " Be it to fly, 
 To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
 On the curl'd clouds." 
 
 There are Calibans in the field of literature, who 
 would curse all science and taste, and violate the off- 
 spring of refinement and genius, if they had power; 
 but we trust in heaven that the Tempest is up in the 
 intellectual world — that tlie spell is in operation which 
 will be kept alive by stwh/, and science, and letters, un- 
 til the wishes of the good are accomplished, and the 
 conspiracies of the base defeated. 
 
 We might go on until the seasons changed with these 
 d»cussions, for I question whether you can name a 
 -ion or a trait of character in the whole history of 
 man, developed by the metaphysician, or illustrated by 
 pa try. of which Shakspeare does not furnish some ex- 
 cellent specimen. His coarse wit, now so offensive to 
 some, was m his day pungent satire. This we may infer 
 distinctly from what we now understand of it; for in- 
 '•< . ih<- satire from the mouth of the grave-digger in 
 Hamlet, upon the bar and bench, and the laws, as ad- 
 minister? l in that day, is admirable. The character of 
 ll ofernes, in Love?» Labour 3 * Lott, is full of sarcasm 
 upon the literati of his time, for attempting to de- 
 stroy the English language by Latinizing it. Many 
 
 of the saws In- suffers to drop from the mouth, of his 
 fools, an M formed under the motley guise- he gives
 
 54 
 
 them, as to cut deep upon the frivolities and vices of 
 the age. 
 
 If Shakspeare was the poet of nature, as he is always 
 called, why should we not judge him as we do nature? 
 When we look abroad on nature, to contemplate the vast 
 oceans, the extended continents, the beautiful lakes, the 
 lovely rivers, the flowers and fruits of every clime, and 
 the cattle upon a thousand hills, or throwing our eyes to 
 the starry heavens, the stupendous work of circling 
 planets and rising and setting constellations— does not 
 this fill us with delight and wonder ? Who would not 
 pity the dissatisfied inhabitant of this earth, if instead 
 of looking thus upon the works of Providence, he 
 should dwell upon the sterile promontory, the sandy 
 desert, the bogs and fens full of miasma, and point out 
 the slimy snake and open-mouthed crocodile, as athe- 
 istical proof that the world was made amiss ? If we 
 were wise enough to understand them, all these appa- 
 rent evils were made for benefits. We should at least 
 carry such a disposition with us when we go out to ex- 
 amineany thing that does good to society. In fine, we 
 will leave to professed critics to quarrel with Shaks- 
 peare for his contempt of unities; to gravity of face 
 to look awry at his quibbles and his puns, and to simu- 
 lated modesty to utter a scream of abhorrence at his 
 freedom of thought and expression, while we will read 
 his works, grow enamoured with his intellectual glo- 
 ries, and imprint upon our memories the -immortal 
 delineations of his pen. What Milton praised, Warbur- 
 ton admired, and Johnson spent his days and nights in 
 commenting upon, and millions of the wise devour 
 each succeeding day, will last while our language is 
 spoken, or time exists.
 
 55 
 
 Francis Bacon -was contemporary with Shakspcare. 
 Hi- was bom in 1561, and was attorney general when 
 tli.- great poet died-; from thejr different 
 
 walks In fife, thej cou d not have sh< d much light upon 
 cadi other. Baron did more Cor learning than any *of 
 his pred» cessors had dour for ages. He may be said to 
 have changed the order of reasoning, among his coun- 
 trymen, and after awhile over much of Europe. lie 
 broke ti}) the ponderous raachim ry of getting at truth, 
 then known in the schools, and which was full'of subtle 
 errors, and taught nun by induction to tix principles, 
 from first ascertaining facts. He wrote upon history, 
 
 ■, upon law, and in^ 
 Gael upon almost all matters relating to the cultivation 
 of (he mind. He cleared away tKe rubbish of monas- 
 tic lore, and gave a new analysis to the powers of the 
 human mi;, rstanding from me- 
 
 mory, and the imagination from both, lie made a 
 plain chart of human knowledge,— -that which was 
 md that which was to be acquired,— and show- 
 ed t itiesof men to obtain it. and gave dir,ec- 
 
 aiie d. He pointed out its 
 and the <rrcat mass of 80- 
 1 the wisdom of the ancieiitS, gave 
 new meanings !■> their mytl   and turned ap- 
 
 parent i us to lieai. eming extrava- 
 
 gances to delicate illustrations. In a word. Bacon 
 the | rmer the world ever knew. Part of his 
 
 works had an extensive circulation, being either writ- 
 ten in Latin <>r translated into that language. The 
 i; .ijsh lae more confined than 
 
 most others, not being I icular of more than live 
 
 millions of people to the utmost. Now it is the Ian-
 
 56 
 
 guage of more than fifty millions, and in the course of 
 three centuries it will be the language of more than one- 
 third of the human race. What new glories await 
 Shakspeare and Bacon ! 
 
 This great philosopher and benefactor of mankind suf- 
 fered from the meanness and vacillation of a weak and pe- 
 dantic king, and from the slanders of an after age in the 
 flippancy of a poetical illustration ; but modern inquiry 
 and a better sense of justice have reversed the sentence 
 he has suffered under, and pronounce him not only to 
 have been honest, but a great blessing to the world. He 
 was early wise for usefulness, and his intellect grew 
 brighter and brighter until the lamp of life was extin- 
 guished. He bequeathed his memory to posterity, and 
 with all future ages he is sure to have justice done 
 hiin, 
 
 Robert Burton, a distinguished writer of that age, was 
 born 1576, and died 1630. His great work was called 
 by him "Anatomy of Melancholy." It is a composi- 
 tion of great originality ; wild, eccentric, and yet philo- 
 sophical and full of genius. The Anatomy of Melan- 
 choly has been reprinted in this country, and is now- 
 much read, and it amply repays the modern reader for 
 his pains. It is refreshing, once in a while, to get hold 
 of an original thinker. It seems to sow the mind with 
 seeds of thought, which spring up when we are not con- 
 scious of it, and assists us to fill up the measure of 
 every crop we produce. It is the custom of every 
 good husbandman to sow clover on fallow lands to be 
 ploughed in, to increase the fertility of the soil ; it 
 should be so with men in preparing the mind for its 
 best efforts. Things entirely foreign to what is intended 
 to be cultivated, should often fertilize us— for after all
 
 57 
 
 ovu boast of genius, there eannot be much expected, un- 
 less we plough deep, cross-cut, and heap and mellow 
 the sward tit catch the nitrous particles which evolve 
 the fertilizing gases, and even then we must pray for 
 prosperous seasons to gain a rich harvest, and even 
 these may come without good markets. 
 
 1 must necessarily leave a number of the much distin- 
 guished dramatic poets — Jonson, Marlow, and others — 
 and hasten to say a word of Milton. The puritans had not 
 had many poets before Milton arose, and it was said that 
 their austerity was unfriendly to the loftier efforts of the 
 muse. It was thought that they would not use the 
 tasteful fictions of the classic ages ; that they would not 
 cull an evergreen from Mount Ida, or drink of the wa- 
 ters welling from Helicon ; but it happened in this that 
 the world were mistaken. The bard of immortality 
 had tried his hand at minor poems, and had surpassed 
 all his predecessors in the English language. The 
 smaller works of Shakspeare bear no comparison, in 
 point of dignity, ease, and elegance, to Milton's. He 
 was master of antiquity, and showed at every flourish 
 of his pen how much he venerated the bards of other 
 times. He coursed over nature, and selected her 
 choices! beauties, as one inspired by Flora herself. With 
 a pla\ ful band, under the guidance of a chastened taste, 
 he rifled Attica, the groves of Numa, and even the gar- 
 dens of Armi'la. to make up his basket of flowers. He 
 threw his tr - on the winds, with a careless band, 
 
 or distilled their essences to perfume the breezes. He 
 wa>-- free from canl and bigotry; and you may search in 
 vain for any narrowness Of creeds or mystical lanati- 
 i about Milton, Never lived there a man who used
 
 58 
 
 more direct means to come to honest ends, as he thought 
 them, than John Milton. 
 
 Letters were his profession. His father was a man 
 of information, and early seeing his genius, educated 
 him for a scholar. For this purpose he travelled into 
 Italy when about thirty years of age, and was received 
 as one who had surpassed all his countrymen, in his ta- 
 lents and acquirements, and they were then the best 
 judges, being themselves in advance of all Europe in the 
 arts, sciences, and literature. 
 
 Milton on his return to his country was involved in 
 controversy, both political and religious; but in the 
 midst of his labors, however uncongenial to the muse, 
 he constantly felt the workings of an exalted genius, 
 and now and then intimates, yea, almost promises, 
 something for the use and honor of his country. 
 " This," says Milton, " is not to be obtained but by de- 
 vout prayer to the Eternal Spirit that can enrich with 
 all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his sera- 
 phim with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and 
 purify the lips of whom he pleases. To this must be 
 added industrious and select reading, steady observa- 
 tion, and insight into all seemly and generous acts 
 and affairs, till which in some measure be compact, I 
 refuse not to sustain this expectation." 
 
 This noble intention was for a while retarded by his 
 dipping deeply into politics. Party spirit, not only 
 retards, but often destroys the love of letters, and the 
 determination of their votaries, and not unfrequently 
 cuts up, root and brandy every fondness for them, and 
 leaves the mind in apathy for philosophy of any kind, 
 while it whettens the appetite for the thorny honors of 
 political life.
 
 59 
 
 Milton was made Latin secretary to the council of 
 slate, which was to supply the office of Royalt\ . 
 
 In 1652, Milton had lost his eyesight, yet he still 
 clung to polemic ami political life, and was a gladiator 
 on the arena until after his friend Oliver Cromwell's 
 death, and the restoration ef Charles II, when he <iave 
 it up. When the .-lorin had blown over, Milton retired 
 tn contemplate hi-; immortal work— u Paradise Lost.'' 
 Johnson says that " he fixed upon tins subject, a design 
 so comprehensive, that it could only be justified by its 
 Success." .More than this can be said ; it was a design 
 so vast, and one which entered so far into eternity, and 
 the destinies of man, connected with a machinery so 
 Weighty and awful, that no one who was ten armed 
 with the pam ply of that deep religious feeling that is 
 ready to venture on martyrdom, and felt the posses- 
 sion of a genius that gained strength by every obsta- 
 el< . would ham ventured upon. To any other man 
 it would have been not only a failure, but his destruc- 
 tion. If he had not been prepared by faith to pass 
 the burning ploughshare, the attempt would have been 
 considered as allied to blasphemy. But Milton sealed 
 the bafflements of Heaven by privilege, a d was al- 
 lowed to take with him all his human knowledge. In 
 this poem is to be found all the learning of the ancients, 
 strained and purified for the occasion. Tl e seraphim 
 lie mentions seems to have touched tin heathen Apollo, 
 and to have changed his 1\ re to a burning harp Of eter- 
 nal praise; and the god of taste and wisdom to a mi- 
 nistering angel of revelation.
 
 60 
 
 FROM THE MASK OF COMUS. 
 
 The Lady enters. 
 
 This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, 
 
 My best guide now ; methought it was the sound 
 
 Of riot and ill-managed merriment, 
 
 Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, 
 
 Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds, 
 
 When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, 
 
 In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, 
 
 And thank the Gods amiss. I should be loth 
 
 To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence 
 
 Of such late wassailers ; yet oh, where else 
 
 Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 
 
 In the blind mazes of this tangled wood 1 
 
 My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 
 
 With this long way, resolving here to lodge 
 
 Under the spreading favour of these pines, 
 
 Stept, as they said, to the next thicket side 
 
 To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 
 
 As the kind hospitable woods provide. 
 
 They left me then, when the grey hooded even, 
 
 Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, 
 
 Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. 
 
 But where they are, and why they came not back, 
 
 Is now the labor of my thought ; 'tis likeliest 
 
 They had engag'd their wand'ring steps too far, 
 
 And envious darkness, ere they could return, 
 
 Had stole them from me ; else, O thievish night, 
 
 Why wouldst thou, but for some felonious end, 
 
 In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars,
 
 Gl 
 
 That nature hung in Ileav'n, and fill'd their lamps 
 "W nil everlasting oil, to give due light 
 To the misled and lonely traveller I 
 Tins is the place, as well as I may guess, 
 
 \\ hence even now the tumult of loud mirth 
 Was rife and perfecl in my list'ning ear ; 
 "S et nought hut single darkness, do I find. 
 W hat might this he ? A thousand fantasies 
 J3egin to throng into my memory,- 
 Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, 
 And airy tongues, that syllable men's names 
 On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 
 These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 
 The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
 By a strong siding champion, Conscience. 
 
 welcome pure-ey'd faith, white-handed hope, 
 Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings, 
 And thou, unblemished form of chastity! 
 
 1 see ye visibly, and now believe 
 
 That he. the Supreme Good, t' whom all things ill 
 
 Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, 
 
 Would send a srlist'ring guardian, if need were, 
 
 To keep my life and honor unassail'd. 
 
 \\ - i dew ived, or did a sable cloud 
 
 Turn forth her silver lining on the night? 
 
 I did not err; there does a Bable cloud 
 
 Turn forth her silver lining on the night, 
 
 And casta a gleam over tins tufted grove. 
 
 I cannot halloo to niv brothers, bul 
 
 - ,- i can make in he heard farthest 
 
 I'll venture ; for m> new ealiven'd spirits 
 Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not far off
 
 62 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 
 Within thy airy shell, 
 By slow Meander's margent green, 
 And in the violet ernbroider'd vale, 
 
 Where the love-lorn nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well ; 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
 That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
 
 O, if thou have 
 Hid them in some flow'ry cave, 
 Tell me but where, 
 Sweet queen of Parley, daughter of the sphere! 
 So may'st thou be translated to the skies, 
 And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's harmonies. 
 
 Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
 Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ? 
 Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 
 And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
 To testify his hidden residence : 
 How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
 Of silence, through the empty vaulted night, 
 At every fall smoothing the raven down 
 Of darkness till it smil'd ! I have oft heard 
 My mother Circe, with the Sirens three, 
 Amidst the flow'ry-kirtled Naiades 
 Culling their potent herbs, and baleful drugs, 
 Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul, 
 And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept, 
 And chid her barking waves into attention, 
 And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause :
 
 63 
 
 Yt i tlioy in pleasing dumber lull'd the sense, 
 
 And in Bweet madness robb'd it of itself j 
 
 But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
 
 > u sober certainty of waking bliss, 
 
 I never heard till now. 1*11 speak to her, 
 
 And Bhe dull be my queen. Hail foreign wonder! 
 
 Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, 
 
 Unless the Goddess that in rural shrine 
 
 Dwell'st here with Pan. or Sylvan, by blest song 
 
 Forbidding every bleak unkindly log 
 
 To touch the prosp'rous growth of this tall wood. 
 
 Lculy. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
 That is address'd to unattending ears ; 
 Nut any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
 How to regain my sever'd company, 
 Compelled me to awake the courteous echo 
 To give me answer from her mossy couch. [thus ? 
 
 Comus. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you 
 
 /. ly. Dim darkness and this leafy labyrinth. 
 
 vua. Could that divide you from near-ushering 
 guidi 
 
 Lady. They hit me weary on a grassy turf. 
 
 Gomus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why? 
 
 Lady. To seek i' th' valley some cool friendly spring. 
 
 ' \us. And left your fair side all unguarded, lady? 
 
 Laily. They were but twain, and purpos'd quick re- 
 turn. 
 
 Cm, i us. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 
 
 /. ly. IImv. easy my misfortune is to hit ! 
 
 Cn/niis. Imports their ln>-. besides the present need? 
 
 Lnily. N - than if I should my brothers In 
 
 ComuK. Wire they of manly prime, or youthful 
 bloom ?
 
 64 
 
 Lady. As,smooth as Hebe's their unrazor'd lips. 
 
 Comus. Two such I saw, what time the labor'd <x 
 In his loose traces from the furrow came, 
 And theswink'dheclger at his supper sat ; 
 I saw them under a green mantling vine 
 That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 
 Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots ; 
 Their port was more than human, as they stood ; 
 I took it for a faery vision 
 Of some gay creatures of the element, 
 That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
 And play i' th' plighted clouds. I was awe-struck, 
 And as I pass'd I worship'd; if those you seek, 
 It were a journey like the path to Heav'n, 
 To help you find them. 
 
 Lady. Gentle villager, 
 What readiest way would bring me to the place 1 
 
 Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 
 
 Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose, 
 In such a scant allowance of star-light, 
 Would over-task the best land-pilot's art, 
 Without the sure guess of well practis'd feet. 
 
 Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
 Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood, 
 And every bosky bourn from side to side, 
 My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
 And if your stray-attendants be yet lodg'd, 
 Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
 Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
 From her thatched pallet rouse ; if otherwise 
 I can conduct you, lady, to a low 
 But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
 Till further quest.
 
 65 
 
 Iah1>/. Shepherd, I take thy word, 
 Ami trust thy honest offer'd courtesy, 
 W Inch oft is sooner found in lowly sheds 
 With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls 
 And courts of princes, where it first was nam'd, 
 And yet is must pretended : in a place 
 Li bs warranted than this, or less secure, 
 I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. 
 Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial 
 To my proportion'd strength. Shepherd, lead on. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The contemporaries of Milton and his successors 
 lived, indeed, in evil times for literature. Sir William 
 
 Davenant received from Milton countenance and pro- 
 tection, when Cnmi\\cll'o purty wou « yuwm) <.«».i 
 was most nobly repaid by Davenant when Charles II. 
 came to the throne. Davenant was the admirer of 
 Bhakspeare, and acquainted with the bard of Avon, 
 though only eleven years of age when he died. Dave- 
 nant was one of those men who to live was obliged to 
 submit to public feeling and taste j and to cater for it 
 against I dictates of lus own judgment. Dave- 
 
 nant was a man Of versatile talents, and served his 
 country, or rather bis part}. 111 diveus capacities, as dra- 
 matist, diplomatic, and military chieftain : for Ins mi 
 
 htary seme. I he was knighted. There are man\ line 
 iinints in Ins works, which will be long renieni- 
 
 bersd TIk af the tones made him degrade his
 
 66 
 
 genius, and give up to the hour what was meant for 
 
 future generations. 
 
 To these succeeded Cowley : he was born in 1618. 
 
 It was Spenser's works that made him a poet, or rather 
 
 which developed his talents for poetry. Cowley was 
 
 precocious as a poet, having made some respectable 
 
 verses at the age of fifteen. He was noticed by the 
 
 leading politicians of that day ; and was employed as 
 
 secretary of Lord St. Albans, who was his kind patron 
 
 for many years of his life. Cowley was learned and 
 
 tasteful. His measure is accurate, and his rhyme easy 
 
 and sweet. He was the most mellifluous of all the 
 
 tuneful throng. He had something of the restlessness 
 
 of the poet about him, and sighed for retirement and 
 
 the charms of literary ease. This is a common feeling ; 
 
 the sensitive mind, wounded by real or imaginary ne- 
 glects and insults, longs lor seclusion, and seems to dread 
 
 the company of his fellow-beings ; but deprive him of 
 outlet j' a<i a rtw weeks, and ne would make any sacri- 
 fices to get back to the world, bad as it is. Cowley 
 wished to find quiet in the wilds of America ;— he 
 might have found the greatest wilderness in a throng- 
 ed city. In the thick forest man assimilates to every 
 thing around him ; in a city only to what he pleases. 
 The longings of a poet are as capricious as the winds 
 of April : his words are not be taken precisely as set 
 down. 
 
 Dryden is a name far more familiar to us than any 
 other of that age. He was born in 1631. He lived in a 
 political and turbulent age, and naturally irritable, he 
 partook of all the frailties of party spirit. He was a 
 well educated man, having received his elementary in- 
 formation under that excellent, stern old pedagogue,
 
 67 
 
 Master Bus«hy. who believed most religiously in the vir- 
 tues of a rod for lazy boys, and who brought up some 
 of the finest scholars of his day. 
 
 Dryden was laureate and historiographer to Charles 
 II. and pushed on his eourse with a variety of fortunes, 
 wiih tolerable success, until the revolution of 1688, 
 When his politics wire out of fashion. 
 
 The satire of Dryden is often biting and powerful. 
 He was most able, in general, when galled and injured. 
 His muse was a party engine, and he seldom thought 
 of quiet or literary fame, any farther than it could an- 
 noy his enemies. Still Dryden had a vigorous mind, 
 and shot his arrows with a manly bow. 
 
 There are passages in the works of Dryden that will 
 be quoted for ages, but as a whole it must be confess- 
 ed that he is not now so much read, as he was by those 
 who preceded US, and for good reasons. He wrought up 
 events, political events, and party circumstances, into sar- 
 <• w it and cutting irony, that sunk deeply then ; but 
 which circumstances and events are out of date now. 
 S<> it must alwaj a happen to those who build their fame 
 on Local or transitory matters. It is the poet of nature 
 alone who can survive t'n change of manners and the 
 oblivion of i >:t — 1 1 1 lt occurrences. Juvenal is read, it is 
 true, even now. and Will long be a stock author, be- 
 cause his denunciations were against vices and the 
 wicked, in genera] views, rather than against indi- 
 viduals who wire BOOn forgotten. Avarice is a vice 
 that is in nature, and will never be (radicated; but an 
 
 n\ i soon forgotten. His heirs have no 
 
 w ish tn have him in remembrance, and those whom he 
 wrong) to curse him when he is in his grave. 
 
 Johnson hai run a parallel between Dryden and Pope,
 
 68 
 
 
 
 in which there can be no doubt that he has given the 
 palm of genius to Dryden ; but the critics of a later 
 age have reversed the decision, or at least greatly mo- 
 dified it. 
 
 The finest specimen of Dryden's poetical talents is 
 his ode on St. Cecilia's day. It is a most splendid 
 composition. It is full of the inspiration of the muse, 
 and shows a mastery over every measure of verse. 
 
 St. Cecilia's day was kept the 22d of November, 
 and was celebrated from 1683 until 1744 ; and the odes 
 on this anniversary called forth the talents of the first 
 geniuses of all that period. It is not a little remarka- 
 ble, that while this fair saint was considered as the in- 
 ventress of sacred music, that most of the odes written 
 for the occasion celebrated rather the ancient flute or 
 lyre, than the instruments devoted to sacred music. 
 
 This lovely saint was not much known until the 
 year 1599, when Pope Clement VIII, found the body of 
 St. Cecilia with other relics in Rome, which had been 
 slumbering for thirteen hundred years. 
 
 St. Cecilia was a noble Roman lady, who, in the 
 early age of Christianity, suffered martyrdom. She 
 was said to have excelled in divine music, and to have 
 attracted an angel from heaven by the charms of her 
 voice. The heavenly visitant attended her through her 
 days of prosperity, and did not leave her when she 
 was made to suffer. Some of, the Italian painters, after 
 the finding of her body, listened to all the legends then 
 afloat in Rome about her, and it gave them another 
 subject for their pencils. She is drawn with her atten- 
 dant angel protecting and cheering herwhen in boiling 
 cauldrons and suffocating baths ; and sometimes he is 
 seen plucking burning arrows from her vestal bosom,
 
 69 
 
 that had been shot from the bows of the savage perse- 
 cutor. 
 
 It is somewhat singular to observe that this ode, 
 which ranks among the best ever sung on this or any 
 other occasion, should celebrate the birth of demi-gods, 
 the virtues of Bacchus, the force of pity, the power of 
 love, and the fury of revenge, and not have one line 
 ■on the religion St. Cecilia lived to practise, and died 
 to glorify, and only a hasty intimation of her sacred 
 power. 
 
   At last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 
 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 
 Be raised a mortal to the skies, 
 
 She drew an angel down." 
 
 Pope's ode, which has been considered far inferior to 
 Drv • - more religious,, and if not so great in po- 
 
 etical power, is much superior in devotion, and more 
 direct to the subject ; but even he spends most of his 
 power- oil Orpheus and his lyre, but at last celebrates 
 the divine vocalist and organist in true poesy. 
 
 " Music the fiercest grief can charm, 
 And Fate's severest rage disarm : 
 IfariC em   '"-n pain to i !-■, 
 And make despair and madness please:
 
 70 
 
 Out joys below it can improve, 
 And antedate the bliss above. 
 This the divine Cecilia found, 
 And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound. 
 When the full organ joins the tuneful quire, 
 Th' immortal powers incline their ear ; 
 Borne on the swelling notes, our souls aspire, 
 While solemn airs improve the sacred fire, 
 ] And angels lean from Heaven to hear. 
 Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell ; 
 To bright Cecilia greater powers are given : 
 His numbers rais'd a shade from Hell, 
 Her's lift the soul to Heav'n." 
 
 Whoever would see a curious account of these odes 
 must look at Malone's life of Dryden. He traced them 
 through many years. 
 
 If ever man had an evil genius to attend him, that 
 man was John Dryden. Little and Shadwell disputed 
 with him the prize of poetical merit, and no small part 
 of the community were on their side. It is one of the 
 miseries of the truly great, to find their inferiors put 
 up as their equals, and sometimes as their superiors. 
 It is but little satisfaction tf> some minds to think poste- 
 rity will do them justice. No man will appeal to pos- 
 terity that can get justice done in his own time. 
 
 Others, besides poets, in this age, added to the stock 
 of general information, and no one ihore than Sir 
 Christopher Wren. He was born in 1632, and was so 
 distinguished in eariy life as to be made professor of 
 astronomy when only twenty-four years of age. He 
 was skilled in the higher branches of mathematics, 
 and applied himself to astronomical calculations with
 
 71 
 
 Mich assiduity that before he had reached the thirtieth 
 year of his age, lie was one of the first three astrono- 
 nu-rs in the world. He unfolded the wonders of the 
 planetary motions, and gave laws to distant spheres. 
 His inventions were numerous. He no sooner saw 
 the wants of the astronomer in getting to high results, 
 than he set about to think in what manner he could re- 
 medy them, lie made the difficult easy ; the abstruse, 
 plain | and amended every thing he touched. He not 
 only saw the God in the heavens, and adored him in 
 the vast and boundless realms of space as he journeyed 
 onward from system to system through the universe; 
 but he descended from the Empyrean, and gave the mo- 
 dels for bouses of religious worship to his fellow-men. 
 Almost all the fine edifices in England, now dedicated to 
 the worship of the Christian religion, were of his design- 
 ing ; and most of our houses of God were modeled from 
 si une plain drafts of his. If such a man is not so often 
 before us as those who gave us sentiment to treasure 
 in. -.ikI rrneat. vet his W*™" •>»«> of equal val"" to so- 
 ciety. If it can bo said that every one can repeat some 
 of the lines of the great poets, and their thoughts are 
 Incorporated with all we think and do, it may be also 
 6aid that no one ha* tin- conveniences of a dwelling 
 hoii-e. 01 the privileges of a seat in church to worship 
 hi* Maker, without being indebted to such men as Sir 
 Christopher Wren. 
 
 M ttthew Trior, is a name familiar to all the reading 
 community. He patted through a variety of fortune — 
 honored ai a scholar, ahd respected for his business ta- 
 li i pool of easy recse, not wanting in gi 
 and sw and   lUe for power. 
 Hij prose too assisted in directing the taste of the times.
 
 72 
 
 He was born in 1664, and must have known Dryden 
 before his calamities came upon him, or not long after. 
 Prior, when a minister at the Hague, and in all his 
 public functions, held to his letters and fellowship, and 
 those things that would serve him when public honors 
 might pass away. 
 
 De Foe was only a year older than Prior. He was 
 a man of talents. He wrote on a variety of subjects, 
 and on many of them with great success ; but his most 
 popular work was that which we have all of us read 
 an hundred times, by the winter fireside — his Robin- 
 son Crusoe. It is, or perhaps rather was, the child's 
 own book. His man Friday is a particular friend to all 
 of us ; and we can see the goats crop the tendrils of 
 the vine round his cabin, and bound over the hills. To 
 such works are we more indebted than we are aware 
 of, for forming our taste in our own language. The 
 style of Robinson Crusoe is familiar, easy, chaste, and 
 attractive. The words are well chosen, and the con- 
 struction of the sont°"<""* • ol, "-ijant, without anv riisnlav 
 of learning. The child who reads this work is learn- 
 ing to speak and write his mother tongue, without 
 thinking he has a lesson before him, and the mind thus 
 improved, retains all that it gains. De Foe was a man 
 of great versatility of talents ; he was not only a poli- 
 tician and poet, but a negociator, trader, and manufac- 
 turer, but great as a political economist. He was in- 
 strumental in bringing about a union between England 
 and Scotland ; and it is said his services were well re- 
 warded. 
 
 Although some of those we have named lived into 
 the reign of Anne, and were protected and honored by 
 ier, yet they are generally classed with thosewhofloiir
 
 led before her time; as Young, Addison, Pope, 
 B ! ..null, and Arbuthnot, and others, grew more 
 
 immediately in her time, and were so conspicuous, 
 that their names seem as it wore to push out all others. 
 
 Among the muni i gant and classical writers 
 
 of this period, Addison w as pre-eminent. He \\ as born 
 m 10?~, and of course was in the full vigor of man- 
 hood and at the height of his literary faino.w hen Anne 
 
 in her glory. He wrote poetry with great ease 
 and taste, hut his prose was vastly superior to his poe- 
 try. His friend Sir Richard Steele, a man of exten- 
 sive acquirements, and classical ta-ste, a great director 
 of the current literature of the day, began his periodi- 
 cal work called the Tattler, on the 22d of April, 1709. 
 This work was carried on for some time with great 
 spirit, and Addison was a writer in it. When this 
 went down, Addison and Steele got up the Spectator. 
 This was a work of great merit, and attracted the at- 
 tention of an enlightened community. This work did 
 more to fix public taste, than perhaps any other ever 
 published. The writers were of the first order, and 
 they handled their subjects with playfulness, irony, 
 and that smooth and elegant courtesy that attracted 
 the attention of all classes, and which were under- 
 
 1 by most readers. The plan was not original; 
 the Italians had anticipated the English in this spe- 
 
 of writing. Casca's book of manners, was said 
 to have been the model of the English wits and 
 critics. It is. however, of no consequence who ori- 
 ginated this mode of doing good, it was nevermore 
 
 Mic. --tul than in the bandl of Addison, and his coad- 
 jutor-. \n hundred and twenty >ears have elapsed 
 since \h< - 'tor i\v>\ appeared, and where do you
 
 74 
 
 find more pure English, more delicate, fine writing, a 
 better mirror of manners at the present day, than in 
 the Spectator 1 I grant yon that there is more energy, . 
 passion, dictation, assertion, and positiveness in some 
 of our modern standards, than in the works of Addison 
 and Steele, but I would rather turn to this work for 
 models in writing, than to an hundred of them. Al- 
 though the doctrine of professed reviewing was not 
 then thoroughly known, yet give me the direct, honest, 
 enlightened criticism upon Milton, to an hundred mo- 
 dern reviews, where the sage commentator is only ac- 
 quainted with perhaps the first half page of the work 
 he praises or condemns. What a host of descendants 
 have these works of Addison and Steele produced ! 
 Some that are doing good, and others that are doing 
 no good at all. 
 
 The world of taste and imagination was not alone 
 improved, the exact sciences come in for their share of 
 genius. Sir Isaac Newton, who was born in 1642, and 
 died in 1727, lived among the illustrious men whose 
 deeds we have mentioned. He enlarged the bounds 
 then prescribed to science ; taught new principles, ex- 
 amined old ones, and either established or destroyed 
 them as they bore the test he submitted them to. His 
 pure spirit seemed privileged to commune with the 
 skies. He believed in a Creator, and his providence, 
 and was rewarded above other men for the sincerity of 
 his devotion, in the plenitude of the revelation vouch- 
 safed him. Such men give to the thinking world new 
 matter for thought, study, and experiment ; they are 
 superior spirits on errands of knowledge for the ser- 
 vice of mankind.
 
 73 
 
 * "Who can number up his labors ? Who 
 
 His hiffh discoveries sing ? when but a few 
 
 Of the del ; -studying race can sir; tch their minds 
 
 what he knew : * * * 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 What wonder thence that his devotion SWelFd 
 Responsivi to Ins knowledge ! For could he. 
 Whose piercing mental eye diffusive saw 
 
 The finisird university of things, 
 In all its order, magnitude, and parts, 
 Forbear incessant to adore that Power 
 Who nils, sustains, and actuates the whole ?" 
 
 Pope was eighteen years younger than Addison. He 
 was born in 1688, and as he was an author almost 
 from his cradle, he must have been early acquainted 
 with the works of his illustrious predecessor, Addison. 
 His education was miscellaneous and extensive, but not 
 minute, nor very accurate. He "never rose by benefice 
 or trade/' but was solely a poet from the beginning 
 of his life to the end. Dryden was his model. The. 
 youthful poet read the works of his prototype with 
 ii enthusiasm ; and it is said that he had the satis- 
 ion of seeing Dryden at the coffee-house, in his 
 old age, but probably from the disparity of their years, 
 no intercourse was ever had between them. Pope be- 
 gaa to wnie with great taste very early in life. His 
 !. on Criticism, written when <»nly twenty-one 
 
 B mosl wonderful performance. The 
 M -rut appeared in the Spectator in 1712, when he 
 ty twenty-four. Previous to tins he had pub- 
 lished that inimitable moek heroic poem, " The Hope 
 
 /,/'/ / It is playful, satirical, and elegant His
 
 76 
 
 'Eloisa has more feeling in it than all he ever wrote 
 before. 
 
 In 1720, he published the Iliad. Warton has been 
 attacked for calling this the " highest effort of the poet," 
 but I am at a loss to discover on what grounds he has 
 been assailed for this opinion ; for perhaps there have 
 been some who wrote original compositions, if not like, 
 yet with as much mind as Pope, but no one, except Sir 
 William Jones, has ever made such admirable transla- 
 tions. Critics say that it is not literally Homer ; but 
 there is scarcely a fine passage in that great work of 
 elegance and beauty that has not given you the sense 
 of Homer in most beautiful English. This will be read 
 as long as Homer is known. 
 
 Shortly after these numerous publications, he grew 
 proud and restive under the criticisms that either the 
 ignorant or envious had made upon his works. He 
 then rose in his wrath to form a Dunciad, to put all 
 these knaves and fools in at once. This was a fearful 
 labor, and broke at once a hornet's nest about his ears. 
 If all his satire had been just, and in accordance with 
 public feeling, it would have been dangerous enough in 
 all conscience ; but Pope, taking every one to be knave 
 or dunce who did not believe in his Apollo-ship, unfor- 
 tAinately got into his work names of distinction, such 
 as Bently and others ; and he sometimes, with a child- 
 ish inconstancy, changed his censures. Theobald was 
 the first hero of the Dunciad, and Cibber was the last, 
 the former having been dethroned to make way for the 
 latter. There was no sympathy for the gnats and flies 
 the satirist killed or wounded; but they would rail on, 
 and what was worse, lie most lustily. He must have 
 strong nerves and a reckless valor who makes up his
 
 77 
 
 mind 10 say what he pleases of every knave and dunce 
 he finds in the world; and he must be still more forti- 
 fied, who gives these epithets to men of character and 
 spirit. A satirist is generally a man who has suffered 
 and seeks n renge, or one rankling from defect, real or 
 imaginary, of mind or person. It does not require 
 half the talents that i> generally supposed, to make a 
 good satire. Virtues are not so prominent as vice, nor 
 beauties bo n a. lily a en as defects. The satirist seizes 
 
 on these vires or defects, and makes them ridiculous or 
 le, as he wishes. How many fine looking kings 
 have died, for the beauty of whose persons we have 
 never stopped to inquire, while all the deformities of 
 Richard III. are noted and remembered. But what- 
 ever may have been the defects of temper in Pope, or 
 however unjust he may have been in particular in- 
 stances, in assailing great and good men, who had per- 
 haps accidentally offended him, still his works will hold 
 their plan- t r 1 KnglLsh literature. There is ease, suc- 
 cinctness, — ' •o toe ag. anrl fpliritv of expression, in all 
 
 in:- »»u»K^. Tl.«, c.~> in ■nfir«Blil1 J'CU, IllUIt, giamica 
 
 by his verse. When we are not convinced that he is 
 exactly right in sentiment, we cannot but admire the 
 power and beauty he evinces in putting forth his 
 thoughts. With his little quarrels we have nothing to 
 do at this time, and there is nothing to make us wish to 
 keep them alive. The defects of those departed should 
 be remembered no further than they can do some 
 good to the living, or to those who are to eome after 
 'I'!,. world i- indebted to Pope for a great mass 
 
 of English literature, such as furnishes the mind with 
 subjects of thought,- and at the same time leaves mi the 
 tablets <>f the memory, u,s the Arabians did on the walls
 
 78 
 
 of their temples, stanzas of truth and taste, written in 
 bright and lasting letters. 
 
 Young was seven years senior to Pope, but he did 
 not begin to publish till some years after Pope's wri- 
 tings were generally known. He was bred to the civil 
 law, but never practised his profession, and finding 
 himself supported in his love of letters by the patrons 
 of that day, he gave up that profession, and when near 
 fifty years of age took orders in the church. His Last 
 Day, which is a splendid poem, was written before he 
 changed his profession. His satires followed. They 
 are elegant and spirited compositions. In his Univer- 
 sal Passion, he laughs most heartily at vice and folly ; 
 but after several years, when domestic calamities sunk 
 deeply into his heart, he changed his mode of address- 
 ing mankind. It often happens in hfe that we find 
 those who are the most buoyant, joyous, and laughter- 
 loving at times, at other moments are the most distress- 
 ed and wretched. The Night Thoughts were published 
 
 in 1742, and SOOn bpcame popiJar. Thoy «ic congonial 
 
 to the mind "in misfbriune, and they breathe such a 
 strain of piety and hope, that they seem to ease the 
 heart of its sorrows, by probing it most thoroughly. 
 This work abounds in passages of most exquisite po- 
 etry ; as a whole, it is a fine argument in favor of a fu- 
 ture state of existence, drawn from philosophy, from 
 nature, and revelation. The perusal of this book has 
 inclined more people to serious thoughts than any other 
 human production I know of. The mother, bereaved of 
 her husband or children, turns to the Night Thoughts, 
 as well as her Bible, for consolation ; and the bereaved 
 philosopher is sometimes found examining its pages. 
 If we are called to watch over the corse of some de-
 
 79 
 
 parted friend, before he takes up his abode in the tomb, 
 and is to be seen no more on earth, do we not put the 
 Night Thoughts in our pocket to assist us to chase 
 away the shadows of darkness, and to open up a vis- 
 ta to other worlds ? 
 
 Young was not forever weeping over departed kin- 
 dred, for in his old age he was found writing one of 
 the most lively works in the English language. In fact 
 he produced two of this character. M The Centaur not 
 fabulous," and " Conjectures on Original Composi- 
 tions." The latter of these works was written when 
 the author was turned of eighty years of age. If his 
 Bind at noon-day was gloomy and dark, his setting sun 
 was brilliant and lovely. 
 
 There were a cluster of wits, poets, and fine writers, 
 at the commencement of the eighteenth century. Tho- 
 mas Parnell,the author of that beautiful vindication of 
 the inscrutable ways of providence, the Hermit. He 
 truly was a sweet poet. Dr. Arbuthnot, the friend of 
 Pope and physician to Queen Anne, was a man of taste 
 and learning. He wrote upon weights and measures, 
 a very difficult subject, and also upon coins, a very 
 curious one ; besides several excellent works in his 
 profession were from his pen. 
 
 Gay was of the same age of Pope ; born the same 
 year. He wrote poetry with simplicity and elegance, , 
 and showed as much as any poet of his time a good 
 t .-•' for the beauties of his mother tongue. His fables 
 are in the hands of all our children, and are full of 
 moral instruction for all ages. 
 
 Of Swift it is difficult to speak. His genius was not 
 inferior to any of the gml nun of his time. His 
 learning was extensive. His language was pure, sim-
 
 80 
 
 pie, and tasteful, but it sometimes covered thoughts 
 that had better never have been expressed. 
 
 Bolingbroke was among the most elegant prose wri- 
 ters of that period. He wrote with a lofty spirit, and 
 would be more known than he is, if he had not left a 
 tinge of infidelity in his works. 
 
 Sir William Temple, who died in 1700, left several 
 works that should be read for correctness and ele- 
 gance. 
 
 The English language has changed but little since 
 the time of these distinguished men. They have been 
 standards for the last century. They are quoted by 
 all the compilers of dictionaries, as authority, and will 
 hold their weight and respectability forever. The ad- 
 ditions that have been made to the English language 
 have effected no change with them. There is hardly a 
 word used at the period we are now speaking of, by 
 these learned men, that has grown obsolete. 
 
 Dr. Watts is a name dear to every pious mind in this 
 country, and should not be forgotten in our hasty 
 sketches of those who have added to or purified the 
 currents of English literature. Watts was a man of 
 genius and learning. He wrote books for colleges and 
 for mature minds, and would have been distinguished 
 in any of the higher branches of science, had he con- 
 fined himself to them ; and the specimens hehas given 
 us of his powers in lyric poetry, prove that if he had 
 devoted much attention to it, he would certainly have 
 excelled ; but a sense of duly led him to write for the 
 improvement of his flock, of all ages, rather than for 
 fame. He sung the lullaby for infancy, and poured 
 wholesome truths into the humble minds of those 
 "proud science never taught to stray P In prose and
 
 81 
 
 verse, he labored to enlighten the ignorant and warm 
 the cold. His psalms and hymns, if not of the first 
 grade of poetry, are full of the oil of sanctity. Such 
 men, if they do not burn with a fierce and dazzling 
 flame to astound their contemporaries, or to excite the 
 admiration of after ages, yet they shed a mild and last- 
 ing light of hope and life on those about them, and on 
 those who follow them. They 
 
 "Allure to brighter worlds and lead the way." 
 
 THE INDIAN PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 "Why should our joys transform to pain'? 
 "Why gentle Hymen's silken chain 
 
 A plague of iron prove? 
 Bendysh, 'tis strange the charm that binds 
 Millions of hands, should leave their minds 
 
 At such a loose from love. 
 
 In vain I sought the wond'rous cause, 
 Rang'd the wide fields of nature's laws, 
 
 And urg'd the schools in vain ; 
 Then deep in thought, within my breast 
 My bouI retir'd, and slumber dress'd 
 
 A bright instructive scene. 
 
 i ) r the broad laud-, and cross the tide, 
 
 I >   fancy's airy horse I n 
 
 rapture of my mind !) 
 
 Till on the hanl of G • s' flood, 
 
 In a tall ancient I od, 
 
 i 
 
 a
 
 82 
 
 Hard by, a venerable priest, 
 
 Risen with his god, the sun, from rest, 
 
 Awoke his morning song ; 
 Thrice he conjur'dthe murmuring stream; 
 The birth of souls was all his theme ; 
 
 And half-divine his tongue. 
 
 " He" sang th' eternal rolling flame, 
 " The vital mass, that, still the same, 
 
 " Does all our minds compose : 
 " But shaped in twice ten thousand frames : 
 " Thence differing souls of differing names, 
 
 "And jarring tempers, rose. 
 
 " The mighty power that form'd the mind 
 " One mould for every two design'd, 
 
 " And bless'd the new-born pair : 
 " This be a match for this (he said) 
 " Then down he sent the souls he made, 
 
 " To seek them bodies here : 
 
 u But parting from their warm abode 
 " They lost their fellows on the road, 
 
 " And never join'd their hands. 
 " Ah cruel chance, and crossing fates ! 
 " Our eastern souls have dropp'd their mates 
 
 " On Europe's barb'rous lands. 
 
 " Happy the youth that finds his bride 
 " Whose birth is to his own ally'd, 
 
 " The sweetest joy of life : 
 " But oh the crowds of wretched souls 
 " Fetter'd to minds of different moulds, 
 
 " And chain'd t' eternal strife !"
 
 83 
 
 Thus san? the wondrous Indian bard ; 
 My nul with vast attention heard, 
 While tiitiiiis feeas'd to flow: 
 
 • Sure then (I cried) might I but see 
 "Thai gentle nymph that twinn'd with me, 
 
 " I may be happy too. 
 
 • ■- ime courteous angel till me where, 
 B What distant lands this unknown fair, 
 
 ■• Or distant seat detain i 
 
 " Swift as the wheel of nature rolls 
 u I'd fly, in in. 1 1, and mingle souls, 
 '• And wear the joyful ehain." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Tur. tone of English literature at this period can be 
 i Tin small degree '<> a few fashionable writi rs, 
 ong whom Lord Lyttelton Earl of ( 
 
 terfii Id shone conspicuous, Through their influence 
 pursuits beeame curreni in th< 
 
 I. :;ehon w liolar of most exqu 
 
 tasto | polished, bul I 
 
 ii d ill' in< d. m 
 
 timental than deep and philosophical, still tl 
 
 he w rot-. In par- 
 
 in early life he wandert d 
 into the ma: nfidelity, but was not suffered to be 
 
 i   
 /ind i tin light. His Ires
 
 84 
 
 on the conversion of St. Paul has done much good in 
 England. It is written in a plain but elegant manner, 
 and served to check the progress of unbelief in the 
 upper circles, and kept those from sneering at religion 
 who had not courage enough to examine the subject. 
 Lord Lyttelton wrote other works of great merit, and 
 such as served as models of composition for the young 
 aspirants for literary fame. His dialogues of the dead 
 are full of wisdom and taste. They have been imitated 
 a thousand times. His Persian Tales have much of 
 oriental sweetness and imagination in them, and gave 
 the reading community in England and this country 
 a taste for those lovely creations of the imagination ; — 
 the Arabian, Persian, and other Eastern tales, now so 
 much read in all civilized countries. 
 
 The poetry of Lyttelton is smooth, plaintive, polish- 
 ed, and sweet. His monody on his wife is universally 
 admired. There is no rage in his grief. His Muse 
 wept as a mortal, but a consciousness that she was a 
 celestial being shone through her tears, and threw 
 around her an air of pious dignity. 
 
 Chesterfield was fifteen years older than Lyttelton, 
 but his literary labors did not commence so soon ; poli- 
 tics absorbed his youth, what of it that was not spent in 
 the whirl of fashionable life. He was one of those rare 
 men who raise and direct the spell of fashionablelife, 
 which is soon broken and passes away like " the base- 
 less fabric of a vision." It was in his reign and em- 
 pire that letters were made fashionable. He wrote 
 with uncommon grace and ease, and every line from 
 his pen punished or annihilated a blockhead, as he 
 chose. He was no less a man of talents than a man of 
 the world. He saw every thing passing with the ken
 
 83 
 
 Of a philosopher, and Ins creed w o ; he 
 
 enjoyed whatever came in hifi wa\ without whining at 
 the inevitable evils of life. If Borne of his principles 
 were lax, as indeed they \\ ire. bis j recepta \\ civ ah* aj s 
 safe as it regarded manners. He saw through men at 
 a glance and judged them correctly. He assisted much 
 t.i enlighten ami polish his countrymen by his letters to 
 Ins sun. but these letters were I at a small part of his 
 literary works. He published several numbers in a 
 periodical work called the World, Which are admirable, 
 both in respect to style and argument. He lived to old 
 age, and, like the preacher of Israel, saw that all was 
 vanity under the sun. The whole drama of human 
 existence was opened up to his mighty mind, and he 
 plunged deep into all the pleasures that dazzled bis ima- 
 gination, and at length bore testimony that all the illu- 
 mination was a false glare ; for he had been behind the 
 Oes and discovered all the little dirty candles that 
 lighted up the stage. The experience of such a man 
 is worth attending to, as full of lessons of instruction. 
 As a writer, his style should be regarded, as having in 
 it much to admire and imitate. 
 
 To' Thomson we are indebted for much pure de- 
 light and instruction. He was as amiable* as it is pos- 
 sible for man to be in this world Of evil. He sung the 
   as man has viewed them and enjoyed them 
 
 r Since they began to roll; Vet the reader won 
 
 that he bad not felt them and enjoyed them precisely 
 
 ,re. lie did not live long enough to give the 
 
 world the mellow fruits of the autumn of life; I 
 
 have were summer productions, grown under ge- 
 
 f beautiful colours, and of exci llent flavor. 
 
 ( of Indol i - superior to Ariosto'i Grave
 
 86 
 
 of Sleep ; its images are more natural, and the partial 
 activity is better than the reign of silence. His Tem- 
 ple of Liberty is full of all that is elevated in sentiment 
 and praise-worthy in history. The bright examples 
 cluster upon one another, and the songs of freedom are 
 grouped with true poetical power. 
 
 " Had unambitious mortals minded nought, 
 But in loose joy their time to wear away ; 
 Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought, 
 Pleas'd on her pillow their dull heads to lay ; 
 Rude nature's state had been our state to-day : 
 No cities e'er their towery fronts had rais'd, 
 No arts had made us opulent and gay ; 
 With brother-brutes the human race had graz'd ; 
 None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honor'd been, none 
 prais'd. 
 
 u Great Homer's song had never fir'd the breast ' 
 To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds ; 
 Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest, 
 Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds ; 
 The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
 And monkish legends been their only strains ; 
 Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in weeds, swains, 
 Our Shakspeare stroll'd and laugh'd with Warwick 
 Nor had my master Spenser charm'd his Mulla's plains. 
 
 " Dumb too had been the sage historic Muse, 
 And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame ; 
 Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse 
 Through the dark depth of time their vivid flame, 
 Had all been lost with such as have no name.
 
 87 
 
 Who then had scorn'd his ease for others' good ? 
 Who then had toil'd rapacious men to tame? 
 "Who in the public breach devoted stood, 
 And for his c<>untr\ 's cause been prodigal of blood? 
 
 " But should your hearts to fame unfeeling be, 
 If right 1 read, you pleasure all require : 
 Then hear how best may be obtained this fee, 
 How best enjoy'd this nature's wide desire. 
 Toil, and be glad ! let industry inspire 
 Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyant breath ! 
 Who does not act is dead ; absorp'd entire 
 In miry sloth, no .pride, no joy he hath : 
 O leaden-hearted men, to be in love with death! 
 
 "All ! what avail the largest gifts of heaven 
 When drooping health and spirits go amiss? 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given? 
 Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
 And exercise of health. In proof of this, 
 Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away, 
 Soon swallow'd in disease's sad abyss ; 
 While he whom toil has brae'd, or manly play, 
 ] ! ilighl as air each limb, each thought as clear as day." 
 
 Laurence Sterne was an author once much read in 
 this co untry, as well as in England, and is still relished 
 by many for his wit and sentiment; but it will not be 
 Contended that his morals were of a high tone, or that 
 he ever awakened any true piety in the enamoured 
 
 ler, who generally arose from the banquet that 
 
 8 nr- had spread before him without any conscious- 
 - of a mmd strengthened or a heart improved.
 
 88 
 
 Modern writers say that some of his best things were 
 pilfered from " Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy," 
 and strive to lessen his talents, because they disap- 
 prove of the moral tendency of his writings. That he 
 had read the eccentric works of Burton there can be 
 no doubt, but the fastidious see resemblance where none 
 exist, and take imitations for plagiarism. 
 
 Among the most able, and yet, perhaps, the least 
 read of all the poets of that age, was Akenside. His 
 odes were not highly esteemed by Johnson, but more 
 modern writers have reversed his decision, and placed 
 them high among the best productions of the Muse. 
 Lloyd in his address to Genius, hails him as master of 
 the ode ; 
 
 " And thou bless'd bard ! around whose sacred brow 
 Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung, 
 Arise, and snatch the majesty of song 
 From dullness' servile tribe, and arts unhallowed 
 throng." 
 
 To the Pleasures of the Imagination, the great mo- 
 ralist was more gracious. He thought this work a 
 proof of a vigorous mind, particularly when he consi- 
 dered that its author was only twenty-three years of 
 age when it was written. Akenside's studies as a phy- 
 sician and a philosopher, led him into the fields of me- 
 taphysics, and his imagination threw a charm over all 
 that sprung up there. He discussed the powers of the 
 mind in verse as satisfactorily as Reed, Stewart, and 
 Brown have since done in professed treatises upon the 
 subject. In truth, these metaphysicians have drawn 
 many beautiful illustrations from the Pleasures of the 
 Imagination.
 
 89 
 
 * I lookM, and lo ! the former scene was ehang'd ; 
 
 For verdant alleys and surrounding trees, 
 
 A solitary prospect wide and wild, 
 
 Rush'd on my senses. 'Twas an liorrid pile 
 
 Of hills and many a shaggy forest mix'd, 
 
 With many a sahle cliff and glittering stream. 
 
 Aloft recumbent o'er the hanging ridge, 
 
 The brown woods wav'd ; while ever trickling springs 
 
 Wasn't) from the naked roots of oak and pine 
 
 The crumbling soil; and still at every fall 
 
 Down the steep windings of the channeled rock, 
 
 Remurmuring rush'd the congregated floods 
 
 With hoarser inundation; till at last 
 
 They rcach'd a grassy plain, which from the skirts 
 
 Of that high desert spread her verdant lap, 
 
 And drank the gushing moisture, where confin'd 
 
 In one smooth current, o'er the lilied vale 
 
 Clearer than glass it flow'd. Autumnal spoils 
 
 Luxuriant spreading to the rays of morn, 
 
 Blush'd o'er the cliffs, whose half-encircling mound 
 
 As in a sylvan theatre enclos'd 
 
 That flowery level. On the river's brink 
 
 I spy'd a fair pavilion, which diffus'd 
 
 Its floating umbrage 'mid the silver shade 
 
 Of osiers. Now the western sun reveal'd 
 
 Bet we en two parting cliffs his golden orb, 
 
 And pour'd across the shadow of the hills, 
 
 On rucks and floods, a yellow stream of light 
 
 That eheer'd the solemn scene. My listening powers 
 
 Were aw'd, and every thought in silence hung, 
 
 And wondering expectation. Then the voice 
 
 Of thai eeleetial power, the mystic show 
 
 Declaring, thus my deep attention eall'd."
 
 90 
 
 Shenstone was a poet, if not of the highest gifts, 
 that will long be read by the lovers of simplicity and 
 nature. There is a vein of sentiment running through 
 his verse that is most attractive to all readers. His bio- 
 graphers say that he was long and painfully under the 
 influences of a hopeless passion. If the muses are 
 propitious to the lover, it is seldom that their highest 
 revelations are vouchsafed to those they are fond to 
 inspire. Those with bleeding hearts are permitted to 
 cull every flower of the garden, but not often invited to 
 drink of the deep waters of the spring. His complaints 
 were others than those of ill-requited love ! for he la- 
 vished his means of living on the grounds he kept for 
 pleasure, and in improving them, to show his taste, 
 laid the foundation of the disease of which he perished. 
 His seat was near the domains of a brother poet, Lord 
 Lyttelton. The ancient oaks of Hagley over-shadow- 
 ed the shrubbery and flowers of the Leasowes, and 
 envy sprung up in the breast of Shenstone ; and the 
 charming windings in his delightful retreat, with its 
 sweet wilderness of honey-suckles and roses did not 
 hide him from his sharp-eyed creditor. 
 
 Envy and duns would sear the leaves of Eden, em- 
 bitter the waters of the Euphrates, and wither, root 
 and branch, the tree of life, wherever it may grow 
 
 JEMMY DAWSON. A BALLAD. 
 Written about the time of his execution, in 1745. 
 
 Come listen to my mournful tale, 
 
 Ye tender hearts and lovers dear ; 
 Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh 
 
 Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
 
 91 
 
 And then, dear Kitty, peerless maid, 
 
 Do thou a pensive ear incline; 
 For thou canst \\< ep at every woe, 
 
 And pity every plaint— but mine. 
 
 Young Dawson radiant boy, 
 
 \ ghter never trod the plain ; 
 And well he lov'd one charming maid, 
 And dearly was he lov'd again. 
 
 One tender maid, she lov'd him dear, 
 Of gentler Mood the damsel ram 1 ; 
 
 And faultless was her beauteous form, 
 And spotless was her virgin fame. 
 
 But curse on party's hateful strife, 
 
 That led the favour'd youth astray; 
 The day the rebel elans appear'd, 
 
 (J had lie never seen that day ! 
 
 Their colours and their sash he wore, 
 Am! m the fatal dress was found ; 
 
 And now lie must thai death endure, 
 Which givesthe brave the keenest wound. 
 
 How pale was then his true-love's cheek, 
 
 When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! 
 For i.i >•' i' j i ' did Alpine snows 
 iill appear. 
 
 With faultering voice, Bhe weeping said, 
 Oh Dawson, monarch of m\ heart; 
 
 Think not thy death shall end our loves, 
 For thou and 1 will nev< r part,
 
 92 
 
 Yet might sweet mercy find a place, 
 And bring relief to Jemmy's woes j 
 
 George, without a pray'r for thee, 
 My orisons should never close. 
 
 The gracious prince that gave him life, 
 Would crown a never-dying flame ; 
 
 And every tender babe I bore 
 Should learn to lisp the giver's name. 
 
 But though he should be dragg'd in scorn 
 
 To yonder ignominious tree ; 
 He shall not Want one constant friend 
 
 To share the cruel fates' decree. 
 
 O then her mourning-coach was call'd, 
 The sledge mov'd slowly on before ; 
 
 Though borne in a triumphal car, 
 She had not lov'd her favourite more. 
 
 She follow'd him, prepar'd to view 
 
 The terrible behests of law ; 
 And the last scene of Jemmy's woes, 
 
 With calm and stedfast eye she saw. 
 
 Distorted was that blooming face, 
 Which she had fondly lov'd so long; 
 
 And stifled was that tuneful breath, 
 Which in her praise had sweetly sung: 
 
 And sever'd was that beauteous neck, 
 Round which her arms had fondly clos'd;
 
 03 
 
 And mangled was that beauteous breast, 
 Ou which her love-sick head rcpos'd: 
 
 And ravish".! was that constant heart, 
 
 She did to every heart prefer; 
 For though it could its king forget, 
 
 Twas true and loyal still to her. 
 
 Am lid those unrelenting flames, 
 
 bore this constant heart to see; 
 But when twas nioulder'd into dust, 
 Yd. yet, she cry'd, I follow thee. 
 
 My death, my death alone can show 
 The pure and lasting love I bore; 
 \rcept, O Heav'n ! of woes like ours, 
 And let us. let us weep no more. 
 
 The dismal scene was o'er and past, 
 The lover's mournful hearse retir'd; 
 
 The maid drew back her languid head, 
 And, sighing forth his name, expir'd. 
 
 Though jui • prevail, 
 
 The tear my Kittj is due: 
 
 all she heat a tale 
 So - id, so U nder, yet so true. 
 
 The same year with Akenside, 1721, was the birth 
 of Collins— the unfortunate Collins. His life was short 
 lie pass* '1 fn. in the frenzy of a poet to the fury of a 
 maniac, and died before lie reached his fortieth year. 
 li- •   on the Famous will be preserved as long as the 
 
 9
 
 94 
 
 language in which it was written shall exist. It is a 
 fine specimen of taste, and verse, and philosophy, and 
 is, perhaps, the first ode in the whole range of English 
 poetry. It is read in the closet and spoken on the 
 stage ; it will never grow dull by repetition, or lose its 
 beauties by comparison. To excel where Dryden, 
 Pope, Akenside, Gray, and many others have been 
 eminently successful, is no small thing, — no common 
 fame. Who envies the bard his muse, when she 
 brings so many sorrows in her train. 
 
 TO FEAR. 
 
 Thou, to whom the world unknown, 
 With all its shadowy shapes, is shown ; 
 Who see'st, appall'd, th' unreal scene, 
 While Fancy lifts the veil between: 
 
 Ah Fear ! ah frantic Fear ! 
 
 I see, I see thee near. 
 I know thy hurried step 5 thy haggard eye ! 
 Like thee I start; like thee disorder'd fly. 
 For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! 
 Danger, whose limbs of giant mould 
 What mortal eye can fix'd behold ? 
 Who stalks his round, an hideous form, 
 Howling amidst the midnight storm ; 
 Or throws him on the ridgy steep 
 Of some loose hanging rock to sleep: 
 And with him thousand phanloms join'd, 
 Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind : 
 And those, the fiends, who, near allied, 
 O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside j 
 Whilst Vengeance, in the lurid air, 
 Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare :
 
 95 
 
 On whom that ravening brood of Fate. 
 Who lap the blood <rf Sorrow, wait: 
 
 "Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, 
 And look not madly wild, like thee? 
 
 Thou who such weary lengths hast past, 
 Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last! 
 Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, 
 Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? 
 
 Or. in some hollow'd seat 
 
 '(.ainst which the big waves beat, 
 Hi urdrowning stamen's cries, in tempests brought ? 
 Dark power, with shuddering, meek submitted 
 
 thought, 
 Be mine, to read the visions old 
 Which thy awakening bards have told: 
 A.nd, lest thou meet my blasted view, 
 Hold each strange tale devoutly true: 
 Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd, 
 Inthatthrice-hallow'd eve, abroad, 
 When "hosts, as cottage-maids believe, 
 Their pebbled beds permitted leave; 
 And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen, 
 Or mine, or flood, the walks of men ! 
 
 O thou, whose spirit most possest 
 The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast ! 
 I5y all that from thy prophet broke, 
 In thy <li\ ine i motions spoke ; 
 Hither again4hy fury deal, 
 Teach me but once like him to fa 1 : 
 His cypres wreath ray meed decree, 
 And I. (> Tear, will dwell with thee!
 
 96 
 
 The fame of Gray was established by his " Pro- 
 gress of Poesy," and other odes, but it was increased 
 and extended by his " Elegy in a Country Church- 
 Yard." This poem has been a favorite with all classes 
 of readers, — with the learned, and the unlearned. The 
 objects described are touched with a master's hand; 
 they are such as are familiar to every dhe who has re- 
 flected at all on such subjects. The reader finds a faint 
 image in his own mind of all Gray put into his elegy, 
 and perceiving all these slight outlines brought out and 
 coloured up by the delicate hand of such a muse as 
 Gray's, he gazes on every part of the wonderful pro- 
 duction with great pleasure. From the connected 
 harmony and keeping there is in this production, 
 one would readily suppose that it was struck off at a 
 few happy musings, or fits of inspiration, but it was 
 not so written, — it was seven years under the poet's 
 hands ; from the introductory to the closing line. He 
 who writes for perpetuity must not write in haste. 
 
 " The gods sell every thing to industry." 
 
 TO ADVERSITY. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 
 Thou tamer of the human breast, 
 Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 
 
 The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain, 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain, 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
 
 97 
 
 When first thy sire to send on earth 
 
 Virtue, his darling child, design'd, 
 To thee he gave the !u avenly birth, 
 
 And bade to form her infant mind. 
 Stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore: 
 What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,' 
 And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' wo. 
 
 Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly 
 
 Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
 Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Light they disperse; and with them go 
 The summer friend, the flattering foe: 
 Dy vain Prosperity receiv'd, 
 To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. 
 
 Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, 
 Immers'd in rapturous thought profound, 
 
 And Melancholy, silent maid, 
 With leaden eye, that loves the ground, 
 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend: 
 
 Warm Charity, the general friend, 
 
 With Justice, to here* If severe, 
 And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. 
 
 Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, 
 
 Dread goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand! 
 
 in thy Gorgon tenon clad, 
 
 Not circled with 1 1 1 « - vengeful band 
 
 \- by the impious thou arl seen) 
 
 With thundering roice,and threatening miei, 
 g
 
 98 
 
 With screaming Horror's funeral cry. 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 
 
 Thy form benign, oh goddess ! wear, 
 
 Thy milder influence impart, 
 Thy philosophic train be there 
 
 To soften, not to wound my heart. m 
 The generous spark extinct revive, 
 Teach me to love, and to forgive, 
 Exact my own defects to scan, 
 "What others are to feel, and know myself a man. 
 
 This period of the Church of England, which had 
 struggled with many difficulties for a century, and 
 longer, had now "become chastened, and moderate, and 
 abounded in ornaments of learning and virtue; and 
 she was united with the professed literati in the diffu- 
 sion of letters and science. 
 
 The bar now assumed a new character, and black- 
 letter lawyers had some; respect for refinement and 
 polite literature. 
 
 The house of commons had been changing its cha- 
 racter ever since the revolution of 1688. The com- 
 pact made with William of Orange, was one that 
 enlarged the powers of parliament, particularly the 
 house of commons, and gave it a character and dig- 
 nity that was unknown to it before. The house of 
 commons now became the best field for the growth 
 of intellectual powers, and also for the display of them. 
 The views of the'commonsexpaTiled with their rights 
 and duties. The capacity for public speaking became 
 a passport to political distinction, and opened an ave- 
 nue to the ambitious for place and power. The mas-
 
 99 
 
 ter spirits of that age flocked to the bar, and tne house 
 of commons, not without a few complaints and re- 
 grets of those left in the charming wanderings of 
 general literature. It was natural for those who had 
 no wish t« become statesmen, to think, that all who 
 went to the courts of law, or into parliament, were lost 
 to letters. Pope, speaking of this desertion of some of 
 the gifted members of his literary circle, who had left 
 it for Westminster Hall, says: 
 
 "There truant Windham every muse gave o'er, 
 There Talbot sunk, and was a wit no more: 
 How sweet an Ovid, Murray was our boast, 
 How many Martials were in Pultney lost !" 
 
 Other mighty names were found at the bar, or the 
 bench, and in parliament The peers, unwilling to be 
 outdone, became well acquainted with the forms of 
 business, and all classes of society took a new impetus. 
 Eloquence was now cultivated as power. The elder 
 Pitt is said to have begun a new era of eloquence in 
 the house of commons; but one man, though he may 
 give a name to an era, cannot make oner. There were 
 Others about him of powerful minds, and with great 
 powers <>f eloquen e. The eloquence of Pitt was the 
 mod ; 'pular that had ever been heard within the walls 
 of Parliament, [n him, there seemed to be a breaking 
 forth of the fountains of Grecian and Roman eloquence. 
 II • - wasiighted up with Iho love of freedom, and bis 
 mi morj -"red u nli ali the knowledge of antiquity. His 
 Sincerity Was equal to In- moral bravi ry. and these were 
 
 only surpassed by his patriotism. He Loved the plan/ 
 
 Of the people, and v ; .\ m the smiles of his
 
 100 
 
 king, but his country occupied his whole heart. Of the 
 great doctrines of liberty he was the advocate and 
 friend. ; and was the first statesman in England who 
 began the course of internal improvements. He saw 
 the properties of his soul, and, kindling into the majesty 
 of creative power, he set to work to develope them. 
 He struck dead, the power of France in this country, 
 and left it to others to make a peace upon his efforts. 
 
 While Pitt was giving tone to the nation by energy 
 and. sagacity, in political life, Murray (Lord Mansfield) 
 was softening, by liberal doctrines and expanded views, 
 the hard, features of the common law. He suffered 
 common sense and the civil law to be used when cus- 
 toms were contradictory and common law maxims 
 could not be reconciled. 
 
 Mansfield gave to legal opinions a new style of dress, 
 leaving the technicalities to the mere common-law law- 
 yer, and assuming the right to talk good English in 
 conveying his decisions to his countrymen. 
 
 Before these stars set, new constellations arose in 
 the hemisphere of knowledge — both in science and 
 literature ; and also in politics. Letters and politics 
 once more, not only supported each other, but were 
 trained in the same school. Johnson's circle in the 
 club-room was composed of many who guided the des- 
 tinies of nations in the house of commons. 
 
 In this circle was Goldsmith, whose muse was all 
 simplicity ; she brought to her favorite son the Hyblam 
 honey, on the oaken leaf. He required no trumpet's 
 clang or golden shower to awake him to duty ; but he 
 sought the pulsations of the heart, as they beat in 
 friendship and affection, and he made sweet music from 
 them all. His prose and verse delight at every perusal,
 
 101 
 
 as the sight of a lovely landscape. The Vicar of Wake- 
 field and the Deserted Village, have- a perpetual charter 
 of existence. Youth commits them to memory, and 
 age repeats them when his eye can no lunger drink in 
 the beauties of genius from the printed page. 
 
 "Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here, 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; 
 Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, 
 But foster'd even by Freedom ills annoy; 
 Thai independence Britons prize too high, 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie. 
 The self-dependant lordlings stand alone, 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
 Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd; 
 Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
 Represt ambition struggles round her shore, 
 Till over-wrought, the general system feels 
 Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honor, fail to sway, 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
 And talent sinks and merit weeps unknown; 
 Till time may come, when stript of all her charms, 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
 Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
 Where kind's have toil'd and poets wrote for fame, 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
 And scholars, soldiers, kinys, unhonor'd die.
 
 102 
 
 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun : 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
 I only would repress them to secure : 
 For just experience tells in every soil, 
 That those who think must govern those that toil ; 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
 Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 O then how blind to all that truth requires, 
 Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 Except when fast approaching danger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
 Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free : 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
 Pillag'd from slaves, to purchase slaves at home ; 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart : 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 J fly from petty tyrants to the throne.
 
 103 
 
 Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
 When first ambition struck at regal power; 
 Ami. thus polluting honor in its source, 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
 Her useless sons exchanged for useless ore; 
 Seen all her triumphs hut destruction haste, 
 Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste; 
 Seen Opulence her grandeur to maintain, 
 Id td stern Depopulation in her train, 
 And over fields where scattrrM hamlets rose, 
 In barren solitary pomp repose? 
 Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
 The smiling, long-frequented village fall ; 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
 The nodest matron, and the blushing maid, 
 Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, 
 To traverse climes beyond the western main : 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
 And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound ? 
 
 Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Through tangled forests, and thro' dang'rous ways' 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
 And (Vie brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim; 
 There, while above the giddy temped flies, 
 And all around distressful yells arise, 
 The pensive exile bending with his woe, 
 To Stop too fearful, ami too faint to go, 
 Casta a long look where England's glories shine, 
 And bids bis bosom sympathize with mine. 
 
 \ :n. very rain, ray weary si arch to find 
 
 That hl>- which only Centres in the mind : 
 Why have I stra\i-d from pleasure and re]"
 
 104 
 
 To seek a good, each government bestows ? 
 In every government though terrors reign, 
 Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
 How, small, of all that human hearts endure, 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
 Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,' 
 Our own felicity we make or find ; 
 With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
 Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 
 To men remote from power but rarely known, 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 
 
 In this circle was numbered Edmund Burke, who 
 was at once a scholar and a parliamentary orator of a 
 high order; but his pen was superior to his eloquence, 
 although he was not surpassed by many who ever ap- 
 peared in the house of commons, in any day of the 
 glory of that intellectual body of men. 
 
 In him the honesty of the patriot was united to 
 learning and genius. If he was sometimes full, exu- 
 berant, and headstrong, it was from the rich overflow- 
 ings of the streams of thought, that gushed with irre- 
 sistible impetuosity from the deep fountains of intellec- 
 tual knowledge. His works are voluminous, abound- 
 ing with a great variety of matter, and are as familiar 
 to us, on this side of the Atlantic, as to his own coun- 
 trymen. We use his arguments to support our opi- 
 nions, and gather up his learning to enlighten our 
 minds. The speeches of Mr. Burke are more valuable' 
 for the information they contain, for their bold, free, and 
 manly use of our mother tongue, than for models for
 
 105 
 
 our public 3] -. for but few minds could take such 
 
 ihge on all subjects as he did. His speeches wen 
 Dot the engines of the shn wd debater, who thinks of 
 nothing but getting on with the busin< ss part of the 
 subject, and looking only to the direct ends in view; 
 they were, rather, the efforts of the gigantic scholai 
 and the profound thinker, struggling to establish great 
 principles, laboring with might and main to illus- 
 trate some deep maxim of national policy/and driving, 
 at the same time, at his opponents with accumulated 
 fads and profound arguments, to convince and subdue. 
 Hut he often thought that his enemy was conquered 
 when he was only cloven down ; forgetting that grim- 
 alkin doc- not boast of so many lives as a thorough-bred 
 political partizan ; for knock him down as often as you 
 please, by force of reasoning, he rises to life before the 
 ayes and noes arc taken, and soon recovers sufficient 
 Strength to take another beating. 
 
 Fox was there also. He has left the world but few 
 mental labors, under his great speeches, and these 
 ches were so much confined to the subject under 
 useion, and have so direct a bearing on the ques- 
 tion in issue, that whatever might have been their 
 [lower at the time, they are not so attractive or useful 
 to i, ; his more excursive friend, Mr. Burke. 
 
 I se who (pro and heard .Mr. Fox in debate have a 
 livelier E In- greatness than those who have 
 
 ajy, while the warmest admirers of 
 
 Burke, were those who had read him most : and who 
 that even n ad him once, did not turn again to refresh 
 In- mind snd to take new views of his mighty ima- 
 ginin 
 
 Sir Joshua Kevnolds, who was beloved by the wise, 
 
 10
 
 106 
 
 honored by the great, and popular with all, was one of* 
 this institution. The labors of his pencil are known by 
 reputation to the world, but the productions of his pen 
 were as tasteful and elegant as his paintings ; in both 
 all was ease and finish. His lectures are a fine model 
 of composition ; a happy blending of the simplicity of 
 Goldsmith and the richness of Burke. It is said that 
 the colors of his pallet have faded away, and that his 
 loveliest tints have vanished ; but the productions of his 
 pen will last while Raphael is remembered, or Angelo 
 admired. The faithful press now preserves the images 
 and the colorings of the mind free from fire, or mildew, 
 or Vandal ravages, and robs time and oblivion of their 
 prey. 
 
 Dr. Johnson rose among these columns of different 
 size and beauty, a pyramid of learning ; they were all 
 placed in such a position as to assist in supporting some 
 system or institution, of which they made a part, and 
 a distinguished one ; he stood alone in his grandeur. 
 
 To Dr. Johnson we are more indebted for our stock 
 of English literature than to any other Englishman. 
 In biography, morals, and even in fiction, he wrote with 
 great power and elegance. If some found fault with 
 his style, as too abounding in mighty words, of diffi- 
 cult management in ordinary hands, it must be remem- 
 bered that he was stronger than other men, and some- 
 times chose to show that strength. No one can deny 
 him energy of thought and expression; and would it 
 not be idle to ask for the sleekness, ease, and grace, of 
 the mountain deer, when we are examining the natural 
 history of the elephant 7 Johnson's works will make 
 up a part of the stock literature for millions yet unborn. 
 From his dictionary we learnt our etymology and our
 
 107 
 
 definitions ; and we found there some classical words 
 which were not precisely household words, and have 
 adopted them, and list <1 them, until they are familiar 
 at our fire-sides. Other \v<irks of the kind may take 
 its place, but it will never be forgotten that he effected 
 more, single-handed and alone, than all his predecessors 
 had done. 
 
 We are advocates for modern improvement, and de- 
 light in tracing the advancements of knowledge; but 
 we desire not to see the old stone bridge demolished, 
 or the Gothic church pulled down. 
 
 While we think that the Venetian shade, the Span- 
 ish veranda, the marble mantle-piece, may well be 
 added to the good old mansion, with taste and effect, 
 we do not envy that judgment which prefers a shell 
 and a lantern-light, to those rays which mildly pass 
 through tlw antique window. 
 
 Be-.rttie's Minstrel has been much admired as a sweet, 
 delicate, and tasteful poem, abounding in beauties of 
 thought, and energy of style. The measure brings us 
 back fa » Spenser, and yet it may be added that the Minstrel 
 has nothing to fear in being put along side of the Fairy 
 Queen. It" there is not so many soft tints in the color- 
 ing of the modern bard as in the works of his prede- 
 jot, there is more pathos and pure sentiment ; and 
 it may safi ly be said that the pupil delights as much, 
 while be detains yon. which is but a short time, as his 
 -•• r. B< attie did not confine himself to verse alone, 
 but rtinguished as a prose writer. I lis 
 
 i on Trul much admired in his time, both 
 for matter and manner. The prose was full of poetry 
 and happily wrought up. The upper classes read it 
 an<< »rward in their , and re moderate
 
 108 
 
 t 
 
 minds devoured it, for the words were sweet in their 
 mouths, and had no bitterness any where. 
 
 The veteran poet, Lord Lyttleton, bscams quite en- 
 amoured with the productions of his younger friend, 
 and he spoke of them in such a manner as awed the 
 pack of critics — those creatures of the hour — to silence, 
 and the works were handed over to grave and solemn 
 judges of merit, who gave them proper praise and a 
 just elevation in the temple of fame. His productions, 
 when they are wanting in the profound, make up in the 
 ■amiable. Still he is a man of genius, and if he is not 
 always rapt in the highest spirit of inspiration, he never 
 can be denied a place among the prophets. He who 
 writes to direct the minds of the young to virtue does 
 more good than he who enlightens the sage or sustains 
 the martyr. The highest efforts of genius are not 
 always the most valuable. The luscious pine of the 
 tropic, with all the golden fruits of the clime, give less 
 strength to the arm or energy to the mind, than 
 the farinaceous root on which feed the sons of the 
 Emerald Isle, who march to victory or death with mili- 
 tary glee ; who charm with song, or conquer with elo- 
 quence. 
 
 Among those who have done much to make man- 
 kind think and write with power and effect in this age 
 ^of Chatham, Burke, and Johnson— for such men give 
 a name to the period in which they flourish— was a 
 concealed writer who styled himself Junius, and who 
 assumed the humble motto — stat nominis umbra. His 
 first letter to the public was dated 1769. It was a time 
 of great excitement in England. The glories of the 
 administration of William Pitt (then Earl of Chatham) 
 had been sunk, as it regarded the nation, into an igno-
 
 109 
 
 minions peace, unworthy the great efforts he and the 
 
 nation had made. France had been humbled by his 
 energy in every part of the globe. Victory upon \ic- 
 tory had been obtained, and conquest after conquest 
 had been achieved ; the main land and the islands had 
 changed masters, and after all these glorious deeds, a 
 miserable p< ace— the peaceof Aix4a-Chapelle in 1703 — 
 made by a feeble and disheartened ministry, brought 
 the nation bark again to the days of her degradation 
 and distress. In these hours of restlessness and agi- 
 tation, one political absurdity followed another, until 
 a civil WW with -all its horrors threatened the British 
 empire. "The throne of England's king seemed to 
 totter under hirn, and the patriot mourned over the 
 follies and wickedness of the times." Such was the 
 state of affairs when Junius commenced his labors. It 
 - soon discovered that a great spirit, quickened by 
 disappointed ambition and spurred on by honest indig- 
 nation, at moments wanned up to revenge, was scatter- 
 ing )m- arrows among the false advisers of the king, 
 with a mighty arm and proud spirit. His aim was 
 deadly and his shafts EQOSl envenomed, and even roy- 
 alty was not -.cure from his indignation. The nation 
 all alive to tln-sc productions, and curiosity was 
 inflamed by the difficulties of discovery ; but no one 
   trate the clouds in which he had enveloped 
 himself. These times have passed away, and the actors 
 in tl net are gone. He foreboded evils thai fell 
 
 upon the nation ; but even these, great asthej were, 
 an hardly remembered ; while the \\ ritings of Junius are 
 preserved ; not a worn of them is Lost and never can be 
 It i> not the names of lords and dukes, or kings. 
 
 that has kept then) from oblivion: it was. and is, the 
 
 111-
 
 110 
 
 mighty power of intellect that has, and will keep them 
 embalmed, with all their biting sarcasm and pungent 
 satire, to perpetuity. 
 
 Junius was a profound scholar, an active politician, 
 and a statesman of enlarged views. He was master of 
 the history of all ages, and skilled in the science of 
 every government. He had drawn copiously from the 
 deep springs of antiquity, and was as fearless as intel- 
 lectual. British history, from the remotest ages, was 
 as familiar to him as household icords, and he knew the 
 movements of every administration to the minutest de- 
 tails. The most cautious messenger could not enter 
 the postern door, nor ascend, with the most stealthy 
 pace, the back stairs of the palace, without his know- 
 ledge. The birds of the air brought him the sayings 
 and doings of the king and his council, nor did a clerk 
 copy a confidential paper that the contents of it were 
 not familiar to Junius. Office had no secrets of factor 
 forms that he did not thoroughly understand. Of 
 America he knew more than ministers, for the sources 
 • of his information were less clogged by prejudices than 
 theirs. 
 
 Junius was more perfectly acquainted with his mo- 
 ther tongue than his coadjutors. He had .gone deeply 
 into the Saxon language, and his writings are specimens 
 of the purest English that can be found among the am- 
 bitious scholars of his age. He was master of every 
 style of composition, and used his great power for his 
 concealment, and for the purposes he labored to effect. 
 In the midst, of excited passions he kept the most pro- 
 voking command of his temper. He laid bare the 
 nerve of feeling with so much skill and science as 
 to give it a fresh susceptibility of torture when it was
 
 Ill 
 
 to be tried anew, ami prepared for the rack. No rank of 
 life escaped Junius; he entered the fashionable coterie 
 and chased down the votary of avarice whenever his 
 conduct effected public good. Those who had no en- 
 mities io gratify read the productions of this caustic 
 writer for a choice of epithets, lor all his words writ 
 weighed in the balance and made the just equipoise of 
 the sentences he intended to frame. Every political 
 writer since his time has read his letters to sharpen his 
 wits for the rencontre m the strife of words. His imi- 
 tators have swarmed in every period since, and most of 
 them have caught Ins malignity without his mind, and 
 many have secretly copied his phraseology without a 
 shred of his mantle to assist, or cover them. Every 
 young eagle has whet his beak, upon the Jwnian column 
 before he spread his wing or darted on his prey. Ju- 
 nius has been as much known on this as on the other 
 side of the water, and his wurks have been a standard 
 among the youths of England a:id America; nor has 
 this been "f any injury to them; for they found that 
 the most distant imitation could not be effected without 
 the utmost care and pains. Labor is written on every 
 imperishable monument reared by ancient or modern 
 hands. 
 
 Conjecture has been bus] ever since these writings 
 appeared, to discover the author. Some have supposed 
 
 that tiny had brought a chain of facts and eircum 
 
 to - tii.it irresistibly went in prove tin' author, and 
 thousands became converts to bis reasoning, but the 
 writer had scarcely laiddown his pen when some other 
 
 uirer arose who. was equallj sful in convin 
 
 cing the public that some other man of distinction was 
 the author. Uut no matter v. ho was the writer of these
 
 1 112 
 
 celebrated letters ; the author discovered or not will not 
 change our opinion of them now, as their political cha- 
 racter has long since been lost — the literary alone re- 
 mains. The works of Junius, vituperative as they are, 
 may be read with profit by any One who examines their 
 structure and power, rather than the unforgiving tem- 
 per which abounds in them. 
 
 Churchill and Lloyd were satirists of this age. In 
 1760, Lloyd published the Actor, awork of some merit, 
 which was soon followed by the Rosciad from Churchill, 
 of still greater talent. Lloyd was mild, good humored, 
 and dealt in general sarcasm ; but Churchill became 
 personal, and his lash was felt more keenly than his 
 brother satirist. Both were improvident and profligate, 
 and lost the world because they had not virtue enough 
 to use the good things of it without abusing them ; both 
 fell martyrs to dissipation before the gray hair on the 
 head of temperance would have appeared. The writ- 
 ings of Churchill are read by the lovers of genius, al- 
 though they are too loose for the eye of youth, or for 
 female delicacy. His sentiments were bitter and his 
 sarcasms barbed. He turned his vengeance against 
 the stage. For some reason, perhaps now only conjec- 
 tured, he fell out with the players, and he laid about 
 him and scattered all the heroes of the buskin and the 
 elite -of the sock, and treated them without mercy — 
 Garrick alone excepted, and he was the idol of the pack. 
 Churchill more often used the cleaver than the sword, 
 but struck so hard, and aimed his Woav so adroitly, that 
 he was dreaded by the aspirants of histrionic fame, and 
 even the veterans of the stage cursed or courted him as 
 they felt or feared his power. These satirists had been 
 initiated by Bonncll Thornton, and Colman, who were
 
 113 
 
 ..—null of talents and 
 wn. paratively prudent when mentioned 
 
 will irchill. To these we may add John 
 
 k s. Tli n i- aol much oJ try to be found, 
 
 ami bis him to haye been so shining 
 
 a man as he paesed for in his day. lie was a successful 
 demagogue, and gulled the people oul of votes and 
 nmiey almost - Yel this dictator of the 
 
 public- mind, this propagator of liberal principles, was 
 as vindictive as insinuating, and as profligate as witty. 
 We turn from this field in which grew qo salutary 
 plants, — a field where a few splendid Bowers were seen 
 with nightshade, hemlock, and other poisonous weeds, — 
 to one of fertility and verdure, on which the fruits of 
 all ages and nations are to be found. The Wartous, 
 Thomas and Joseph, wen scholars by profession: 
 Thomas wrote for a long series of years for the benefit 
 of his nation and of mankind. The history of English 
 poetry was a labor of great magnitude. He lived to 
 finish four volumes of it. and left much to be done. 
 He wtf laureate, and brought up that character when 
 it had been lei down by the appointmentofColleyCibber. 
 Whenever the laureate was named a smile was seen on 
 the lips of the man of ta-'.e. and the fashionable world 
 laughed outright ; but the elegant odes of Warton 
 brought the name of laureate into n pi nation once more. 
 He was for tin years a professor of poetry at the uni- 
 versity of Cambridge, and in tins arduous character he 
 was popular with all. His lectures were much attend- 
 uid were considered both sound and brilliant. His 
 
 - are among the first of that class of poetry that 
 
 • lie down \o us, Thi I th< Suicide, tin; 
 
 Grave Of Arthur, are full of invention, choice of Ian-
 
 114 
 
 guage, and exquisite expression. His brother Joseph 
 was his senior in years but lived to finish some of the 
 professor's works. His genius was not inferior to his 
 brother's, but he spent more of his time in the duties of 
 a theologian, and less in the wanderings of general 
 literature, yet they deserve to go down to posterity 
 hand in hand, as benefactors of mankind, for there is 
 nothing in the writings of either that could offend the 
 most delicate taste, or injure the purest morals. 
 
 i 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 "Beneath the beech, whose branches bare, 
 Smit with the light'ning'slivid glare, 
 
 O'erhang the craggy road, 
 And whistle hollow as they wave ; 
 Within a solitary grave, 
 .A slayer of himself holds his aecurs'd abode. 
 
 Lour'd the grim morn, in murky dies 
 Damp mists involv'd the scowling skies, 
 
 And dimm'd the struggling day ; 
 As by the brook that lingering laves 
 Yon rush-grown moor with sable waves, 
 Full of the dark resolves he took his sullen way. 
 
 I mark'd his desultory pace, 
 
 His gestures strange, and varying face, 
 
 With many a mutter'd sound ; 
 And ah ! too late aghast I view'd 
 The reeking blade, the hand embrued ; 
 He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground.
 
 115 
 
 Full many a melancholy night 
 
 He watch'd the slow return of light; 
 
 And sought the powers of sleep, 
 To spread a momentary calm 
 O'er his sad couch, and in the halm 
 Of bland oblivion's dew* his burning eyes to steep. 
 
 Full oft. unknowing and unknown. 
 He wore liis endless noons alone; 
 
 Amid th' autumnal wood 
 Oft was he wont, in hasty fit, 
 Abrupt the social board to quit, 
 And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood. 
 
 Beckoning the wretch to torments new, 
 Despair for ever in his view, 
 
 \ spectre pale, appear 'd; 
 While. ;i- the shinies of eve arose, 
 And brought the day's unwelcome close, 
 More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear'd. 
 
 "I- iliis." mistaken Scorn will cry. 
 •• !- this the youth whose genius high 
 'Could build the genuine rhyme? 
 \\ bosom mild the favouring muse 
 
 II > stored with all her ample viev. 
 Parenl <>f fairest deeds, and purposes sublime." 
 
 Ah ! from the muse that bosom mild 
 Bj treacherous magic was beguil'd, 
 'l'.. strike the deathful blow : 
 
 She fill'd his soft ingenuous mind,
 
 116 
 
 With many a feeling too refin'd, 
 And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of wo. 
 
 Though dooin'd hard penury to prove, 
 And the sharp stings of hopeless love ; 
 
 To griefs congenial prone, 
 More wounds than nature gave he knew, 
 While misery's form his fancy drew 
 In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own. 
 
 Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb 
 The baleful nightshade's lurid bloom 
 
 To drop its deadly dew ; 
 Nor oh ! forbid the twisted thorn, 
 That rudely binds his turf forlorn, 
 With spring's green-swelling buds to vegetate anew. 
 
 What though no marble -piled bust 
 Adorn his desolated dust, 
 
 With speaking sculpture wrought ? 
 Pity shall woo the weeping nine, 
 To build a visionary shrine, 
 Hung with unfading flowers,from fairy regionsbrought. 
 
 What though refus'd each chanted rite ? 
 Here viewless mourners shall delight 
 
 To touch the shadowy shell : 
 And Petrarch's harp that wept the doom 
 Of Laura, lost in early bloom, 
 In many a pensive pause shall seem to ring his knell. 
 
 To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade, 
 This votive dirge sad duty paid,
 
 117 
 
 Within an ivied nook : 
 Sudden the half-sunk orb of day 
 More radiant shot its parting ray, 
 Arid thus a cherub- voice my chann'd attention took: 
 
 " Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise ; 
 Nor thus for guilt in specious lays 
 
 The wreath of glory twine : 
 In vain with hues of gorgeous glow 
 Gay fancy gives her veal to flow, 
 Unless truth's matron-hand the floating folds confine. 
 
 •• Just heaven, man's fortitude to prove, 
 Permits through life at large to rove 
 
 The tribes of hell-bom wo : 
 Yet the same power that wisely sends 
 Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends 
 Religion's golden shield to break the embattled foe. 
 
 " Her aid divine had lull'd to rest 
 
 Von foul self-murderer's throbbing breast, 
 
 I 1 1 stay'd the riaing storm : 
 Had bad*' the sun of hope appear 
 To gild his darken'd hemisphere, 
 And give tin wonted bloom to nature's blasted form. 
 
 ■• vain man ! 'tis heaven's pr e rogative 
 
 To take, what first it deign'd to give, 
 
 Thy tributary breath : 
 III awful c\])( nation plac'd, 
 
 I ut thy (loom, nor impious haste 
 To pluck from God 1 ! right hand his instruments of 
 death." Thomas H'urton. 
 
 11
 
 118 
 
 TO SUPERSTITION. 
 
 Hence to some convent's gloomy isles, 
 
 Where cheerful daylight never smiles : 
 Tyrant ! from Albion haste, to slavish Rome ; 
 
 There by dim tapers' livid light, 
 
 At the still solemn hours of night, 
 In pensive musings walk o'er many a sounding tomb. 
 
 Thy clanking chains, thy crimson steel, 
 
 Thy venom'd dart, and barbarous wheel, 
 Malignant fiend ! bear from this isle away, 
 
 Nor dare in error's fetters bind 
 
 One active, free-born British mind ; 
 That strongly strives to spring indignant from thy sway. 
 
 Thou bad'st grim Moloch's frowning priest 
 
 Snatch screaming infants from the breast, 
 Regardless of the frantic mother's woes ; 
 
 Thou led'st the ruthless sons of Spain 
 
 To wond'ring India's golden plain, 
 From deluges of blood where tenfold harvests rose. 
 
 But lo ! how swiftly art thou fled, 
 
 When reason lifts his radiant head ! 
 When his resounding, awful voice they hear, 
 
 Blind ignorance, thy doting sire, 
 
 Thy daughter, trembling fear, retire ; 
 And all thy ghastly train of terrors disappear. 
 
 So by the Magi hail'd from far, 
 When Phoebus mounts his early car,
 
 119 
 
 The shrieking ghosts, to their dark, charnels flock; 
 
 The full-gorg'd wolves retreat; ao more 
 
 The prowling lionesses roar, 
 IJut hasten with their prey to some ileep-eavern'd rock. 
 
 Hail then, ye friends ol R son, hail. 
 
 Ye foes tn Mystery's odious veil ! 
 To Truth's high temple guide in\ Meps aright, 
 
 Where Clarke and WoHaston reside, 
 
 With Locke ami Newton by their side, 
 While Plato sits above enthron'd in endless night 
 
 Joseph Wurton. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 From the best days of the literary club, to those 
 poets who now are most conspicuous in the public 
 view, there was thought to have been a great dearth 
 of English poetry. Cowper and Sir William Jones 
 ran hardly he said to have belonged to the firsl elass, 
 nor exactly to the second. Cowper had taste and ta- 
 lent-;, with highly respectable acquirements. Some 
 of his poetry Lb sweet, and all of it honest and moral. 
 
 The readers of his poetry always rise from the perusal 
 of In- graver poems with tmpaovemenl and delight. 
 
 Tie rl'mne in VLTtUOUS thoughts that lasts long, 
 
 and never entirely perishes. Cowper preaches admi- 
 rably in \er-e. We Should, perhaps, have had much 
 
 more from his pen, if tin- demon of melancholy had 
 not been suffered t" seize upon, and ehain down his 
 mind lor many a year.
 
 130 
 
 i 
 
 The delicate bosom bared to the storms of life often 
 . finds an energy growing out of every occasion to sup- 
 port and comfort it ; but imaginary evils to a sensitive 
 mind are often worse, a hundred times worse, than 
 real ones. It was so with Cowper. He had no real 
 difficulties to contend with ; he was, as it were, cradled 
 and rocked by affection all his life. 
 
 "Chains are the portion of revolted man, 
 Stripes, and a dungeon ; and his body serves 
 The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul. 
 Opprobrious residence, he finds them all. 
 Propense his heart to idols, he is held 
 In silly dotage on created things, 
 Careless of their Creator. And that low 
 And sordid gravitation of his powers 
 To a vile clod, so draws him, with such force 
 Resistless from the centre he should seek, 
 That>he at last forgets it. All his hopes 
 Tend downward ; his ambition is to sink. 
 To reach a depth profounder still, and still 
 Profounder, in the fathomless abyss 
 Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. 
 But ere he again the comfortless repose 
 He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul 
 In Heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures — 
 What does he not, from lusts oppos'd in vain, 
 And self-reproaching conscience % He foresees 
 The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, 
 Fortune, and dignity ; the loss of all 
 That can ennoble man and make frail life, 
 Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, 
 Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins
 
 121 
 
 Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes 
 
 Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death, 
 
 And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, 
 
 Like that which sends him to the dusty grave: 
 
 But unrepealable, enduring, death. 
 
 Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: 
 
 What none can prove a forgery, may be true; 
 
 What none but bad men wish exploded, must 
 
 That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud 
 
 Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst 
 
 Of laughter his compunctions are sincere; 
 
 And he abhors the jest by which he shines. 
 
 Remorse begets reform. His master-lust 
 
 Falls first before his resolute rebuke, 
 
 And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace ensues. 
 
 Hut spurious and short liv'd: the puny child 
 
 Of self-congratulating Pride, begot 
 
 On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, 
 
 And fights again ; but finds his best essay 
 
 A presage ominous, portending still 
 
 1 1~ own 'lishonor by a worse relapse. 
 
 Till nature, unavailing nature, foil'd 
 
 So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, 
 
 - ifs" at her own performance. Reason now 
 
 Takes [iart with appetite, and pleads the cause 
 
 .'• nreraely, which of late she so condemn'd: 
 
 With shallow shifts and old devices, worn 
 
 Ami tatterM in the service of debauch, 
 
 ring his shame from his offended sight. 
 •• Haifa God indeed giv'n appetites t<> man, 
 An<! stored the earth so plenteously with means 
 To _ r r • 1 1 1 1 \ the banger of ins wish ; 
 Ami doth he reprobate, and will he damn 
 
 11*
 
 122 
 
 The use of his own bounty ? making first 
 
 So frail a kind, and then enacting laws 
 
 So strict, that less than perfect must despair ? 
 
 Falsehood ! which whoso but suspects of truth, 
 
 Dishonors God, and makes a slave of man. 
 
 Do they themselves, who undertake for hire 
 
 The teacher's office, and dispense at large 
 
 Their weekly dole of edifying strains, 
 
 Attend to their own music 1 have they faith 
 
 In what, with such solemnity of tone 
 
 And gesture, they propound to our belief? 
 
 Nay — Conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice 
 
 Is but an instrument, on which the priest 
 
 May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, 
 
 The unequivocal, authentic deed, 
 
 We find sound argument, we read the heart." 
 
 Sir William Jones was confessedly the most, accom- 
 plished man of his age. He was a mathematician, 
 poet, lawyer, linguist, and in all branches was superior 
 to most men. His name will not be forgotten in Eng- 
 land, or in India. His character was as pure as his 
 talents were exalted. He was exiled to India under 
 the specious appointment of a judge-ship; for there 
 were men high in power who feared his virtues, for 
 they were all on the side of liberal principles, such 
 principles as are founded on reason, and are to be 
 maintained by argument. He was the first orientalist 
 of his age before he left England for India, but when 
 he arrived in the East he pursued his studies with 
 youthful ardor, not merely for the fame he might ac- 
 quire by his exertions in this way, but for the purpose 
 of enlightening mankind. He translated the laws of
 
 123 
 
 India in order to administer justice to the millions 
 under British control; by doing this he quieted the 
 jealousies of Hindoo lav -.and all who were m- 
 
 fluc: them. This was not all — ha examined the 
 
 V( la and made us acquainted with its contents. He 
 pushed his researches into the theology of the East, 
 and traced a thousand mysteries to their origin, and 
 they were no longer mysteries. Egyptian and Grecian 
 mythology had until his time bounded the vision of 
 all those who were anxiously looking behind the veil 
 of Isis. He did not remove it, but he showed how it 
 was made. He examined the learning of the East, 
 and proved how much philosophy and taste it possess- 
 ed. He gave oriental poetry in English measure, and 
 while he chastened the wild and extravagant fancies of 
 the original] he gave new beauties to his vernacular 
 language, by infusing into it new melody, and throw- 
 ing around a severe thought the fascinations of ro- 
 : nance. He tarried too long on the banks of the Gan- 
 ges, and wearied himself too much by tracing the 
 origin of the river gods, and following them in all the 
 strange shapes they bad, in the succession of ages 
 mid. to their original nothingness. It is cheering 
 to the heart to find such a mind as that of Sir William 
 
 Jones; after pondering long and examining thorough- 
 ly—assisting iu by In- ri searches to stop the mouth 
 of the Infidel, and bj the results of the most profound 
 
 inductions, putting many tilings that were doubtful 
 before on the firmest basis of truth. 
 
 I If died in the p rime of manhood, in his forty-se- 
 
 th year. II i frame exhausted by toomueh 
 
 mental labor. The oriental world is now opening ite 
 
 tp-aHin - to M and on BVerj U at' that is walled to US
 
 124 
 
 his image and superscription Will be written — a monu- 
 ment thatcan never crumble to the dust. His fame, 
 like the eternal aloes, will be ever green, but unlike 
 this survivor of nations, it will bloom perpetually, not 
 once in a hundred years only, which is said to be the 
 time for this plant to bring forth her flowers. 
 
 SOLIMA: 
 
 AN ARABIAN ECLOGUE. 
 
 " Ye maids of Aden ! hear a loftier tale 
 Than e'er was sung in meadow, bower, or dale. 
 — The smiles of Abelah, and Maia's eyes, 
 Where beauty plays, and love in slumber lies; 
 The fragrant hyacinths of Azza's hair, 
 That wanton with the laughing summer air ; 
 Love-tinctur'd cheeks, whence roses seek their bloom, 
 And lips, from which the zephyr steals perfume ; 
 Invite no more the wild unpolish'd lay, 
 But fly like dreams before the morning ray. 
 Then farewell love ! and farewell youthful fires ! 
 A nobler warmth my kindled breast inspires. 
 Far bolder notes the listening wood shall fill : 
 Flow smooth, ye rivulets : and, ye gales, be still. 
 
 "See yon fair groves that o'er Amana rise, 
 And with their spicy breath embalm the skies ; 
 Where every breeze sheds incense o'er the vales, 
 And every shrub the scent of musk exhales ; 
 See through yon opening glade a glittering scene, 
 Lawns ever gay, and meadows ever green ; 
 Then ask trie groves, and ask the vocal bow'rs, 
 Who deck'd their spiry tops with blooming flow'rs,
 
 125 
 
 Taught the blue streams o'er sandy vales to flow, 
 
 And the brown wild with liveliest hues to glow? 
 
 Fair Solima ! the hills and dales will sing; 
 
 Fair Solima! the distant BChoel ring,* 
 
 But not with idle shows of vain delight, 
 
 To charm the soul or to beguile the sight; 
 
 At noon on banks of pleasure to repose, 
 
 Where bloom entwin'd the lily, pink, and rose ; 
 
 Not in proud piles to heap the nightly feast, 
 
 Till morn with pearls has deek'd the glowing east; 
 
 Ah ! not for this she taught those bowers to rise, 
 
 And bade all Men spring before our eyes; 
 
 Far other thoughts her heavenly mind employ, 
 
 (Hence, empty pride ! and hence, delusive joy !) 
 
 To cheer with sweet repast the fainting guest; 
 
 To lull the weary on the couch of rest; 
 
 To warm the traveller numb'd with winter's cold ; 
 
 The young to cherish, to support the old ; 
 
 The sad to comfort, and the weak protect; 
 
 The pool to shelter, and the lost direct; — 
 
 These are her cares, and this her glorious task ; 
 
 Can Heaven a nnhtar 'five or mnrtnlfl ask ? 
 
 Come to these groves, and these life-breathing glades, 
 
 v esa orphans, and ye dcfwerless maids, 
 
 With eager haste > our mournful mansions leave, 
 
 Ye weak, that tn mble; and, ye sick, that grieve; 
 
 Hi re Bhall soft U nts, o'er flower] lav. us displayed, 
 
 At niL'ht defend you, and at noon oYrshide ; 
 
 ■. health tin awe* ts of life Bhall show< r, 
 • gllile each varied hour. 
 
 bath'd in streaming tears ? 
 
 t loihal 
 of Hoi I known description of the M«o of H
 
 126 
 
 Stoops there a sire beneath the weight of years ? 
 Weeps there a maid, in pining sadness left, 
 Of tender parents, and of hope, bereft ? 
 To Solima their sorrows they bewail : 
 To Solima they pour their plaintive tale. 
 She hears ; and, radiant as the star of day, 
 Through the thick forest gains her easy way ; 
 She asks what cares the joyless train oppress, 
 What sickness wastes them, or what wants distress ; 
 And, as they mourn, she steals a tender sigh, 
 Whilst as her soul sits melting in her eye : 
 Then wi'th a smile the healing balm bestows, 
 And sheds a tear of pity o'er their woes ; 
 Which, as it drops, some soft-eyed angel bears 
 Transform'd to pearl, and in his bosom wears. 
 
 "When, chiil'd with fear, the trembling pilgrim roves 
 Through pathless deserts and through tangled groves, 
 Where mantling darkness spreads her dragon wing, 
 And birds of death their fatal dirges sing, 
 While vapors pale a dreadful glimmering cast^ 
 And thrilling horror howls in every blast ; 
 She cheers his gloom with streams of bursting light, 
 By day a sun, a beaming moon by night ; 
 Darts through the quivering shades her heavenly ray, 
 And spreads with rising flowers his solitary way. 
 
 Ye heavens, for this in showers of sweetness shed 
 your mildest influence o'er her favor'd head ! 
 Long may her name, which distant climes shall praise, 
 Live in our notes, and blossom in our lays ! 
 And like an odorous plant, whose blushing flow'r 
 Paints every dale, and sweetens every bow'r, 
 Borne to the skies in clouds of soft perfume, 
 For everflourish, and for ever bloom !
 
 lan 
 
 These grateful songs, ye maidfl and youths, renew, 
 While freak-blown violets drink the pearly dew; 
 O'er Azib's banks while Love-lorn damsels rove, 
 And gales of fragrance breathe from Hagar'a grove." 
 So sung the youth, whose sweetly warbled strains 
 Fair Mens heard, and Saba's apiej plains, 
 Sooth'd with his lay, the ravish'd air was calm, 
 The winds waree whisper'd o'er the waving palm; 
 The camels bounded o'er the fiow'ry lawn, 
 Like the swift ostrich, or the sportful fawn; 
 Their silken bands the listening rose-buds rent, 
 And twin'd their blossoms round his vocal tent: 
 He sung, till on the bank the moonlight slept, 
 And closing flowers beneath the night-dew wept, 
 Then ceas'd, and slumber'd in the lap of rest 
 Till the shrill lark had left his low-built nest : 
 Now hastes the swain to tune his rapturous tales 
 In other meadows, and in other vales. 
 
 About the time of the French revolution, a new race 
 of poets arose in England, who gave a new turn to 
 thoughts and a novel form to expression. The old 
 school was given up by them, and they set up for 
 themselvi -. 
 
 These, by way of assumption of their own, and 
 afterwards by derision, were called the Lake poets. 
 These genii;-' - were dissatisfied with things as they 
 Wets, and were determined to adhere to no ancient 
 rules. The] considered mankind as going on in error, 
 and were engaged by bonds of sympathy to revive the 
 world, anil to change it from its imbecility and dotage, 
 to a glorious new birth. Southey — now the staid and 
 solemn Soulhey, the aristocrat, — was at their head. 
 
 * ..
 
 128 
 
 These Lake poets took their name from a haunt of 
 their's around the Cumberland lakes, but this seclusion 
 was not entirely satisfactory to themselves, and they 
 contemplated migrating to the western world and there 
 forming a literary society on the banks of the Ohio. 
 Coleridge was of this society; but these visionaries 
 found difficulties in getting recruits, and some were 
 forced, and some concluded, to stay at home. The 
 prose writers were many of them as mad as these vo- 
 taries of the muse. Godwin was as wild in his " Poli- 
 tical Justice" as any rhymer of them all, and his fol- 
 lowers were numerous. Southey found employment 
 and good bread by his engagements for his native 
 country, and thus moderated his feelings at first, and 
 then changed them, and after a few years reformed 
 them altogether. In this delirium, however, Southey 
 wrote some of his best poems. It would be in vain to 
 deny to Southey a fine genius. He says that he has 
 been reviewed more than seventy times ; and we find, 
 on looking at some of these reviews, that every thing 
 has been said of him, from the severest condemnation, 
 to the most unqualified panegyric ; and in some re- 
 spects all his reviewers were right. There are some 
 glorious breathings of liberty in his Madoc, and other 
 early productions, and much of the magic of the muse 
 in Thalaba and Joan of Arc. His prose is admirable, 
 and contains no small quantity of poetical spirit. His 
 biographer may be cited to prove my assertion. There 
 were some of the poets of that day who did not 
 suffer by the mania, and among them was Samuel 
 Rogers. He was well educated, and well disciplined. 
 After enjoying the benefit of a classical education and 
 foreign travels, he sat down to business as a banker,
 
 129 
 
 and pursued his profession with the attention and cor- 
 rectness of the sole-devoted sons of trade. Goldsmith 
 was. his model, and he labored his lines with ten times 
 liis master's care, if not always with his master's suc- 
 IVrhaps the English language does not afford a 
 more finished composition in regard to language than 
 the " Pleasures of Memory." He wrote because he 
 felt the inspiration, and polished his verse and chasten- 
 ed his language, because he was too scrupulous to give 
 his country a specimen of careless or unfinished poe- 
 try. He was born in 1762, and of course is now an 
 old man, and if his muse has lost some of her fire, his 
 heart has lost none of its warmth. It was Rogers who 
 came in to soothe the last pangs of Sheridan as he was 
 drinking the dregs of the cup of his misfortunes and 
 his follies, on his death-bed. 
 
 VERSES, 
 
 WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS. 
 
 1 1 b, 'tis the pulse of life ! my fears were vain ! 
 I wake. I breathe, and am myself again. 
 Still In tins nether world; no seraph yet! 
 V.r walks my spirit, when the sun is set, 
 With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, 
 Where 1 died last — by poison or the sword ; 
 Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, 
 Done here bo dft by dim and doubtful light. 
 —To drop all metaphor, that little bell 
 Dall'd back reality, and broke the spelt 
 
 No heroine claim* your tear- u itli tragic tone; 
 A verv woman — scarce restrains her own! 
 Can -he, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, 
 When to be grateful is the part assign'd? 12
 
 130 
 
 Ah, no ! she scorns the trappings of her art, 
 No theme hut truth, no prompter but the heart I 
 
 But, ladies, say, must I alone unmask 1 
 Is here no other actress ? let me ask. 
 Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, 
 Know every woman studies stage-effect. 
 She moulds her manners to the part she fills, 
 As instinct teaches, or as humor wills ; 
 And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, 
 Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. 
 
 First, how her little breast with triumph swells, 
 When the red coral rings its golden bells 1 
 To play in pantomime is then the rage, 
 Along the carpet's many colour'd stage ; 
 Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavor, 
 Now here, now there — in noise and mischief ever I 
 A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, 
 And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours ; 
 Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; 
 Playful at church, and serious when she dances; 
 Tramples alike on customs and on toes, 
 And whispers all she hears to all she knows ; 
 Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions ! 
 A romp ! that longest of perpetual motions ! 
 — Till tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces, 
 She sports her lovely face at public places ; 
 And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, 
 First acts her part with that great actor, man. 
 
 Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies ! 
 Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs ! 
 Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice, 
 Till fading beauty hints the late advice. 
 Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, 
 And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd I
 
 131 
 
 Then corner that good oH character, a wife, 
 With all the dear, distracting cans of life; 
 A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, 
 \ !. in return, a thousand cards receive ; 
 Rou i, play d( ep, to lead the ton aspire, 
 
 With nightly blaze sel Portland-place on (ire; 
 Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, ball, 
 A meteor, trac'd by none, tUo" seen by all ; 
 And. when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam, 
 In very spleen — rehearse the girlfl at home. 
 
 Last the grey dowager, in ancient flounces, 
 With Snuff and spectacles, tin' age denounces; 
 
 is how the sires of this degenerate isle 
 Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile, 
 The BCOUTge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, 
 Hert sweetens, as she sips, with scandal; 
 
 With modern belles eternal warfare wages, 
 Like her own birds that clamour from their cages 
 jLnd ehuffl<'« niun.t to bear her tale to nil, 
 Like some old ruin, ' ; nodding to its fall!" 
 
 Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit; 
 Not Least an actress when she least suspects it. 
 Vet nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, 
 Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; 
 Full oft. with energy thai scorns control, 
 At once liL'htfl np the features of the soul ; 
 Unlocks each thought cfcain'd down by coward art, 
 And to full day the latent passions start ! 
 
 — And the, whose first, best wish is your applause, 
 Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. 
 Horn on the stag< — thro' < irerj shining scene, 
 Obn-iire or blight, tempestuous or serene, 
 Still ha* your smile her trembling spirit fir'd !
 
 132 
 
 And can she act, with thoughts like these inspir'd % 
 Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, 
 All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things ! 
 To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows ! 
 For all that life endears— to you she owes. 
 
 Thomas Campbell has filled a great space in English 
 poetry for more than thirty years. He was born in 
 1777. He was made professor in the royal institute, 
 and gave lectures on poetry which are in print ; and if 
 they are not all we might have expected from the au- 
 thor of the Pleasures of Hope, they are learned and 
 smooth, and abound in striking passages. He has also 
 given lectures on Greek literature — a subject of deep 
 interest to the scholar. 
 
 The " Pleasures of Hope" is a splendid poem. It 
 was written for perpetuity. Its polish is exquisite, its 
 topics felicitously chosen, and its illustrations natural 
 and beautiful. This is pnptry, philosophical and plain, 
 but full of imagination. There are no startling para- 
 doxes, no abrupt endings or beginnings in this poem,— 
 it i3 as pure as day and as sweet as summer. He 
 lifts you up to an exceeding high mountain, and 
 you see all nature in her loveliness, and man in the 
 truth of his character, with hope irradiating, cheering, 
 and sustaining him in the numerous ills of life. " Ger- 
 trude of Wyoming" is preferred by some readers even 
 to his " Pleasures of Hope." It is a sad tale, told with 
 tenderness as well as genius. But if these never had 
 been written his songs would have given him claims as 
 a first rate poet. They cover sea and land. Their spi- 
 rit stirs the brave whatever may be their field of fame; 
 whether the snow is to be their winding sheet or the
 
 133 
 
 deep their grave. National songs are of the most diffi- 
 cult production and of the highest value. They are 
 the soul of national feeling and a safeguard of national 
 honor. They are readily impressed on the memory, 
 and never forgotten when acquired. They are fitted 
 to every instrument and every voice. They are on the 
 lips of infants, and are breathed from the dying pa- 
 triot's breath. 
 
 England has not been wanting in patriotic songs, 
 but that composed by Peterborough, and sung by 
 Wolfe on the eve of battle, and many others that have 
 >ted to rouse drooping spirits, are not equal to those 
 of Campbell. " Ye mariners of England" will live as 
 long as there is a timber left of the British navy. The 
 spirit of a great poet not only goes back to what has 
 passed in the affairs of man, but carries with it the 
 hopes of future times. 
 
 ( 'ainpbell not only sung the mighty but unsuccessful 
 struggle of the Poles when Kosciusko fell, but shadow- 
 ed forth that distinct and awful determination of man 
 which is inherent in his nature, and which time will 
 bring forth sooner or later to put down all oppression. 
 Every great poet is indeed a seer for his country's 
 good, and not that only but for the good of mankind. 
 
 "Oh ! righteous heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, 
 \\ h\ slept thy suord. omnipotent to save ? 
 Where was mine arm, o Vengeance, when thy rod, 
 
 That BUlOte the foes of Zion and of Ood, 
 That Crushed prond Amnion when In* iron ear 
 
 u roked in wrath ami thundered from afar? 
 Where was the storm that slumbered till the host 
 Of MfrodrttanVd Pharaoh left the trembling coast,
 
 134 
 
 Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
 And heaved an ocean on their march below 1 
 
 Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! 
 Ye who at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 
 Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man I 
 Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van, 
 Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 
 And make her arm puissant as thine own. 
 Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return 
 The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockburn ! 
 
 Yes, thy proud lord's unpitied land shall see 
 That man has yet a soul and dare be free. 
 A little while along thy saddening plains 
 The starless night of Desolation reigns, 
 Truth shall restore the light by nature given, 
 And like Prometheus bring the fire from heaven. 
 Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl'd, 
 Her name, her nature, withered from the world. 
 
 Ye that the rising morn invidious mark, 
 And hate the light — because your deeds are dark ; 
 Ye that expanding truth invidious view, 
 And think or wish the song of Hope untrue. 
 Perhaps your little hands presume to span 
 The march of genius and the pow'rs of man, 
 Perhaps ye watch at pride's unhallowed shrine 
 Her victims newly slain — and thus divine, 
 Here shall thy triumph Genius cease, and here 
 Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career. 
 
 Tyrants in vain ye trace the wizzard ring ; 
 In vain ye limit mind's unwearied spring. 
 What! can ye, lull the winged winds asleep, 
 Arrest the rolling world or chain the deep ? 
 No, the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand j
 
 135 
 
 It rolled not back when Canute gave command. 
 Man '. can thy doom DO brighter soul allow ; 
 Still must thou live a blot on nature's brow ; 
 Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd ; 
 Shall crime and tyrants cease but with the world. 
 What ! arc thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied ? 
 Why then hath Plato lived, or Sidney died ?" 
 
 Sarmatia is awake and armed to hurl oppression to 
 the dust. The soul of the patriot is hers — she dares 
 attempt to be free! Hope is still alive — her warriors 
 are firm and undismayed — the departed spirits of the 
 mighty dead are with her; not only those of Marathon 
 and Leuctra. but the shade of Kosciusko "walks una- 
 venged amoiiL'st them." May the sword be omnipotent 
 to save ! Tell, Bruce, Washington, will be there also. 
 May the starless night of desolation be followed by 
 the dawn of freedom — and the poet's song and the pro- 
 phet's voice be all truth— sound, historic truth— in this 
 straggle for liberty! 
 
 HOHEXLINDEN. 
 
 On linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay tlf untrodden snow, 
 
 And dark as winter WBB the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 15 nt Linden sa* another sight, 
 
 \\ hen the drum beat, :<t dead of night, 
 Commanding fires <»f death to light 
 The darkness of h< r scenery.
 
 136 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
 Each horseman drew his battle blade, 
 And furious every charger neigh'd, 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n, 
 Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun 
 Can pierce the War-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 i 
 
 Few, few, shall part where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Chaebe is now lan ; his life has been one of 
 
 professional du:. it virtue. He has had 
 
 no eccentricities or aberrations. His liTe exhibits no- 
 thing forth re or deplore. He is now 
 almost an octa| I the muse has inspired him, 
 per ifi . will. Ilis works are both ad- 
 mirable and no\ i I truly took a new pathway 
 fame. His portraits are mostly from humble lift — he 
 iwn their vices and their virtues. The world 
 ird enough of their vices, but few in thereading 
 circles had been taught their virtues. His profession 
 had made him acquainted with both. He could read 
 their hearts and lie has delineated their character most 
 faithfully. It a one of the fact- in the history of man, 
 thut his aflbctioKa mc.y be purified whilo hia namd ia 
 only partially enlightened. This fact was known to the 
 ler of human nature, but had in a great 
 been overlooked by the poet. Agreeable 
 images suited the poet best, or if not those at all times, 
 strikin? incidents, he thought seldom occurred in the 
 - of the humble, or if they did occur, they were 
 not likely to be noticed. Crabbe probed deep, and gave 
 an honest account of the nusi ry and anguish, and the 
 - of joy of the poor. Mis work- are yet to be 
 more known and admired than they have yet been, for 
 in time ih<- poor will real them, which is not the case 
 now. I I> v. ho M>ftei - the RngUiSB of the wretched, or 
 
 rests to them any method of ameliorating their con- 
 dition, is a bene fa< tor of mankind. Crabbe will go
 
 138 
 
 down to posterity as a moralist and a poet together, 
 
 and one too, that the church may be proud of. It may 
 
 be said that the poor had no poet until Crabbe arose. 
 
 He has given their sorrows and their joys without one 
 
 particle of coarseness. Those his Saviour cherished 
 
 he has portrayed, and like him he has taught them to 
 
 hope for another and a better world. Such a man does 
 
 more good than a thousand proud men, who can only 
 
 look on what is classical and refined. In the grave 
 
 there are no distinctions, and to that condition we must 
 
 all come at last. There is no difference "now between 
 
 the dust of Lazarus and that of the mighty Caesar and 
 
 the great Napoleon. The great enemy of man is a 
 
 leveller, and to him we must yield sooner or later. He 
 
 who encourages the faint and weary in the journey of 
 
 life is a servant of God and a friend to man, and verily 
 
 will reeeive his reward, both in the life that is, and in 
 
 that which is to eome. Crabbe has asked no honors 
 
 and reeoived no distinctions for hia acrvicco, except 
 
 such as the public awards to merit. He has, in imita- 
 tion of his divine master, washed the feet of his disci- 
 ples and prepared himself for the burial. 
 
 When the monuments of sublime genius have crum- 
 bled to dust, and are remembered no more, the labors 
 of the pious survive ; they fertilize, as it were, the soil of 
 hope, and reap and secure the harvest of faith. The 
 poor of unborn ages will acknowledge that he led them, 
 by his writings, to patience, resignation, and unwaver- 
 ing belief, which softened their hard fates and lighted 
 up in them bright and glorious visions of immortality 
 and happiness, when the miseries of existence should 
 :be over.
 
 139 
 
 PH(EBE DAWSON. 
 
 Two summers sine. . ! saw at Lammas fair, 
 Tin- bw( eti Bt flower thai evw blossom'd there, 
 When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the green, 
 In baste to .see and happy to be seen : 
 
 Her air. her manners, all who saw, admir'd; 
 
 Courteous though coy, and gentle thougft retir'dj 
 
 The joy of youth and health her (-yes display'd. 
 
 And ease of heart her every look convey'd : 
 
 A native skill her simple roues express'd, 
 
 A> with untutor'd elegance she drcss'd : 
 
 The lads around admir'd so fair a sight, 
 
 And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. 
 
 Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, 
 
 Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd ; 
 
 Envy itself could no contempt display, 
 
 They wi-lfd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. 
 
 Correct in thought, she judg'd a servant's place 
 
 1' - a rustic beauty from disgrace ; 
 
 Hut yet on Sun in freedom's hour, 
 
 With, secret joy she felt that beauty's power 
 
 V Othe proud bliss upon the heart would steal, 
 
 Thai, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. — 
 
 length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast, 
 Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd : 
 With lo. timid made his passion known, 
 
 bj manners, mosi unlike her own ; 
 I. '1 though in love, and confident though \oimg; 
 i i his air, and voluble of ton" 
 
 I: trade a tailor, though', in scorn of t r: i 
 II jerv'd the squire, and bmsh'd the coat he made:
 
 140 
 
 Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford, 
 Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board ; 
 With her should years of growing love be spent, 
 And growing wealth : — she sigh'd, and look'd consent. 
 
 Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross the green, 
 (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen — 
 Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) 
 Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid : 
 Slow through the meadows rov'd they many a mile, 
 Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile ; 
 Where, as he painted every blissful view, 
 And highly color'd what he strongly drew., 
 The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, 
 Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears. — 
 Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late, 
 The lover loiter'd at the master's gate ; 
 There he pronounced adieu ! and yet would stay, 
 Till chidden — sooth'd — intreated — forc'd away ; 
 He would of coldness, though indulg'd, complain, 
 And oft retire and oft return again ; 
 When, if his teazing vex'd her gentle mind, 
 The grief assum'd, compell'd her to be kind ! 
 For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, 
 That she resented first and then forgave, 
 And to his grief and penance yielded more, 
 Than his presumption had requir'd before. — 
 Ah ! fly temptation, youth ; refrain ! refrain, 
 Each yielding maid, and each presuming swain ! 
 
 Lo ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, 
 And torn green gown loose hanging at her back 
 One who an infant in her arms sustains,
 
 141 
 
 And seems in patience striving with her pains ; 
 
 Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, 
 
 Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled ; 
 
 Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, 
 
 And tears unnotie'd from their channels flow j 
 
 Serene her manner, till some sudden pain 
 
 Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again :— 
 
 Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, 
 
 And every step with cautious terror makes ; 
 
 For not alone that infant in her arms, 
 
 But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. 
 
 With water burthen'd, then she picks hei way, 
 
 Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay ; 
 
 Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, 
 
 And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground ; 
 
 Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, 
 
 While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes: 
 
 For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, 
 
 Add but a drop it instantly o'erflows. 
 
 And now her path but not her peace she gains, 
 
 Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; 
 
 III r In line she reaches, open heaves the door, 
 
 And placing first her infant on the floir, 
 
 bares her bosom to fhe wind, and sits 
 And soobtng struggles with the rising fits : 
 In vain— they come — she feels th' inflating grief, 
 That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; 
 Thai speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd, 
 Or the Bad laugh that cannot be repress'd. 
 Tin- neighbor-matron leaves her Wheel and flies 
 With all the aid her ; overty supplies ; 
 T'nfreii. the Calls of nature she obej 
 n   led by profit, nor aDur'd bj praise; 
 
 13
 
 142 
 
 And waiting long, till these contentions cease, 
 She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. 
 
 Friend of distress ! the mourner feels thy aid, 
 She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. 
 
 But who this child of weakness, want and care ? 
 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas fair ; 
 "Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, 
 Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies : 
 Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, 
 For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: 
 " And then his prayers ! they would a savage move, 
 And win the coldest of the sex to love." — 
 But ah ! too soon his looks success declar'd, 
 Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd ; 
 The faithful flatterer then his vows forgot, 
 A captious tyrant or a noisy sot ; 
 If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd ; 
 If absent, spending what their labors gain'd ; 
 Till that fair form in want and sickness pin'd, 
 And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. 
 
 Then fly temptation, youth ; resist, refrain ! 
 
 Nor let me preach for ever and in vain ! 
 
 Poetry is not alone to be regarded in mod^-n litera- 
 ture ; other departments of knowledge must be ex- 
 amined. Histories, which had been confined to a succes- 
 sion of battles, and to the rise and fall of empires, now 
 entered into the motives of men in power, and looked 
 to the springs of human action. Instead of being mere 
 dcscribers of events, historians brought philosophy and 
 criticism to assist in their labors, and exhibited on their 
 pages a most interesting variety of matter for lessons 
 of study and reflection.
 
 143 
 
 Hume had been the ne plus ultra of historical power, 
 but the investigations of his successors have left him in 
 the rearj and they have gone on to more accurate rela- 
 tions and Bounder reasonings upon human actions. 
 Lingard with profound research and patient inv< stiga- 
 tion has removed many of the stumbling blocks in 
 I iish history. What David Hume only slurred over, 
 Lingard has brought up with great power of discern- 
 ment and fairness. And if in all things he is not pre- 
 y correct, he is B nearer approximation to truth 
 than any of his predecessors. The best history I have 
 • ver seen of England (and her history is the most im- 
 portant to us of any other except our own, though the 
 history of the two countries be intimately connected) 
 is that of Sharon Turner, taking his " Saxon antiqui- 
 ties"' and English history together. It is only brought 
 down to the time of Elizabeth as yet, but he is si ill en- 
 Ijed in the work. There is a spirit of research, an 
 eli gance and an eloquence in it, not surpassed by any <nw 
 who lias ever attempted the great work of English his- 
 tory. Sir James Me Intosh is now engaged in a history 
 of England, and as far as he has gone it is exc< Lieut. 
 Portions of English history have been written bj able 
 hands, and are of course more minute thu i theirs u hose 
 plan wafi a general history. Godwin and Fox have 
 tried their powers upon portions of English history, 
 and their name- secured them readers. One of the 
 mo I of these is Crolj 's Gt orge the IVth. 
 
 If the grave divine in his work has broken in 
 the dignity and Btaidness of history as it was once un- 
 derstood, he lias made ample amendS in the fluency of 
 his narrative and in the richness of his ane Oti -. but 
 he has written too -non to be free from part} prejud
 
 144 
 
 There is also an agreeable blending of subjects in his 
 work that makes it one of the most interesting produc- 
 tions of modern times, although we would not be 
 thought to follow him in all his conclusions. It has, it 
 is true, a great freedom of remark, but no licentious- 
 ness of purpose. His aim was honest and his course 
 manly. George the IV th, from his pen, rises in conse- 
 quence and dignity, with all the errors of his youth on 
 his head. The thousand anecdotes of his profligacy 
 in early days are " nothing extenuated, nor aught set 
 down in malice," but told in honest truth, and his re- 
 deeming qualities are placed side by side with his faults. 
 In this work the great machinery of English society is 
 exhibited and explained with a fearlessness that does 
 honor to the head and heart of the historian. His mo- 
 narch is now his subject, and he treats him in a prince- 
 ly manner. It is the pride of the literary man that all 
 ages and all classes of men, come at his wish, and are 
 dismissed at "his bidding. And who can question his 
 authority ? 
 
 It is difficult to speak of Moore without saying too 
 little of his beauties or his faults. No man was ever 
 more felicitous than he in his peculiar style of writing. 
 He attacked the heart through the medium of the 
 senses, and if his spells were not lasting, they were all 
 powerful while they existed. His muse came not from 
 Pindus braced with mountain air, but all redolent from 
 the paradise of Mahomet, full of joy and enchantment, 
 bordering upon intoxication. The young read his pro- 
 ductions with avidity, and the old wondered at his 
 power over words. His sweets never cloy, nor can it 
 be said that he is ever vulgar, however sensual. His 
 f#re Apician dainties, and therefore more dangerous. It
 
 I!.') 
 
 nrust be con -it in his hut poetical works lie has 
 
 atoned for the : - earlier writings. It is 
 
 led that In should ever have writ! n the 
 lives of Sheridan ahd Byron. These works c n brio 
 re of the follies of these extr; ordi- 
 iiu'ii neither deter the rising generation from vice 
 nor enlighten the minis of those who are out of dan- 
 ger from such examples. This high authority will in- 
 duce many to drag into public view the faults of less 
 
 nguished persons, and the grave which formerly 
 hid the sins of ordinary men may do so no longer. To 
 
 nothing of the dead, but what is good is too nar- 
 row a rule, but all the truth should not he spoken of 
 every one, unless its publication can benefit the com- 
 munity. These liberties of the press destroy the re- 
 - t with which the exalted in mind or station were 
 formerly regarded. The follies and vices of these su- 
 perior beings bring them down to the level of vulgar 
 minds. One of the gr< atesl ties of the social compact 
 was the gravity and dignity thai were attached to know- 
 ledge and experience. The philosophers proclaimed 
 liberty and equality in France, in 17M), but the true 
 spirit of it not being understood by the lowei 
 they caughl the hatred to tyranny, and with ll e op- 
 pn Bsora, -wept away the philosophers also. 
 
 Hut to return to the poetry of .Moore. I!e is now in 
 hifl prime, and may woo the muse for man*. 
 day, and more entirely redeem his early abi n 
 But we beg of him to give no more lives in su- 
 lfite would take up suuie holy man vvhosi 
 abounded in incident. and throw around him the < i 
 In- poetical genius, he would mak< a work th 
 long and wide! j I mankind, but we bavi 
 
 13'
 
 146 
 
 of travels and bagnios of Circes and of Cyprians. The 
 mind, after a while, even of those who had a strong 
 appetite at first, turns with loathing from these offen- 
 sive details, which in the life of Byron seem to occur 
 as constantly as the seasons, and it makes no difference 
 whether it be said by the living, or written by his de- 
 parted subject. Fiction, however monstrous, is better 
 than such truths, for there is always a lurking remem- 
 brance in the mind that it is fiction, and poor human 
 nature is saved from the effect which might be pro- 
 duced if it had been treading over realities. 
 
 Moore has genius of a high order, and it is devoted 
 to the public. Let him recollect his responsibility to 
 that public, and take such subjects as will enlighten 
 many, amuse all, and be constantly doing good. 
 
 GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. 
 
 AIR — MAID OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Go where glory waits thee; 
 But, while fame elates thee, 
 
 Oh ! still remember me. 
 When the praise thou meetest 
 To thine ear is sweetest, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 Other arms may press thee, 
 Dearer friends caress thee, 
 All the joys that bless thee 
 
 Sweeter far may be ; 
 But when friends are nearest. 
 And when joys are dearest, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me.
 
 147 
 
 When, at cvc, thou rovest 
 By the star thou lovi 
 Oh ! tlun remember me. 
 
 Think, when home returning, 
 Bright we've seen it burning, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 Oft, as summer closes, 
 Whin thine eye reposes 
 On its ling'ring roses, 
 
 Once so loved by thee : 
 Think of her who wove them, 
 Her who made thee love them ; 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 When, around thee, dying, 
 Autumn leaves are lying, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 And, at night, when gazing 
 On the gay hearth blazing, 
 
 Oh ! still remember me. 
 Then should music, stealing 
 All the soul of feeling, 
 To thy heart appealing, 
 
 Draw one tear from thee ; 
 Then let mcm'ry bring thee 
 Strains I used to MiiL r thee; 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 William L. Bowles holds a respectable rank in the 
 tilic of letters, bnl ifl now probably more known 
 fnr ble control ray with Campbell and Bj ron r> spt d 
 
 iuu the merits of Pope, than fur any other production.
 
 148 
 
 He is now an old man arid probably will not make his 
 appearance again as a poet or a controversialist. 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 Time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay, 
 Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence 
 (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
 
 The faint pang stealest unperceived away : 
 
 On thee I rest my only hopes at last : 
 And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear, 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 
 
 1 may look back on many a sorrow past, 
 And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile. 
 
 As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, 
 Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower, 
 Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while. 
 But ah ! what ills must that poor heart endure, 
 Who hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure. 
 
 The Rev. Henry Milman is one of the finest poets of 
 England, whether you consider the genius, the taste, or 
 the purity of the man. He has been, and probably 
 now is professor of poetry at Oxford. In his college 
 days he took all the prizes for poetry, or more of them 
 than any other person in his way. He has written 
 since he has been in the church with great power and 
 elegance. Milman is in the prime of manhood, a 
 sound believer, a good moralist, a splendid prose wri- 
 ter, and yields to no one in his wishes to do good. It 
 is to be hoped that his productions will soon become 
 as fashionable as those of Byron and Moore.
 
 149 
 
 ODE, TO THE SAVIOUR. 
 
 For thou wert born of woman ! thou didst come, 
 
 Oh Holiest! to this world of sin and gloom, 
 
 Not in thy dread omnipotent array, 
 
 And not by thunders strew'd 
 
 Was thy tempestuous road; 
 
 Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way. 
 
 But thee, a soft and naked child. 
 
 Thy mother undefil'd 
 In the rude manger laid to rest 
 From off her virgin breast. 
 
 The heavens were not commanded to prepare 
 A gorgeous canopy of golden air ; 
 Nor stoop'd their lamps the enthroned fires on high; 
 A single silent star 
 Came wandering from afar, 
 Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky; 
 The Eastern sages leading on 
 
 As at a kingly throne, 
 To lay their gold and odours sweet 
 Before thy infant feet. 
 
 The earth and ocean were not hush'd to hear 
 Bright harmony from every starry sphere; 
 Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song 
 
 From all the cherub choirs, 
 
 And seraphs' burning lyres, [along. 
 
 Pour'd thro' the host df heaven the charm'd clouds 
 
 One angl l-troop the strain bewail, 
 Of all tin race of man
 
 150 
 
 By simple shepherds heard alone, 
 That soft Hosanna's tone. 
 
 And when thou didst depart, no car of flame 
 To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came ; 
 Nor visible angels mourn'd with drooping plumes : 
 Nor didst thou mount on high 
 From fatal Calvary [tombs, 
 
 With all thy own redeem'd out bursting from their 
 For thou didst bear away from earth 
 
 But one of human birth, 
 The dying felon by thy side, to be 
 In Paradise with thee. 
 
 Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake; 
 A little while the conscious earth did shake 
 At that foul deed by her fierce children done; 
 A few dim hours of day 
 The world in darkness lay ; [sun 
 
 Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless 
 While thou didst sleep within the tomb, 
 
 Consenting to thy doom ; 
 Ere yet the white-rob'd angel shone 
 Upon the sealed stone. 
 
 And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand 
 With devastation in thy red right hand, 
 Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew; 
 But thou didst haste to meet 
 Thy mother's coming feet, 
 And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few ; 
 Then calmly slowly didst thou rise 
 Into thy native skies,
 
 151 
 
 Thy human form dissolved on high 
 In its own radiancy. 
 
 All the world has read Byron, and it has not yet 
 gone from our ears that the great poet is dead. The 
 recollections, lives, sketches, and anecdotes, have been 
 profusely poured out upon the world until all have 
 grown weary with wading through them. It is well 
 to know enough of his character as a poet to find the 
 best portions of his works, and of history not to dwell 
 on it. His course from the dawn of reason was way- 
 ward. His vices commenced early and lasted as long 
 as he lived. He violated duties, scorned all human ties, 
 and offended every religious creed. 
 
 He wrote many things with great effect. He saw 
 and felt much, but after all was selfish in his feelings. 
 He was sometimes generous, and always profuse; but 
 in the midst of labor, pleasure, or profligacy, his own 
 iiness, and his wrongs, real or imaginary, were 
 uppermost in his thoughts. When the excitement 
 ■Jbout Lord Byron has passed away, the world will ad- 
 mire Ins talents, and will select many parts of his 
 works, ami bind them up together for posterity. The 
 Greeks. will ereel a monumenl to his memory out of 
 tin- remains of the tombs of Pindar and Alcibiades; 
 and when time has sunk some glaring instances of his 
 profligacy into dimness and shade, the mitred guar- 
 dians df the gates <>f Westminster Abbe} lha) permit 
 
 a slah to Ik; sculptured with his name Charily will 
 not always plead in vain for Ins honor; she will he 
 
 heard wfien she oflers, a- a palliation for many of his 
 iT'ir-. the want of parental example and domestic in- 
 struction.
 
 152 
 STANZAS. 
 
 "Heu quanta minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminissei" 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare, 
 
 Too soon return'd to earth ! 
 Though earth received them in her bed, 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth, 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look> 
 
 I will not ask where thou liest low r 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
 
 So I behold them not:. 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved and long must love, 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell, 
 'Tis nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 / 
 
 *o 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last 
 
   As fervently as thou, - 
 
 Who didst not change through all the past, 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where death hath set his seal, 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow: 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
 
 153 
 
 The better days of life were ours; 
 
 The worst can but be mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away; 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatched 
 
 Mu^t fall the earliest prey; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 
 
 The leaves must drop away : 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf> 
 
 Titan see it pluck'd to-day; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that follow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade: 
 Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
 And thou wcrt lovely to the last; 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 
 As stars tb along the sky 
 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 \ - ones I wept, if I could weep 
 M\ tears might well be shed] 
 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed; 
 11
 
 154 
 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain^ 
 
 Though thou hast left me free, 
 The loveliest things that still remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread eternity 
 
 Returns again to me, 
 And mope thy buried love endears 
 Than aught, except its living years. 
 
 The name of Shelley excites unpleasant feelings. He 
 Was a being to be pitied. His were the wanderings of 
 a powerful intellect that led directly down to the gates 
 of death. He pushed, while yet a youth, his skepticism 
 to frenzy. By his waywardness he had nothing to 
 gain, but much to lose. Preversity and infidelity 
 drove him from the university, and at last, almost from 
 the society of men ; but the times that passed over 
 him did not return him to reason, nor did he acknow-~ 
 ledge that the Most High reigneth among men. Shel- 
 ly wrote under a torture that even his muse could not 
 describe, nor find any match for it among earth-born 
 beings. Shelley had in prospect, titles, wealth, and 
 fame. His mind was of a gigantic order. He reason- 
 ed against revelation and religion with the strength of 
 the prince of darkness. His poetry partakes of the ob- 
 scurity of his reasonings, but there is in it a most won-
 
 lo5 
 
 derful power of thought and expression. Sometimes 
 this obscure is to heighten the sublimity of his 
 
 poetry. Curses were on his lip<. and poverty slung 
 him to madness, and made him blaspheme the more. 
 H< u is called to his great account at thirty years of 
 He was drowned, and Byron erected and fired 
 his funeral pile, and watched it as the flames ascended; 
 but in admiring the classical beauty of the scene, fie for- 
 got tosh tear to friendship d 
 
 There is a possibility that such a mind as Shelle; 
 it have worked itself free from the vile stuff about 
 it. if he had been spared to a mature age. Shelley's 
 principles were too much involved in metaphysics to 
 have had a very deleterious effect on society. The 
 poison lies deep in his works wben there is any; it 
 will not be sucked in by the cursory reader, and the 
 wise one will have an antidote for it when he is in 
 danger. There is a charm in sound principles worth 
 all other talismans. 
 
 It i< painful to see youthful virtue cut off in the ear- 
 ly summer of life, but the pang is tenfold when mis- 
 guided genius is called to depart "una urinted, i/uun- 
 nea! '." Shelley rather. strove to vindicate his absur- 
 dities than to propagate his principles. His example 
 Will not be infectious, for his short life proved that 
 
 ibedience and tr rion are a 'ces of misery, 
 
 and tint In- the community will find him- 
 
 Hflf bound hand and foot and thrown away with con- 
 t. Life to him is without enjoyment, and death 
 eomes without hope ; he departs without the lamenta- 
 tions of thi thout the praises of the 
 it. If those bound by the ties of consanguinity 
 or alliance shed a t<-ar upon ■>■. it flows not
 
 156 
 
 from the fountain of pure affection, but is a scalding 
 drop, wrung from painful recollections of his worse 
 than useless course. 
 
 DEDICATION OF THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 
 
 TO MARY 
 
 So now my summer task is ended, Mary, 
 
 And I return to thee, mine own heart's home ; 
 
 As to his queen some victor knight of faery, 
 
 Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome; 
 
 Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become 
 
 A -star among the stars of mortal night, 
 
 If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, 
 
 Its doubtful promise thus I would unite 
 
 With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light. 
 
 The toil which stole from thee so many an hour 
 
 Is ended. — And the fruit is at thy feet ! 
 
 No longer where the woods to frame a bower 
 
 With interlaced branches mix and meet, 
 
 Or where with sound like many voices sweet 
 
 Water-falls leap among wild islands green 
 
 Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat 
 
 Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen : 
 
 But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. 
 
 Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear friend, when 
 
 first 
 The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass. 
 I do remember well the hour which burst 
 My spirit's sleep : a fresh Maydawn it was, 
 When I walked forth upon the glittering grass.
 
 157 
 
 And wept I knew not why ; until there rose 
 From the near school-room, voices, that alas! 
 Were but one echo from a world of woes, 
 The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes. 
 
 And then I clasped my hands and looked around — 
 But none was near to mock my streaming eyes, 
 Which poured the warm drops on the sunny ground — 
 So without shame, I spake: — " I will be wise, 
 And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies 
 Such power ; for I grow weary to behold 
 The selfish and the strong still tyrannize 
 Without reproach or check." I then controlled 
 My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and 
 bold. 
 
 And from that hour did I with earnest thought 
 
 I ! p knowledge from forbidden mines of lore; 
 
 Yel nothing that my tyrants knew or taught 
 
 I cared to learn, but from that secret store 
 
 Wrought linked armour for my soul, before 
 
 It miL'ht walk forth to war unions mankind; [more 
 
 Thi r and hope were strengthened more and 
 
 Within me, till there came upon my mind 
 
 A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. 
 
 that love should be a blight and snare 
 
 To those who H sympathies in one! — 
 
 Such one I a I ght in vain; then black despair, 
 The shadow of a - night, was thrown 
 
 Over tin world in which I moved alone: — 
 
 m vet found I one not false to me, 
 
 : hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone, 
 
 If
 
 158 
 
 Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be 
 Aught but a lifeless clog until revived by thee. 
 
 Thou friend, whose presence on my wintry heart 
 Fell like bright spring upon some herbless plain ; 
 How beautiful and calm and free thou wert 
 In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain 
 Of custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, 
 And walked as free as light the clouds among, 
 Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain 
 From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprimg 
 To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long. 
 
 No more alone through the world's wilderness, 
 
 Although I trod the paths of high intent, 
 
 I journeyed now : no more companionless, 
 
 Where solitude is like despair, I went. — , 
 
 There is the wisdom of a stern content, 
 
 When poverty can blight the just and good, 
 
 When infamy dares mock the innocent, 
 
 And cherished friends turn with the multitude 
 
 To trample : this was ours, and we unshaken stood ! 
 
 Now has descended a serener hour, 
 
 And with inconstant fortune friends return ; 
 
 Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power, 
 
 Which says : — let scorn be not repaid with scorn. 
 
 And from thy side two gentle babes are born 
 
 To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we 
 
 Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn ; 
 
 And these delights, and thou, have been to me s 
 
 The parents of the song I consecrate to thee.
 
 159 
 
 Is it that now my inexperienced fingers 
 
 But strike the prelude to a loftier strain? 
 
 Or must the lyre on which my spirit lingers 
 
 Soon pause in silence iu't r to sound again, 
 
 Though it might shake the anarch Custom's reign, 
 
 And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway, 
 
 Hoher than was Amphion's ? it would fain 
 
 Reply in hope— but I am worn away, 
 
 And death and love are yet contending for their prey. 
 
 And what art thou ? I know, but dare not speak : 
 Time may interpret to his silent years. 
 Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, 
 And in the light thine ample forehead wears, 
 And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears, 
 And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy 
 Is whispered to subdue my fondest fears: 
 And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see 
 A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 
 
 They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth, 
 Of glorious parents, thou aspiring child. 
 I wonder not — for one then left this earth 
 Whose life was like a setting planet mild, 
 Which clothed thee in the ra liauce undefiled 
 Ofitt departing glory; still her fame 
 Shines on thee, through the i dark and wild 
 
 "Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim 
 The -In Iter from thy sire, of an immortal name. 
 
 Ore line forth from many a mighty spirit, 
 
 Which was the echo of three thousand years; 
 And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it,
 
 160 
 
 As some lone man, who in a desert hears 
 The music of his home : — unwonted fears 
 Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, 
 And faith and custom and low-thoughted cares, 
 Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space 
 Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling 
 place. 
 
 Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind ! 
 If there must be no response to my cry — 
 If men must rise and stamp with fury blind 
 On his pure name who loves them, — thou and I, 
 Sweet friend ! can look from our tranquillity 
 Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night, — 
 Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by, 
 Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's sight, 
 That burn from year to year with unextinguished light. 
 
 When the elements of the moral and political world 
 were in a state of high commotion, a work entitled the 
 " Pursuits of Literature" was published anonymously. 
 It was a severe and an indignant satire upon the wild 
 and unprincipled writers of that period. Its tone was 
 high and manly, but its severity was directed by no 
 party spirit. The author struck down the sciolists and 
 charlatans of that period with a strong hand. He nei- 
 ther courted nor feared those in power. In the pride 
 of a man of letters, he assumed the bold, but true doc- 
 trine, that on literature, well or ill conducted, depends 
 the fate of a nation. He spoke of literature in its 
 broadest sense. He brought great stores of learning 
 to his aid. He had drank deeply of the sweet waters
 
 161 
 
 of the Pierian spring. If be was sometimes guilty of 
 ctatioh, it could do ad harm toanj one but himself. 
 The author of the Pursuits of literature was a learned 
 man, if bis pedantry was at $mes too apparent. If 
 this composition was no! equal to the pretensions of 
 the writer, it most certainly was a learned production. 
 The notes were more valued than the verse. This 
 work did much to put down the host o[ spurious poli- 
 ticians and writers of affected importance, if the author 
 did, in hasty moments, throw Ins arrows somewhat too 
 promiscuously. The author plumed himself, like Ju- 
 nius, on concealment, but was aot like him, capable of 
 keeping his secret The author was found to be Mr. 
 Mathias— a learned man. Canning, in his poem called 
 
 • New Morality," speaks of the author of the Pursuits 
 of Literature, then unknown, with no small share of 
 
 prai-'-: 
 
   Thou too! — the nameless bard, — whose honest zeal 
 For law. for morals, for the public- weal, 
 Pours down impetuous on thy country's foes 
 The stream of verse, an:! many lauguaged prose; 
 Thou too !— though oft thy ill-advised dislike 
 The guiltli with random censure strike, — 
 
 Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined, 
 Play faintly round bul mark tiie mind:— 
 
 Through the mix'd ma nth and learning shine, 
 
 And in -nly vi lis line: 
 
 riot warmth I 
 
 Itory fin 
 
 Prom • 
 
 ligation. I mt< nt I ;i paling
 
 162 
 
 the pitiful gnats and fire-flies of literature that were 
 buzzing and stinging about him, while he should have 
 been dealing his ponderous blows upon the monsters 
 and dragons of mischief. Though full of classical allu- 
 sion, and heroic examples, he forgot that of Hercules. 
 Had this hero stopped on his journeys to abate every 
 little nuisance, or to have crushed every tarantula and 
 viper in his pathway, the Augean stable might never 
 have been cleansed, nor the Nemean lion slain. Great 
 efforts should be directed to great ends. 
 
 Fiction is now the rage in the republic of letters. 
 The history of fiction is one of deep philosophy and 
 curious incident. Fiction has always been natural to 
 man, and has claimed a share of his attention in every 
 age and country. The popular fictions of the English 
 came from the north, and are derived from the Huns — 
 who obtained them from the east, where they had. ex- 
 isted almost from the birth of man. In passing through 
 the coarse, warlike Huns, they lost something of their 
 Oriental coloring, but nothing of their strength or ex- 
 aggeration ; their eastern features are still always dis- 
 cernible. It is not difficult to trace fiction in every age 
 or nation ; it has been the extended shadow of the 
 mind of man at all times, which kept a strong resem- 
 blance to the features of his character. The Greeks 
 did not cultivate as we now do. The golden age of 
 fiction was among the Arabs from the ninth to the four- 
 teenth century, when those lovely tales, the Arabian 
 Nights, were invented, or collected and burnished up 
 by the devotees to Arabic learning. In these tales su- 
 perhuman agency is employed to more than human 
 purposes. If genii appear, they have something worthy 
 Of their powers to perforin ; they are mostly inclined
 
 163 
 
 to virtue. If a demon is called to act, he is never su- 
 preme ; 90m< talisman can control him, — some good 
 spirit is his master. 
 
 The early ages of poetry and fiction in England, have 
 been traced with care by Warton, in his history of Eng- 
 lish poetry ; but the first of happy fiction, as it is now 
 understood, was the Utopia, by Sir Thomes More, 
 whose writings have been named in a previous chapter. 
 A work of fiction, or a novel, to take the language of 
 the times, is an exhibition of action or passion, and in- 
 cident, such as belongs to nature, and is a dark, or 
 bright or beautiful picture of human life; although 
 there never existed a precise prototype of it, still all 
 must be after nature. In the hands of a master such 
 a composition may be made-attractive and useful. It is 
 compounded by blending such n - have the spirit 
 
 of public or private history, with such remarks put into 
 the mouths of those who did, or did not exist.; or by 
 rig tit ideal characters the air, manner, and words 
 of real ones. In mqdern times, also, some characters, as 
 in ancient novels, are drawn with superhuman powers; 
 suited to mortal purposes. Godwin has taken this 
 liberty in his admirable novel. St. Leon. In this work 
 fable of tii" elixir of life, thai pave immortality to 
 all ank it, and the philos< ne, that 
 
 • 1 all metals into gold by the touch, are worked 
 to a high and « ling purpose, — to throw co- 
 
 - upon the - ersify th< m al will, 
 
 atwl to lead the mind throu wonderful to a just 
 
 In Ids Caleb Williams, --* t i < 1 other 
 ' books from his pi i ks only in mortal agencies, 
 
 and brings about in le I J natural means. 
 
 Among the first of English novelists - Mrs. Radcliff.
 
 164 
 
 Her imagination was of a high order. She brought 
 into her works a spirit of Italian history, which was al- 
 ways full of romance and taste. There was a current 
 of blood running through it, more often of patrician 
 than plebeian fountains. Crime, sentiment, daring, in- 
 explicable conduct, abounding in the quietest walks oi 
 life, and superabounding in the upper circles of society, 
 made Italy one fertile field of novel incident, which 
 the " great magician of Udolpho" improved and em- 
 bellished. 
 
 If we lay aside excitement, passion, and the wonder- 
 ful, and come to just and powerful exhibitions of hu- 
 man life, Miss Edgeworth has no superior. She deals 
 in nothing but probable events, which are full of in- 
 struction, and are well calculated to teach all classes 
 their duties. Her great good sense was soon discover- 
 ed by an intelligent community, and the cant and fus- 
 tian, and mawkish sensibility which was deluging the 
 land, at once, in a measure, disappeared, and a better 
 taste was cultivated. Her Patronage would afford 
 lessons for the profound statesman. It is a mirror of 
 nature. It flatters no one, nor' gives any unnatural 
 image. Hosts of similar productions were thrown off 
 for the public, and many of them were well intended, 
 and some of them well written. The knight errants 
 in the fields of literature were numerous, and they 
 coursed here and there without superior or master, 
 until Walter Scott appeared. At first he was the great 
 unknown. At the onset he bore away the palm from 
 all his rivals with ease, and then becoming a little jaded, 
 he seemed to gallop over the course as one careless of 
 the victory ; but when some cried out that he was ex- 
 hausted, the next moment he was seen recruited, dash-
 
 165 
 
 ing onwards to prove his pedigree, speed, and bottom. 
 For a long time the princely knight wore his visor 
 down, and fought and conquered with perfect conceal* 
 ment At length accident revealed him, and strange ts 
 tell, his discovery has not robbed his works of a par- 
 ticle of their interest sir Walter Scott lias a tribe of 
 imitators, and some of them tnad closely upon his 
 ]i' els, while others arc at a sightless distance from his 
 course. Soni'' nf these authors may be called learned, 
 and may be said to use good language, in a gentleman- 
 ly manner, particularly Walter Scott. Their vocabu- 
 lary imetimes rieh in sound philology, and bear 
 marks of having been well used. 
 
 Many are improved by reading the works of such a 
 writer as Walter Scott Every reader catches more or 
 
 - of his cast of thought, and learns to see carefully, 
 and to describe with accuracy. It would be wrong to 
 make an English education out of these novels, or to rely 
 m them for historical facts; but if they should be 
 kept out of the school-room, they maybe found in the 
 library, and may be suffered to lie on the work table and 
 the toilet. There is. at present, a cormorant appetite for 
 these works of fiction— even our own wonderful his- 
 tory must he illustrated by tales and stories, because the 
 true narrative mighl be dull. This is an evil. Sir 
 Walter has not so directly guided the public taste as we 
 Imagine ; he rather saw the direction and followed it, 
 and found Ids fortune and his fame in the course. 
 
 If Sir Walter had given about half the number of 
 work^ to the public that he has in the same period of 
 
 time he has been writing, it would have been as weB for 
 his fame, and 'utter for his readers; for his works have 
 come too rapidly for the reader who had many avoca- 
 
 15
 
 166 
 
 tions, and with less finish than they would have had 
 with more pains. But when the critic has said all he 
 ought to say, and the reader has put aside the novel, 
 tired and determined to turn from him for ever, for 
 something in another path, let a month elapse, and it is 
 taken up again with fresh delight and perused with new 
 devotion. The influence of genius can never be de- 
 stroyed, it lives and gathers new strength in every age. 
 The gossamers of fashion pass away, but the solid gold 
 of talents remains, like the works of God, to increase our 
 admiration as our knowledge increases. 
 
 There is a great mass of English literature now ex- 
 tant, which contains immense stores of thought, and 
 which, if read judiciously, would make a very learned 
 man. It is every day increasing, and it will soon re- 
 quire large books of indexes and references for one to 
 get fairly at it ; in fact, they are numerous now. Much 
 time is often wasted for want of proper guides in our 
 studies. We not only should have finger-posts and 
 mile-stones, but maps and directories constantly with 
 us, whenever we go out to increase our knowledge, or 
 for amusement. English literature is ours by birth- 
 right, and we have retained it uninjured by low idioms, 
 and unprofaned by jargons, which have so often been 
 found in colonial languages. The academic bowers, 
 the lyceums, and the universities of the mother coun- 
 try have all poured their treasures into our land most 
 readily. 
 
 This- literature of England must be forever ours. No 
 non-intercourses or wars, can long keep the intellectual 
 rays of that- nation from us. This settled, we must 
 respect our own literature to bring out the genius of 
 the American people. This should not be done by a
 
 167 
 
 tariff on Engl ish literature, hut by bounties on our own. 
 There is mind enough and a good disposition every 
 where seen among us for the high pursuits of learning, 
 but our authors must shine only as scattered and dicker- 
 ing lights along our shores, unless these tires are che- 
 rished and new ones kindled up by the breath of pub- 
 lic patronage. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I shall not enter into a discussion of the advantages 
 of a ekissical education; I shall leave that question to 
 those who are fond of controversy. This subject has 
 occupied the minds of distinguished men for ages. 
 For nearly four centuries classical learning held the first 
 rank in the pursuits of knowledge. After the flood of 
 learning had burst fium Constantinople, Greek and 
 Latin were consider, d the highest pursuits of man; 
 the greatest objects of the human mind, kumatUore» 
 Utene, were translated— the HUMANITIES. Until a few 
 years since no one dared lisp a word a«ainst classical 
 learning, but lately opposers to the study of the dead 
 languages have been numerous and powerful; and 
 their mam argument has been, that the mind might be 
 more "profitably employed in other departments of 
 knowledge. It must be conceded on all hands thai the 
 Greek and Roman writers contain much that is essen- 
 tial to be known. It may be found in translation, it is 
 said, and mastered m - oner man in a foreign lan- 
 guage. In every point of view the learning of the 
 elat - must be had. and a greal portion of it, 
 
 even to the professed scholar, comes through the me-
 
 168 
 
 dium of translations ; but few, indeed, have spent their 
 days in reading history, biography, and geography, in 
 Herodotus, Tacitus, Plutarch, and Strabo, in the origi- 
 nal, who could find a good translation at hand. In the 
 early ages, all branches of knowledge were commin- 
 gled together. History was poetry, and poetry his- 
 tory. And these, with eloquence, made up the amount 
 of their literature. 
 
 To understand the ancients, we must begin with the 
 birth of letters., All before that time was tradition and 
 fable, and if written since, it must have been from con- 
 jecture or from amusement. 
 
 " Be famous then 
 
 By wisdom ; as thy empire must extend, 
 
 So let extend thy mind o'er all the world 
 
 In knowledge, all things in it comprehend : 
 
 All knowledge is not couuh'd in Mosses' law, 
 
 The Pentateuch, or what the prophets wrote ; 
 
 The Gentiles also know, and write and teach 
 
 To admiration, led by Nature's light; 
 
 And with the Gentiles much thou must converse, 
 
 Ruling them by persuasion, as thou mean'st ; 
 
 Without their learning how wilt thou with them, 
 
 Or they with thee, hold conversation meet ? 
 
 How wilt thou reason with them, how refute 
 
 Their idolism, traditions, paradoxes 1 
 
 Error by his own arms is best evinc'd. 
 
 Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount, 
 
 Westward, much nearer by south-west ; behold 
 
 Where on th' iEgean shore a city stands 
 
 Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil 
 
 Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
 
 169 
 
 And eloquence, to famous native wits, 
 Or hospitable, in her sweel recess, 
 City, or suburban, studious walks and shades ; 
 See there the olive grove of Academe, 
 Plato's retirement, where the attic bird 
 Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; 
 There Bowery hill Hvinettus with the sound 
 Of bees, industrious murmur oft invites 
 The studious musing ; their Ihssus rolls 
 His whisp'rrag stream : within the walls then view 
 The schools of ancient sages; his who bred 
 Great Alexander to subdue the world ; 
 Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next: 
 There shalt thou hear and learn the secret power 
 Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit 
 By voice or hand, and various-measur'd verse, 
 iEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes, 
 And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, 
 Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer call'd. 
 Whose poem Phoebus ehalleng'd for his own. 
 Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught 
 In chorus or iambic, teachers 1- 
 Of moral prudence, with delight receiv'd 
 In brief sententious precepts, while they treat 
 Of fete, and chance, and change in human life; 
 1 1 [fa action<. and high passions best describing. 
 Thence to the famous orators repair, 
 Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence 
 Wielded at will that fierce democratic. 
 Shook ual. and fulmin'd over Greece, 
 
 To M \rtaxer.\es throne. 
 
 To gage philosophy aexl lend thine ear, 
 From hi scended to the luw-roofd house 
 
 l.V
 
 170 
 
 Of Socrates ; see there his tenement, 
 Whom, well inspir'd, the oracle pronounc'd 
 Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth 
 Mellifluous streams, that water'd all the schools 
 Of Academics old and new, with those 
 Surnam'd Peripatetics, and the sect 
 Epicurean, and the Stoic severe : 
 These here revolve, or, as thou lik'st at home." 
 
 " Knowledge is but the remembrancer of things? and 
 history is the record of things, events, circumstances, 
 opinions, sentiments, and inferences. To impress these 
 things on the memory is laying the foundation of 
 knowledge. 
 
 History is considered by all enlightened men as a 
 branch of polite literature, and one of great importance. 
 It enables us to triumph over time, — to extend the term 
 of human life, by storing the mind with the spoils of 
 past ages. By history, man lives the period of oriental 
 adulation, — a thousand years. For want of history 
 the savages are children forever, with a high capacity 
 for knowledge. With the light of history man finds 
 that he is not a creature of the day, nor born alone for 
 the present hour, but that, by the powers of reflection, 
 he can lay hold on the past, and conjure it all-up at his 
 bidding. He ponders over the inexhaustible treasures 
 contained in history, and by comparing, and combining 
 and selecting, he may find information to guide him 
 in forming a correct judgment in all cases. By this 
 knowledge, he looks forward to coming time, and rea- 
 soning on what has been, he successfully conjectures 
 what will be ; and he becomes, of course, a sagacious 
 adviser to the state. All things, by history, pass, as
 
 171 
 
 n were, before us, and we judge of men and things 
 without/car, prejudice, or partiality. 
 
 This is particularly a day of free inquiry. The 
 ancient dogmas have given way. ami new lights are 
 brought up to assist us. By deep researches, great 
 pains, and fortunate discoveries, more information is 
 found in the works of modern historians than any for- 
 mer age could furnish. 
 
 It is also a day of bold criticism ; men no longer 
 read history, giving implicit belief to every popular 
 historian, Without examination and reflection. In all 
 human knowledge there must be error. Fancy and 
 fable are mingled with facts, and it requires discrimi- 
 nation to separate them even in this age of light. To 
 know the waters we must go up to the fountains. To 
 understand the weight of history we must go back to 
 the dawn of knowledge, when tradition was much of 
 history ; and fables, that were produced as ornaments 
 and illustrations, were taken for sober realities. 
 
 In this early day of originality, there was but little 
 that could be called sound learning. Fancy was re- 
 sorted to for want of fact, and the genius of man was 
 taxed to the highest bent for an ideal creation. Every 
 thinsr was personified ; every faculty and every power 
 was represented by some divinity. The understanding 
 of man was shadowed forth by one who walked 
 
 " The impalpable and pathless sky," 
 
 and drove the chariot of the sun. In hie train follow- 
 ed tin- muses, who breathed upon their votaries the 
 balmy breath of inspiration, and taught them every 
 thing accessary for their happiness. These muses re-
 
 172 
 
 presented joy and grief; they created the sprightly song, 
 and invented the mazy dance; and taught mortals 
 to build the lofty rhyme, to gaze on the heavens in their 
 starry splendor, and to learn the wanderings of the 
 comet, as well as the motions of the regular planets, 
 as they performed their pathways with the god of day. 
 At the head of this glorious band was placed the muse 
 of history. She recorded the deeds of her sisters, and 
 of all the sons of men, and left her tablets for the in- 
 struction of mankind; and without her, all the inspira- 
 tions lavished around them, would have been given to 
 echo, or suffered to die away among the mountains, 
 and in the vales in which they were born. 
 
 The earliest use of letters, after they were invented, 
 was to give the world the birth of the gods, and those 
 mighty ones descended from them by the daughters of 
 men; and also an account of their deeds. If these 
 things did not much enlarge the mind, they gave a 
 softness and civilization to the human race, which it 
 had not known before. The imagination was restrain- 
 ed by no law, man went on with his creations, and re- 
 modeled them at will, until they suited his taste and his 
 habits. Every invention of the imagination, and every 
 work of his hands made up a portion of early history. 
 
 Sculpture, poetry, architecture, were all matters of 
 history, as history was then understood, for it was not 
 until later ages that history was separated and made 
 a distinct branch of human knowledge. 
 
 Next came the separate descriptions of battles, the 
 rise and fall of empires, the deeds of statesmen, and 
 the occurrences of domestic life ; the changes of go- 
 vernments, the planting of colonies, and the relations 
 of commerce ; the character and effects of associa-
 
 173 
 
 tions and combinations, and all the doctrine of treaties, 
 offensive and defensive. Then history separated the 
 ecclesiastical, the political, and military affairs from 
 each other, and each was treated separately as well as 
 in conjunction; 
 
 Biography came to the aid of history, when great 
 men were conn< cti 1 with the affairs of nations. Their 
 Conduct was discussed as individuals, and as members 
 of the body politic. All these things were then stu- 
 died to strengthen and enlarge the mind ; — and the arts 
 of war, of government, the pursuits of letters, and the 
 study of the sciences, were made topics for the schools. 
 The instructors of mankind treated upon the elements 
 of all knowledge, and often lavished the finest powers 
 of the understanding upon splendid and wild theories, 
 without much practical utility in them; yet even error 
 made subservient to usefulness. 
 
 Eloquence WaB i uhivated fur o'lstiw-tion, before dc- 
 batiiiL' was brought to any practical use. Some of 
 these specimens of eloquence have come down to us, 
 and delight tin- admirers of genius and refined taste. 
 ~\\ lew to linger over these ctforts of the mind, as 
 they show how nmel a passion of fame will produce, 
 when even no precise ultimate object was regarded. 
 This taste and talent softened the natural ferocity of 
 man. and made polished and splendid minds when 
 mere was but little of true philosophy extant. 
 
 Th«' course of knowledge was pro e, and men 
 
 iovered that it was m eessary to know something of 
 jrap/ii/ as will as of history, poetry, architect 
 
 . ami politics. The llahyloniaiis, 
 
 the Egyptians, and tin- Greeks, very <arl\ considered 
 
 geography as a science, and began their Jahors in it,
 
 174 
 
 which have been transmitted to us most minutely. 
 Sesostris travelled as much for curiosity and a desire 
 of knowledge as for conquest, and traced his travels 
 upon a rude map. On this effort of his mind, he rest- 
 ed his fame more decidedly than on his conquests, and 
 took more delight in showing it to his people, than his 
 captives or the spoils of conquered nations. The 
 Greeks emulated all, and surpassed all in their emula- 
 tion. Anaximander is said to have made -the first 
 Greek map. It must have been a very rude outline of 
 the countries he had seen ; but the Greeks never rest- 
 ed satisfied without attaining to excellence; and, of 
 course, the science of geography, and the art of 
 making maps and charts, were soon in a progressive 
 state. It was quickly discovered by that sagacious 
 people that astronomy and geography must be con- 
 nected with each other ; but to what extent, was not 
 then ascertained. Astronomy had, before this period, 
 been cultivated by the Babylonians, and with their 
 knowledge the Greeks had become acquainted. One 
 hundred and fifty years before the Christian era, Pto- 
 lemy had extended the science of geography, and the 
 Romans profited by his labors. The convexity of the 
 earth was at that time known, but no great results 
 were seen to flow from the discovery, in a philosophi- 
 cal point of view. 
 
 There were, doubtless, many graphic descriptions of 
 countries in their traditions, and perhaps in poetry, 
 before any lines of maps or charts were drawn, and 
 probably before "the Greeks v had a written language. 
 The geography of Homer is thought to be wonderfully 
 correct. He had, in early life, seen with great obser- 
 vance the countries he described. His blindness was
 
 175 
 
 probably at a late period of his life— certainly after he 
 had passed the middle age of man. Some vague geo- 
 graphical descriptions had come from Egypt with the 
 wisdom of that people, and of the farthest East, from 
 whence they drew their wisdom. Thales, a historian, 
 geographer, and philosopher, who had added to the 
 stock of geographical knowledge by his travels, on his 
 return from Egypt promulgated his researches to his 
 countrymen. He had learned something of geometry 
 as well as geography, and set about settling the philo- 
 sophy of the equinoxes, for the better admeasurement 
 of time, as well as of the earth. From the discoveries 
 of modern travellers in Egypt, — Denon and others, — 
 there can be no doubt but that the sciences of astrono- 
 my and geometry had been long known there at the 
 period when Thales visited ttiat country. Taste in let- 
 n r<. in architecture, and science in war, were far in ad- 
 vance of otl'< r sciences, down to the days of Archi- 
 medes who transcended all his predecessors in mathe- 
 matics and natural philosophy. 
 
 Geography was not more necessary to history than 
 chronology. These two have been emphatically called 
 the eyes of history, — the latter being as important, in 
 many aspects, as the former, but, in fact, more difficult 
 to obtain. The seasons were first to be measured, and 
 accurately too, before chronology could assume such a 
 form as would he satisfactory to the inquisitive mind. 
 Rude nations know but little of chronology. The most 
 enlightened savages of oar country have no accurate 
 means of the crude admeasurement of time, and keep- 
 ins a record of the measure. Se-qua-yah, who invent- 
 ed the Cherokee alphabet, had no exact account of his 
 age ; and is now engaged in attempting to fix some 
 laws satisfactory to himself on this subject.
 
 176 
 
 The Greeks had several epochs, more or less certain. 
 First, from the Argonautic expedition ; next, from the 
 siege of Troy ; then from the Olympic games. This 
 last era was established 776 years before Christ, about 
 twenty-three years before the foundation of Rome, ac- 
 cording to some chronologists. The history of Greece 
 is said to have commenced more than seven hundred 
 years before the Argonautic expedition. This was 
 truly an age of fable. The age from the siege of Troy 
 was more accurately defined by the early historians, 
 and of course more reliance could be placed on it; for 
 from this period, or near it, we begin to have something 
 like contemporaneous history. 
 
 It must, I think, be acknowledged by every good 
 philosophical historian, that the ancients had no very 
 metaphysical ideas of time or space. The philosophy 
 of eternity, of mind, of space, or matter, was not then 
 so well understood as in our days, degenerate as the 
 antiquarian would call us. Even the Jupiter of the an- 
 cients had not half as great a space to act in as Napoleon 
 panted for ; and there was no fixed principle of his in- 
 destructible essence m their philosophy. He may have 
 end of years who had beginning of days ; and the whole 
 doctrine of the theogony of the Greeks goes upon the 
 birth of deities. To have lived in these ages of great 
 minds, — great amidst their errors; — to have com- 
 mingled familiarly with the sons of gods and the fair 
 daughters of men, and their giant progeny; would have 
 been full of delight. To have caught, as it were, the 
 morning incense of nature, as it first arose from the 
 east ; to have viewed her beauties when they were first 
 Unveiled, — would have been ecstasy; and to have 
 drank in the first inspirations of the muse, most glori-
 
 177 
 
 cms. But who would not rather live among the lesser 
 men of the present day, with a God without beginning 
 of days or end of years; omnipotent, omnipresent, all 
 merciful,— the father of all, the friend of all ; and to 
 whom all may return,— than to have lived among 
 denu-gods, with 
 
 "Deities, partial, changeful, and unjust. 
 Whose attributes were rage, revenge, and lust ?" 
 
 But do not understand me as decrying the history of 
 those ages, for it is impossible to be respectably learn- 
 ed without attending to the ancients, and drinking 
 deeply of their knowledge. It is one of the duties of 
 those who live in any age, to draw lessons of wisdom 
 from all that has passed, and we shall therefore cast a 
 glance at their historians, potfs, and orators, without 
 any squeamish fear, — a fear now prevalent, — of imbrb- 
 ing any doctrines that may weaken our faith, or dis- 
 tract our understandings. 
 
 Homer, who was born, or rather wrote, about eight 
 hundred and eighty years before Christ, according to 
 the best authority, is one of the most delightful histo- 
 rians as well as poets, that has come down to us from 
 antiquity. Poetry was then not only the ornament of 
 sentiment, and the beauty of fiction, but was also all 
 that was mental. In fact, it embraced all the know- 
 ledge of mankind ; it taught them what they believed 
 to be tlxir history ; celebrated their mythology; filled 
 them with romantic ami heroic conceptions ; and gave 
 additional pleasure to the heart by the charm it afford- 
 ed the ear. If much relating to tins great poet, his- 
 torian, and philosopher, i< involved in doubt ami bbscu- 
 
 10
 
 178 
 
 rity, still there is enough that is certain to satisfy us on 
 the subject of the state of society in the age in which 
 he lived. 
 
 This work itself has a singular history. It was first 
 edited, and probably first written out, as a splendid le- 
 gendary history, by the great lawgiver, Lycurgus, two 
 hundred years after Horner's death; and more than 
 three hundred years afterwards revised by Pisistratus, 
 the first of all the Greeks who collected volumes for a 
 public library. It is said, also, that Solon revised and 
 corrected the text of Homer; and there can be no doubt 
 but that Alexander the Great engaged his tutor, Aristo- 
 tle, to give a finishing hand in correcting the composi- 
 tions of the immortal bard. The account of the birth 
 and life of Homer, said by some to be from Herodo- 
 tus, is probably the best that can be found. 
 
 " A man of Magnesia, whose name was Menalippus, 
 went to settle at Cumae, where he married the daughter 
 of a citizen called Homyres, and had by her a daugh- 
 ter called Critheis. The father and mother dying, Cri- 
 theis was left under the tuition of Cleonax, her father's 
 friend; and suffering herself to be deluded, became 
 pregnant. The guardian, though his care had not pre- 
 vented the misfortune, was, however, willing to conceal 
 it, and therefore sent Critheis to Smyrna. Critheis - 
 being near her time, went one day to a festival, which 
 the town of Smyrna was celebrating on the banks of 
 the river Meles, where she was delivered of Homer, 
 Whom she called Melesigenes, because he was born on 
 the banks of that river. Having nothing to maintain 
 her, she was forced to spin ; and a man of Smyrna 
 called Phemius, who taught literature and music, hav- 
 ing seen Critheis, who lodged near him, and being
 
 179 
 
 pleased with her housewifery, took her into his house to 
 -pin tlir woo] he received from his scholars for school* 
 tag. Here she behaved herself so modestly and dis- 
 creetly, that Phemius married her. and adopted her 
 ■en, in whom he discovered a wonderful genius, and 
 an excellent natural disposition. Alter the death of 
 Phemius and Critheis, Homer succeeded to his fatlcr- 
 in-law's fortune and achool, and was admired, not only 
 by the inhabitants of Smyrna, but by strangers who 
 resorted from all parts to that place of trade. A ship- 
 master called Mentes, who was a man of wit, very 
 named, and a lover of poetry, was so pleased with Ho- 
 mer that he persuaded him to leave his school, and to 
 travel with him. Homer, whose mind was then em- 
 ployed upon his l Iliad,' and who thought it of great 
 consequence to see the places of which he should have 
 occasion to treat, embraced the opportunity, and during 
 their several voyages, never failed carefully to note 
 down what he thought worth observing. He travelled 
 into Egypt, whence lie brought into Greece the names 
 of their gods, and the chief ceremonies of their wor- 
 ship. He visited Africa and Spain, in return from 
 which places he touched at Ithaca, and was there much 
 tronbl'-d with a rheum falling upon his eyes. Mentes 
 being m haste to visit Leueadia, his native country, left 
 Holier well recommended to Mentor, one of the chief 
 men of the i-land of Ithaca, and there he was informed 
 of many tilings relating to Ulysses, which he after- 
 wards made u-e of in composing his ' Odyssey.' Men- 
 lM returning to Ithaca, found Homer cured. They 
 i mbarked together, and after much time spent in \ i — 1 1 — 
 niL' tie- coast *»f Peloponnesus :u\<\ the islands, thev ar- 
 ' at Colophon, where Homer was again troubled
 
 180 
 
 t 
 
 with the defluction upon his eyes, which proved so vio- 
 lent, that he is said to have lost his sight* This mis- 
 fortune made him resolve to return to Smyrna, where 
 he finished his ' Iliad.' Some time after, the bad state 
 of his affairs obliged him to go to Cumae, where he 
 hoped to have found some relief. Stopping by the way 
 at a place called the New Wall, which was the residence 
 of a colony from Cumae, he lodged in the house of an 
 armourer called Tichius, and recited some hymns he 
 had made in honor of the gods, and his poem of Am- 
 phiraus's expedition against Thebes. After staying 
 here some time, and being greatly admired, he went to 
 Cumae ; and passing through Larissa, he wrote the epi- 
 taph of Midas, king of Phrygia, then newly dead. At 
 Cumae he was received with extraordinary joy, and 
 his poems highly applauded ; hut when he proposed to 
 immortalize their town, if they would allow him a salary, 
 he was answered, that ' there would be no end of main- 
 taining all the 'Ojxnfoi, or blind men,' and hence got the 
 name of Homer. From Cumae he went to Phoceea, 
 where he recited his verses in public assemblies. Here 
 one Thestorides, a school master, offered to maintain 
 him, if he would suffer him to transcribe his verses: 
 which Homer complying with through mere necessity, 
 the schoolmaster privily withdrew to Chios, and there 
 grew rich with Homer's poems, while Homer at Pho- 
 casa hardly earned his bread by repeating them. 
 
 " Obtaining, however, at last, some intimation of the 
 schoolmaster he resolved to find him out ; and landing 
 near Chios, he was received by one Glaucus,a shepherd, 
 
 * The blindness of Homer has been contested by several authors, and par- 
 ticularly by a scholar named Andreas Wilkins, in a book bearing the quaint 
 title of " Curatio cceci HomerL" If he was blind at all, it was. probably only 
 in extreme old age.
 
 181 
 
 by whom he was carried to his masu r at Bolissus, who, 
 admiring his knowledge, entrusted him with the educa- 
 tion of his children. Here bis praise began to get 
 abroad, and ihe schoolmaster hearing of him, fled be- 
 fore him. At Chios. Homer set up a school of poetry, 
 •.'aiiied a competent fortune,. married a wife, and had 
 
 two daughters: our of wliieli died young, and the 
 other was married to lus patron at ISolissus. Here he 
 composed lus 'Odyssey, 1 and inserted the names of 
 those to whom he had been most obliged, as Menles, 
 Phemius. Mentor ; and resolving to visit Athens, he 
 made honorable mention of that city, to dispose the 
 Athenians for a kind reception of him. But as he went, 
 the ship put into Samos, where he continued the whole 
 winter, singing at the houses of great men, with a train 
 of boys after him. In the spring he went on board 
 ai:ain, in order to prosecute his journey to Athens ; 
 but landing by the way at Chios, lie fell sick, died, and 
 was buried on the sea shore." 
 
 In every period, critics of the first order of minds 
 have written upon Homer's works ; and from the blaze 
 of his genius have been kindled up half the lights of 
 intervening ages. There is such a simplicity in his 
 writings that the youthful mind can at once compre- 
 hend them | such beauty of description, that no one 
 who has read can forget die circumstances, incidents, 
 and images, bo distinctly exhibited by the power and 
 the art Of the author. He seizes the mind so strongly, 
 
 • every child sympathize! with every distingui*b*d 
 character in the work, and feels as much interested for 
 each person in the whole drama., as for those of his 
 
 Own connection- and kindred. Who li.is not shed a 
 tear at Hector's fat.-, or pitied old father Priam begging 
 
 10*
 
 182 
 
 the corse of his son ? Almost every one who early 
 read the works of Homer, will, if he recollects himself, 
 trace to this author the first ideas he had of sailing 
 ships, scouring the seas, and of naval architecture. 
 Also, the first impressions of a city,- if he was born in 
 the country. And the seven walls of Troy were drawn 
 for his inspection, on the Slate, or board, or wall, to 
 show him how wonderfully the city was built. The 
 petty nations of Greece all appeared in such bold relief 
 as they assaulted the renowned city ; and their modes 
 of warfare were so simple, grand, personal, and impos- 
 ing, that the mighty masses of modern battles, with 
 their scientific movements, and slaughtered thousands, 
 all sink into insignificance in the youthful mind, com- 
 pared with the combats of these brave men. How full 
 of sentiment is every part of the Iliad !— heroic, tender, 
 parental, filial. Homer knew the master-springs of the 
 human heart, and touched them as easily as Mozart did 
 the keys of his piano. He passed from the guilty bed 
 of Paris and Helen to the chaste loves of Hector and 
 Andromache without violence to feeling, and in full 
 accordance to our best impressions of virtuous senti- 
 ments. He gives, with ease, a full revelation of the 
 human mind, from the sublimest tumults of the soul to 
 the softest touches of human feeling ; from the highest 
 of all human resolves to the minutest courtesy of man- 
 ners, in every grade of society. All that is deep in 
 hatred ; all that is settled in malignity and revenge ; all 
 that is fiendish in atheism ; all that is foolish in the con- 
 temners of the gods; as well as all that is sublime in 
 devotion, and sweet in piety, was known to this great 
 painter of nature and of intellectual man. 
 The Odyssey is, perhaps, more minute in the descrip-
 
 1S< 
 
 lion of manners and customs of countries than the 
 Iliad, and is not wanting in sentiment. The Iliad is 
 unquestionably the model of all epics, since written. 
 The fact is avowed by all who have dared to attempt 
 one. The Odyssey, the great moralist, Dr. Johnson, — 
 who never praised the dead or the living, hut from the 
 stern st convictions of his understanding, — hasavowed, 
 is the foundation of all the tribe of modern novels. 
 
 It must be confessed that there are but a few who, if 
 they can read the original with pains and care, do not 
 consult the translations of Homer for ease, convenience, 
 and pleasure. Some Latin translations are verbally ac- 
 curate, and may be consulted for the sense of the au- 
 thor. Cowper's translation should be read as giving 
 the strict, simple meaning of the original, and some- 
 times he is felicitous in expressing it. This translation 
 should be read to see what Homer meant, but there is 
 more attraction in that of Pope. Cowper appears in 
 pilgrim simplicity ; Pope in my Lord Chesterfield's 
 court dress. Cowper is the most honest ; Pope the 
 most splendid. The one is literal, the other free and 
 paraphrastic. The sweetness and purity of an honest 
 nature is in the first ; the dazzling light of genius in 
 the second. Both may be studied with pleasure and 
 profit. 
 
 translations which I shall give of the Greek 
 P'm te are from the works of Charles Abraham Elton; 
 they form a happy medium between Pope and Cowper.
 
 184 
 » 
 
 WATCH OF THE TROJANS 
 
 BEFORE THE WALLS OF TROY. 
 
 The glittering splendor of the sun now fell 
 Beneath the ocean, and earth's foodful plains 
 Were veil'd with blackest night. Unwelcome sank 
 The day to Trojan eyes; but, thrice implored, 
 Night's gloomy darkness came upon the Greeks. 
 
 Illustrious Hector with the Trojan bands 
 Held council. From the ships he led them back 
 Near the deep-eddying river, where a spot 
 Seem'd clear from scatter'd dead. Down from their 
 
 steeds 
 They leap'd to earth, and listen'd while he spake: 
 His spear, eleven long cubits, by the shaft 
 He grasp'd ; the brazen spear-head gleam'd before, 
 Set in its ring of gold. On this he lean'd, 
 And hasty spoke: " Hear, Trojans and allies ! 
 But now I thought that, both the ships and Greeks 
 Destroying utterly, we should return 
 To Ilium's wind-swept walls. The shades of night 
 Have overtaken us, and so preserved 
 These Grecians, and the ships upon the shore; 
 Then yield we to the night, and make repast. 
 Loose the maned coursers from the cars, and set 
 Their provender ; and from the city bring 
 Oxen and sheep, in haste, and luscious wines, 
 And loaves from all your dwellings. Gather round 
 Piles of dry wood, and let us kindle fires 
 To burn innumerable through the night 
 Till morning dawn, so that the splendor gild 
 The sky ; lest haply under veil of night
 
 . 185 
 
 The long-hair' J Greeks betake them fugitive 
 OVr the wide surface of the main: nor thus 
 They climb their ship* deliberate and in peaee; 
 But that some mm among them have to tend 
 
 A wound, though safe at home; and. while he leaps 
 
 On ship-board, smitten feels the sudden edge 
 
 Of arrow or sharp sp< ar ; ami others dread 
 
 To bring the tearful miseries of war 
 
 On Trojans, breakers of the fiery steed. 
 
 Let heaven- protected in raids straight proclaim 
 
 Throughout the city, thai the stripling youths 
 
 And hoary-headed men keep nightly watch 
 
 Within the towers of strength that fence the town; 
 
 And the soft women, each within her house, 
 
 Kindle large fires; and a firm guard be set, 
 
 I.r-t stratagem in absence of our troops 
 
 Surprise the city. Trojims! great of heart! 
 
 Be it as I have said ; our speech be now 
 
 Of present safeguard: words of other sort, , 
 
 Warriors of Troy ! shall greet you with the dawn. 
 
 For, high in trusting hope, I pray of Jove 
 
 And all the other gods, that I may drive 
 
 These dogs accurs'd of Greece, wdiom angry Fates 
 
 In their black ships have cast upon our shores, 
 
 Far hence. But lot us through the night keep watch 
 
 And secure guard. At morn, when day first breaks, 
 
 !.• : us*to arms, and at the hollow ships 
 
 Stir the keen conflict. It will then be seep 
 
 If Diomed the brave bark from the ships 
 
 Shall drive me to the wall-, or I destroy 
 
 HiB body with the SWOld and bear away 
 
 His bloody armour, lie -hall prove his might 
 
 To-morrow, whether he can firm sustain
 
 186 
 
 My lance when borne against him. But I deem 
 He shall fall wounded with the first that fall, 
 Stretch'd at his length, soon as to-morrow's sun 
 Be risen. And oh ! that I might deathless be, 
 Exempt from age, and worshipp'd as the names 
 Of Phoebus and Pallas are adored, 
 So surely as to-morrow's dawn shall bring 
 Evil to Greeks !" Thus Hector spoke : and loud 
 The Trojans shouted in acclaim. Then swift 
 They loosed the sweating coursers from the yoke, 
 And by their headstalls bound them near the cars. 
 Fat sheep and oxen from the town they brought 
 In haste, and luscious wines convey'd, and loaves 
 From all their dwellings ; and with gather'd wood 
 Raised many a pile. The steamy smoke uprose 
 From all the plain, blown by the wafting winds 
 -Into the sky. They, musing mighty deeds, 
 With ranks unbroken as in combat, sate 
 Through the long night, while many a fire blazed round. 
 As beautiful the stars shine out in heaven 
 Around the splendid moon, no breath of wind 
 Ruffling the blue calm ether ; clear'd from mist 
 The beacon hill-tops, crags, and forest dells 
 Emerge in light ; th' immeasurable sky 
 Breaks from above, and opens on the gaze ; 
 The multitude of stars are seen at once 
 Full sparkling, and the shepherd looking up 
 Feels gladden'd at his heart ; so many fires, 
 Midway the ships and Xanthus' glimmering stream, 
 Blazed up in front of Troy. A thousand flames 
 Burn'd on the plain ; around each sep'rate pile 
 Sate fifty men, on whom the reddening glare 
 :Reflected shone. Meanwhile the steeds all stood
 
 187 
 
 Fast by their chariots, champing the white grain; 
 And tarried till the bright-throned morn appear. 
 
 From the Ilyvins. 
 
 PART OF THE HYMN TO APOLLO. 
 
 Nine days and nights Latona proved the pains 
 
 Of hopeless labour ; but within the isle 
 
 The best of Goddesses stood near with aid. 
 
 Rhea, Dione, Themis searching truth, 
 
 And Amphitrite of the murmuring sea, 
 
 And all the fair Immortals, her except 
 
 Of snow-white arms; for Juno sate apart 
 
 Within the palace of Cloud-gatherer Jove. 
 
 Alone Lucina, speeder of the throes, 
 
 Knew not the coining birth. She also sate 
 
 Upon Olympus' summit underneath 
 
 The golden clouds, by Juno's wile, who there 
 
 Detain'd her ; envious that the fair of locks, 
 
 Latona. should bring forth a noble son 
 
 And valiant. Then from the well-planted isle 
 
 Those God nt Iria to conduct 
 
 Lucina tliither ; promiMii^'. as »ift, 
 
 A weighty necklace Btrung with threads of gold, 
 
 Nine cubits length. They bade her stealthily 
 
 Call forth Lucina; Lest the white-anu'd Queen 
 
 Should after turn In r by insidious words, 
 
 Ai L so avert her coming. Iris heard] 
 
 And fleet, wind-footed, pass'd with running speed 
 
 Away, and swiftl\ CTOSS'd the middle space. 
 
 W hen to the dwelling of the Gods she came,
 
 188 
 
 The steep Olympus, quickly to the gate 
 She called Lucina ; and with winged speech 
 Told all th' Olympian Goddesses had said, 
 And moved the heart within her by the words 
 Of soft persuasion. So they came like doves, 
 With featful fluttering steps ; and as the feet 
 Of the birth-speeding Goddess touch'd the isle, 
 The labor seiz'd Latona, and her hour 
 Was come. Around a palm-tree's stem she threw 
 Her linked arms, and pressed her bowed knees 
 On the soft meadow : Earth beneath her smiled, 
 And Phoebus leap'd to light. The Goddesses 
 Scream'd in their joy. There, oh thou archer God ! 
 Those Goddesses imbathed thee in fair streams 
 With chaste and pure immersion, swathing thee 
 With new-wove mantle, white, of delicate folds, 
 Clasp'd with a golden belt. His mother's milk 
 Fed not Apollo of the golden sword ; 
 But Themis with immortal hands infused 
 Nectar and bland ambrosia. Then rejoiced 
 Latona that her boy had sprung to light, 
 Valiant, and bearer of the bow ; but when, 
 Oh Phcebus ! thou hadst tasted with thy lips 
 Ambrosial food, the golden swathes no more 
 Withheld thee panting, nor could bands restrain, 
 But every ligament was snapt in scorn. 
 Straight did Apollo stand in Heaven, and face 
 Th' Immortals : " Give me," cried the boy, " a harp 
 And bending bow ; and let me prophesy 
 To mortal man th' unerring will of Jove." 
 Far-darting Phoebus of the flowing hair 
 Down from the broad-track'd mountain pass'd, and all 
 Those Goddesses look'd on in ravish'd awe :
 
 189 
 
 And all the Delian isle was heap'd with gold, 
 So gladden'd by his presence, the fair son 
 Of Jove and of Latona. For he chose 
 That island as his home o'er every isle 
 Or continent, and loved it in his soul. 
 It fiourish'd like a mountain, when its top 
 b bid with lowering blossoms of a wood. 
 God of the silver bow, far-darting King! 
 Thou too hast trod the craggy Cynthas" heights, 
 And sometimes wanderd to the distant isles 
 And various haunts of men ; and many fanes 
 Are thine, and groves thick set with gloomy trees: 
 Thine all the caverns, and the topmost cliffs 
 Of lofty mountains, and sea-rolling streams. 
 But still, oh Phoebus ! in the Delian isle 
 Thy heart delighteth most. Th' Ionians there 
 In trailiiiL' robes before thy temple throng, 
 With their young children and their modest wives; 
 And mindful of thy honor charm thee then 
 With eeatos combats, and with bounding dance, 
 And song, in stated contest. At the sight 
 Of that Ionian crowd a man would say 
 That all were blooming with immortal youth: 
 - .HikiiiL' on the gallant mien of all, 
 And ravishing bis mind while he beheld 
 The fair-forniM men, the women with broad zone 
 Gracefully girt, their rapid sailing ships, 
 And pomp of all their opulence ; and more 
 Than all. that mightier miracle, whose praise 
 Shall still imperishable bloom, the maids 
 Of D - t>f l |11 " WOO darts 
 
 II around the world. Apollo first 
 
 They glorj with byinninga, and exalt 
 
 17
 
 190 
 
 Latona's and the quiver'd Dian's name. 
 Then in their songs record the men of old, 
 And famous women, soothing with the strain 
 The listening tribes of mortals ; for their voice 
 Can imitate the modulated sounds 
 Of various human tongues, and each would say 
 Himself were speaking. Such their aptitude 
 Of flexile accents and melodious speech. 
 
 Hail, oh Latona ! Dian ! Phoebus ! hail ! 
 And hail, ye charming damsels, and farewell ! 
 Bear me hereafter in your memories ; 
 And should some stranger, worn with hardships, touch 
 Upon your island and inquire, " What man, 
 Oh maidens ! lives among you as the bard 
 Of sweetest song, and most enchants your ear?" 
 Then answer for me all, " Our sweetest bard 
 Is the blind man of Chios' rocky isle." 
 
 Hesiod comes next, or perhaps he was the contem- 
 porary of Homer; certain it is, that they lived near 
 together. It is to be regretted that many of his works 
 have been lost in the lapse of ages. These would, 
 doubtless, have thrown much light on the manners and 
 history of his times. His was a mighty mind ; a shrewd 
 observer of occurrences, and a happy delineator of 
 things as he saw them. If he had less fire, he had 
 quite as much philosophy as his great predecessor or 
 contemporary, Homer. Hesiod's Catalogue of Hero- 
 ines must have been an invaluable work r if we are al- 
 lowed to judge from what has come down tons from 
 his pen. Women at this time, and, indeed, ever since, 
 have been incidentally spoken of, rather than directly 
 and exclusively. This work is said to have consisted
 
 191 
 
 of five parts, and, probably, was a delicate as well aa 
 an elaborate composition. 
 
 He was learned in all the wisdom of the age in which 
 he lived : U>r he wrote, also, on soothsayers and expla- 
 nations of aigna Tins, probably, had reference to the 
 ni\ si.rns of religious belief in that age. The loss of 
 such a work, from such a man, is incalculable. Ano- 
 ther of his last works was called The admonitions of 
 Chiron to Achillea. This must have been the remarks 
 of a aage to a hero, and, of course, full of wis<!om. 
 Achilles was another name for ferocity and military 
 prowess. Mis wrath was direful, and almost implaca- 
 ble. The sage had scope enough for remarks on the 
 dispositions and the duties, as well as the fates of men. 
 Hesiod was also a good agriculturalist, and wrote on 
 trees, some that have in time disappeared, as well as of 
 those now found in Greece. In this he has been imi- 
 tated by many of his poetical successors, by Virgil par- 
 ticularly. 
 
 The shield of Achilles was, probably, some tradi- 
 tionary tale, seized by Homer and himself as contain- 
 ing something of the history of the an* ; and from Ho- 
 mer's description, it must be acknowledged, that the 
 arts had preceded letters, probably, both in Egypt and 
 in Greece, as the first written laws of Greece were 
 not known until about six hundred years before the 
 Christ hi era. That his works abounded in the com- 
 mon-law. or the lex iion acriptd of his country, there 
 can be no doubt. These i r, eurionu, or aphori4mt\ 
 
 win'' rn men, ahowthe progreaa of knowledge 
 
 more than wniti n laws ; because written laws are <<e- 
 nerally founded on the unwritten, and the former must 
 be known in order to our coaling to a full uii Inland-
 
 192 
 
 ing of the latter. We must go up to the fountains to 
 be thoroughly acquainted with the streams. Such a 
 genius as Hesiod could not have dropped a word that 
 was not pregnant with wisdom. Such a writer is an 
 historian on a great scale. He shadows out man as he 
 is, without offending the individual ; and as he lashed 
 his vices, he stimulated him to virtuous deeds. Of all 
 the sons of men the early poets were the greatest bene- 
 factors of mankind ; they pointed out to the merchant 
 his pathway of commerce, and emblazoned the war- 
 rior's deeds. Without them half the glories of the 
 world would have been lost ; and yet, by many, they 
 are considered as the mere ornaments of the intellec- 
 tual society of that age. 
 
 From the Shield of Hercules. 
 
 COMBAT OF HERCULES AND CYGNUS. 
 
 Then, truly, from their close-compacted cars, 
 
 Instant as thought, they leap'd to earth ; the son 
 
 Of kingly Mars, the son of mighty Jove. 
 
 Aside, though not remote, the charioteers 
 
 The coursers drove of flowing manes. But then 
 
 Beneath the trampling sound of rushing feet 
 
 The broad earth sounded hollow ; and as rocks, 
 
 From some high mountain-top precipitate, 
 
 Leap with a bound, and o'er each other whirl'd } 
 
 Shock in the dizzying fall ; and many an oak 
 
 Of lofty branch, pine-tree, and poplar, deep 
 
 Of root, are crush'd beneath them as their course 
 
 Rapidly rolls impetuous to the plain ; 
 
 So met these foes encountering, and so burst 
 
 Their mighty clamour. Echoing loud throughout
 
 193 
 
 The city of the Myrmidons gave back 
 
 Their lifted voices, and lolchoa famed, 
 
 And Ami', and Anthea's grass-girt walls, 
 
 And I If lice. Thus with amazing shout 
 
 They join'd in battle. Ali-eunsidering Jove 
 
 Then greatly thunder'd ; from the clouds of heaven 
 
 He sent. forth dews of blood, and signal thus 
 
 Of onset gave to his high-daring son. 
 
 As in the mountain thickets the wild boar, 
 Grim to behold, and arm'd with jutting fangs, 
 Now with his hunters meditates in wrath 
 The conflict, whetting his white tusks aslant ; 
 Foam drops around his churning jaws, his eyes 
 Show like to glimmering fires, and o'er his neck, 
 And roughen"d back, he raises up erect 
 The starting bristles ; from the chariot whirl'd 
 By steeds of war such leap'd the son of Jove. 
 
 Twaa in that season when, on some green bough 
 High-perelfd, the dusky-wing'd cicada first 
 Shrill chants to man a summer note : his drink, 
 His balmy food, the vegetative dew, 
 The livelong day from early dawn he pours 
 His vi lice, what time the sun's exhaustive heat 
 Fierce dries the frame : 'twas in that season when 
 The bristly ears of millet spring with grain 
 Which tluy ill summer sow; when the crude grape 
 Faint reddens on the vine which Bacchus gave, 
 The joy or anguish of the race of men ; 
 Fv'u in that season join'd the war, and vast 
 The battle's tumult rose into the heaven. 
 As two grim lions, for a roebuck slain 
 Wroth, in contention rush, and them betwixt 
 The sound of roaring and of clashing teeth 
 
 17*
 
 194 
 
 Ariseth ; or as vultures, curved of beak, 
 Crooked of talon, on a steepy rock 
 Contest loud screaming ; if perchance below, 
 Some mountain-pastured goat, or forest stag, 
 Sleek press the plain, whom far the hunter-youth 
 Pierc'd with fleet arrow from the bowstring shrill 
 Dismiss'd, and elsewhere wander'd, of the spot 
 Unknowing; they with keenest heed the prize 
 Mark, and, in swooping rage, each other tear 
 With bitterest conflict, so vociferous rush'd 
 The warriors on each other. Cygnus then, 
 Aiming to slay the son of Jupiter, 
 Unmatch'd, in strength, against the buckler struck 
 His brazen lance ; but through the metal plate 
 Broke not, the present of a God preserved. 
 On th' other side, he of Amphitryon named, 
 Strong Hercules, between the helm and shield 
 Drove his long spear, and underneath the chin 
 Through the bare neck smote violent and swift. 
 The murderous ashen beam at once the nerves 
 Twain of the neck cleft sheer ; for all the man 
 Dropp'd, and his force went from him : down he fell 
 Headlong. As falls a thunder-blasted oak, 
 Or perpendicular rock, riven by the flash 
 Of Jove, in smouldering smoke is hurl'd from high. 
 So fell he, and his brass-emblazon'd mail 
 Clatter'd around him. Jove's firm-hearted son 
 Then left the corse, abandoned where it lay, 
 
 We must pass the free and satirical Archilochus — 
 the martial strains of Tyrtaeus— the enchanting songs 
 of the love-smit Sappho, whose genius has no superior — 
 and the never to be forgotten odes of Anacreon, who
 
 195 
 
 mingled philosophy with love, and gave grace and deli- 
 cacy to passion, — to say a word of the immortal Pin- 
 dar. He was born at Thebes, in Bceotia, a place pro- 
 verbial for the dnlness of the natives, or said to be, by 
 the proud Athenians. The Delphi Oracle ordered the 
 people to appropriate to him a share of their finest pro- 
 ductions of nature, and an iron chair was placed for 
 him in the temple of Apollo, in which he was accus- 
 tomed to sit and declaim his verses. This chair must 
 have been designated by Apollo himself, not to make 
 his a hard seat, but to glance at the fate of the greatest 
 number of his successors. He was a favorite of kings, 
 when living, and his name has been protected by them 
 in after ages. His genius was lofty — his spirit bold — 
 and he could warm the heart, and fire the imagination 
 beyond his compeers. Milton alone, of all the moderns, 
 has reached his terseness, beauty, and harmony. It is 
 said by many that hie genius struck off these odes, 
 which have come down to us, at first impression. It 
 was not, could not have been, so. Their depth of 
 thought — careful arrangement— and all that is seem- 
 ingly artless — is proof of the most exquisite art. 
 
 THE SECOND OLYMPIC ODE. 
 
 On the Victory in the Chariot-race, gained by Therm, 
 Tyrant of Agrigentum. 
 
 I. I. 
 
 Harp-rulins hymns! what Deity 
 Whttl hero, <>r what man, 
 Shall I neon! in stately songs?
 
 196 
 
 Pisa to Jove belongs : 
 
 From Hercules th' Olympic games began; 
 
 First-fruits of victory : 
 
 But Theron is my choice ; 
 
 His conquering coursers ask my voice; 
 
 Just, hospitable he: 
 
 Pillar of Agrigentum, the fair flower 
 
 Of a well-famed ancestry ; 
 
 Ruling the cities imhis upright power. 
 
 1.2. 
 
 Those ancestors, with wandering hardships prest, 
 
 The 'river-cityls towers among 
 
 Their sacred palace fix'd, and place of rest : 
 
 They were Sicilia's eye of light : 
 
 A blessed age ensued: and led along 
 
 The treasures of the earth, 
 
 And favor in the people's sight, 
 
 To grace their inborn worth. 
 
 But thou, oh Rhea's son ! oh Jove! 
 
 That on Olympus sit'st, and from above 
 
 Extend'st thy sceptre o'er 
 
 This noble contest, pinnacle of merit ; 
 
 And Alpheus' winding shore ; 
 
 Now gladden'd with the voice of harp and song, 
 
 To their sons' sons the dynasty prolong ; 
 
 And let the race inherit 
 
 This mother-soil for ever more. 
 
 1.3. 
 
 Not Time, the father of the tide of things, 
 
 Has power to make the deed undone, 
 
 That from injustice, or from justice, springs ;
 
 197 
 
 Nor with retracting hand annihilate 
 
 The end, that crowns the act begun: 
 
 Yet the concurrence bleat of Fate 
 
 May bid oblivion shroud the past; 
 
 Nor strife's disunion, sown of late 
 
 ■Twixt fliero and Theroa ere shall last, 
 
 To shake his throne's foundations fast; 
 
 For hateful evil perishes ;iway, 
 
 Down-trodden and subdued ; 
 
 When joy and blessing have on wrath ensued ; 
 
 And Providence with fate-o'er-ruhng sway 
 
 Bean up felicity 
 
 Above the spurns of wrong, and sets it high. 
 
 II. 1. 
 
 This truth befits the tale of old 
 
 Of Cadmus' daughters told, 
 
 Who now, beyond the Heavens, are seated high 
 
 Upon their thrones of gold. 
 
 Their grief and sad adversity 
 
 Fell underneath th' o'erpowering weight of joy: 
 
 And Semele of flowing hair, 
 
 Who died in thunders crashing flame, 
 
 To deified existence came : 
 
 Dweller with Gods, th' Olympian mount above; 
 
 Beloved of Pallas, and the Father Jove, 
 
 And the ivy-wreathed Boy. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 And letri-nds tell, that, midst the sea, 
 
 With Nereua' daughters, virgins of the wave, 
 
 Th'' Gods to [no gat* 
 
 A life that should immortal be,
 
 198 
 
 An ever-blooming prime, 
 
 Unwithering through the round of time. 
 
 So shifts from ill to good the human scene; 
 
 Nor ere has mortal been 
 
 Who knows his death's appointed goal : 
 
 Nor if his tranquil Day, that rose to run, 
 
 Child of the radiant sun, 
 
 In glory of its strength, a course of light,. 
 
 With unobstructed good shall journey bright 
 
 Till its wheels have ceas'd to roll. 
 
 But tides of flowing gladness 
 
 Have mix'd in ebb and flow with waves of sadness, 
 
 And this the lot of every human soul. 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 Thus ever-changing Destiny 
 
 That to thy own paternal line 
 
 Bade their lot serenely shine 
 
 With bliss, sent down from Heaven on high j 
 
 At other time the tide of evil roll'd ; 
 
 Since (Edipus, whom Fate resistless drew, 
 
 His father Laius met, and slew, 
 
 And thus in Delphos crown'd the oracle of old. 
 
 The great dramatic poets followed Homer, Hesiod, 
 and other descriptive and didactic poets. Thespis, 
 first, five hundred and thirty-six years before the Chris- 
 tian era. iEschylus was born in the sixty-third Olym- 
 piad, not long after. He has been considered the father 
 of the drama. Saphocles followed him, and nearly 
 equalled him in merit; and, in the opinion of many, 
 Euripides surpassed both. But in a cursory view of 
 the subject, we cannot enter into a critical analysis of
 
 199 
 
 the several merits of each of these great votaries of 
 the tragic muse; but, suffice it to say, that they stand 
 as imperishable monuments of intellectual power in 
 the waste of time, admired and venerated, copied and 
 imitated, by all the sons of genius who have ever at- 
 tempted a dramatic work. These great productions 
 have been a treasure of sentiment and maxims of a 
 moral nature ever since. They have lost nothing of 
 their simplicity, force, and beauty, in the space of more 
 than twenty-three hundred years. They encouraged 
 the virtuous, while they lashed the vicious, with an 
 unsparing hand. They portrayed the sublime agita- 
 tions of the human passions when reason was lost, and 
 every law, human and divine, disregarded. Hatred, 
 revenge, avarice, jealousy, pride, ambition, and scorn, 
 were exhibited to the life ; and all the generous, softer, 
 and nobler feelings were made, from their pens, still 
 more lovely. These mighty minds were the historians 
 of the inner man — the painters of the soul; who "held, 
 as 'twere, the mirror up to nature." 
 
 The age of the divine Plato may be called the age of 
 philosophy. He was born 428 years before Christ, 
 when Athens was ri^ og in her glory. He was the 
 friend and pupil of Socrates, and has given, in his works, 
 ■bout all that hiis come down to us of that great sage. 
 After 'the death of Socrates, he retired to Megora, and 
 lived with bis friend Euclid. These, indeed, were attic 
 nights, when Euclid walked twenty miles to spend his 
 [ling hours with Socrates. Plato, and the other great 
 men of Athens, mil returned before tin- rising sun. 
 Tie sound minds in sound bodies. Plato 
 
 often wandered from Athens to acquire ami to teach. 
 He softened the hard hearts of tyrants, and roused
 
 200 
 
 the sensual to virtue by his eloquence. While he ad- 
 hered to the simple but grand and ennobling doctrines 
 of Socrates, his pathway was clear and upward as 
 ever was ascended, until heaven sent light and life 
 by the gospel ; but commingling them with the mys- 
 teries taught by Pythagoras, he often wandered in 
 mazes, for a retreat from which neither he nor his 
 followers ever found a clue. But except, when he in- 
 dulged in his rhapsodies, his doctrines flowed in a tide 
 of light from the academy, to illumine Athens and 
 the world, and to delight men in all future ages. His 
 was an enviable life. To be the instructor of three 
 generations, and to find a sepulchre on the spot made 
 sacred by his own wisdom and eloquence, has been the 
 lot of but few in this world. 
 
 The coadjutors and pupils of Plato formed the most 
 brilliant cluster of great men the world ever beheld. 
 While Plato was lecturing at the academy, a number 
 of his friends were entertaining and enlightening 
 Greece with their high gifts. The stagarite was then 
 contemplating his deep philosophy, and condensing 
 his beautiful and copious vernacular, to express his 
 thoughts, which seemed almost too mighty for words. 
 He erected a system that held mankind in thraldom, 
 until Bacon attacked the mighty fabric, and broke it 
 down with the ponderous engine of truth and sound 
 reasoning. And, even now, some relics of it remain 
 in the ancient schools of Europe. As Plato was clos- 
 ing his splendid career, Demosthenes was thundering 
 his patriotism over Greece, and making the enemies of 
 Athens tremble, although the fulness of his glory did 
 not come until the divine philosopher was dead.
 
 201 
 
 EXTRACT FROM 
 
 OLYNTIIIAC THE THIRD. 
 
 I am persuaded, Athenians, that you would account 
 it less valuable to possess the greatest riches," than 
 to have the true interest of the state on this emergen- 
 cy clearly laid before you. It is your part, therefore, 
 readily and cheerfully t<> attend to all who are dispos- 
 ed to offer their opinions: for your regards need not 
 be confined to those whole counsels are the effect of 
 premeditation:! it is your good fortune to have men 
 among you who can at once suggest many points of 
 moment From opinions, therefore, of every kind, 
 you may easily choose that most conducive to your 
 interest. 
 
 And now, Athenians, the present juncture calls upon 
 us ; we almost hear its voice, declaring loudly that you 
 yourselves must engage in these affairs, if you have 
 the least attention to your own security. You enter- 
 tain I know not what sentiments on this occasion. 
 My opinion is. that the reinforcements should be in- 
 stantly decreed ; that they should be raised with all 
 possible expedition ; that so our succour may be sent 
 
 ' The greatest riches.)-ri|>i:in finds out a particular propriety in this exor- 
 dium. He observes, that as the or.t'.'ir intends to recommend to them to give 
 up tt.eir theatrical appointments, be prepares them for it by this observation; 
 and while he is endeavoring to persuade them to a just disregard of money, 
 ap|- irsasif he only spoke their sentim 
 
 l Pmnedliaiinn 1— M I r t s U» e greatness of mind of Demos- 
 
 labor his orations cost him, 
 was yet superior to that low and malienant passion which oftentimes prompts 
 us to decry ih<«e talents which we do not possess. I snsp. . r, that 
 
 this passage was occasioned by • I ular clrcum tanot in the debate 
 
 i .pi some speaker, who opposed l> <"' , - h[ h - tVr " r ^'" 1 Ul3 °^ i ' 
 
 somewhat dogmatically, as the reiult of mature reflection and dclibe- 
 rmtl 18
 
 202 
 
 from this city, and all former inconveniences be avoid- 
 ed ; and that you should send ambassadors to notify 
 these things, and to secure our interests by their pre- 
 sence. For as he is a man of consummate policy, 
 complete in the art of turning every incident to his 
 own advantage, there is the utmost reason to fear, that 
 partly by concessions, where they may be seasonable, 
 partly by menaces (and his menaces may* be be- 
 lieved), and partly by rendering us and our absence 
 suspected, he may tear from us something of the last 
 importance, and force into his own service. 
 
 Those very circumstances, however, which contri- 
 bute to the power of Philip are happily the most favor- 
 able to us: for that uncontrolled command, with which 
 he governs all transactions public and secret ; his en- 
 tire direction of his army, as their leader, their sove- 
 reign, and their treasurer ; and his diligence, in giving 
 life to every part of it by his presence ; these things 
 greatly contribute to carrying on a war with expedi- 
 tion and success, but are powerful obstacles to that ac- 
 commodation which he would gladly make with the 
 Olynthians. For the Olynthians see plainly that they 
 do not now fight for glory, or for part of their territo- 
 ry, but to defend their state from dissolution and sla- 
 very. They know how he rewarded those traitors of 
 Amphipolis who made him master of that city, and 
 those of Pydna who opened their gates to him. In a 
 word, free states, I think, must ever look with suspi- 
 cion on an absolute monarchy ; but a neighboring mo- 
 narchy must double their apprehensions. 
 
 * His menaces may, &C]— Although his promises could by no means be 
 relied on.
 
 203 
 
 Convinced of what hath how been offered, and pos- 
 - ssed with every Other just and worthy sentiment, 
 you must he resolved, Athenians, you must exert your 
 spirit ; yon musl apply to the war now, if ever; your 
 fortunes, your pe>8 s, your whole powers, are now 
 demanded. There is no excuse, no pretence left fur 
 
 ining the performance of your duty-, for thai 
 which you were all ever urging loudly, that the Olyn- 
 thians should be engaged in a war with Philip, hath 
 now happened of itself; and this in a manner most 
 agreeable to our interest. For, if they had entered 
 into this war at our persuasion, they must have been 
 
 irions allies, without steadiness or resolution; but, 
 as their private injuries have made them enemies to 
 Philip, it is probable that enmity will be lasting, both 
 on account of what they fear, and what they have alrea- 
 dy suffered. M\ countrymen! let not so favorable an 
 opportunity escape ><ju; do not repeat that error 
 which hath been so often fatal to you. For when, at 
 our return from assisting the Euba»ans,* Hierax and 
 StratOCleSj citizens of Amphipolis, mounted this galle- 
 
 and pressed you to send out your navy, and to 
 take their city under your protection, had we discover- 
 ed that resolution in our own cause which we exert- 
 ed for the safety of Eubcea, then had Amphipolis been* 
 yours, and ail those difficulties hail been avoided in 
 
 li you have been since involved. Again, when 
 
   K'HiranF )— T to the expedition in f:ivnr of (he Eub earn 
 
 this sedition in i 
 
 ilnee , and their 
 Ion. 
 ' Thl» rallr-ry |— In ttic original, tovti to BUM A ; that eminence whvto nil 
 the public upeakecs were placed, and U people were addressed 
 
 en all occaiiom.
 
 204 
 
 we received advice of the sieges of Pydna, Potidaea, 
 Methone, Pagasae, and other places (for I would not 
 detain you with a particular recital,) had we ourselves 
 marched with a due spirit and alacrity to the relief of 
 the first of these cities, we should now find much more 
 compliance, much more humility in Philip. But by 
 still neglecting the present, and imagining our future 
 interests will not demand our care, we have aggran- 
 dized our enemy, we have raised him to a degree of 
 eminence greater than any king of Macedon hath ever 
 yet enjoyed. Now, we have another opportunity — 
 that which the Olynthians of themselves present to 
 the state; one no less considerable than any of the 
 former. , 
 
 And, in my opinion, Athenians, if a man were ta 
 briug the dealings of the gods towards us to a fair 
 account, though many things might appear not quite 
 agreeable to our wishes, yet he would acknowledge, 
 that we had been highly favored by them; and with 
 great reason : for that many places have been lost in 
 the course of war is truly to be charged to our own 
 weak conduct. But that the difficulties arisen from 
 hence have not long affected us ; and that an alliance 
 now presents itself to remove them, if we are disposed 
 to make the just use of it.; this I cannot but ascribe to 
 the Divine goodness. But the same thing happens in 
 this case as in the use of riches. If a man be care- 
 ful to save those he hath acquired, he readily acknow- 
 ledges the kindness of fortune ; but if by his impru- 
 dence they be once lost, with them he also loses the 
 sense of gratitude. So in political affairs, they who 
 neglect to improve their opportunities, forget the favors 
 which the gods have bestowed ; for it is the ultimate
 
 805 
 
 event which generally determines men's judgment of 
 every thing precedent: and, therefore, all affairs hers* 
 after should eilgage your strictest care; that, by cor- 
 recting our errors, \\ e may wipe off the inglorious stain 
 of past actions. But should we be deaf to these men 
 loo, ami should he be suffered to subvert Olynthns; 
 say, what can prevent him from marching his forces 
 into whatever territory lie pleases ? 
 
 Is there not a man among you, Athenians, who re- 
 flects by what steps Philip, from a beginning so incon- 
 siderable, hath mounted to this height of power? First, 
 he took. Amphipolis ; then he became master of Pyd- 
 na ; then Potidaea fell ; then Methone ; then came his 
 inroad into Thessaly: after this, having disposed affairs 
 at Pherae, at Pagasae, at Magnesia, entirely as he pleas- 
 ed, he marched into Thrace. Mere, while engaged* in 
 expelling some, and establishing other princes, he fell 
 sick. Again reentering, he never turned a moment 
 from his course to ease or indulgence, but instantly 
 attacked the Olynthians. His expeditions against the 
 
 I * Into Thrace. Here, while engaged, *c.)— Thrace was inhabited by an ln- 
 
 number of different people, wh<><. names Herodotus has transmitted. 
 
 I they nave united under a slngla, chief, or connect- 
 
 • mseWes by int* i '. they wn»id have farmed a body infl- 
 
 nor toall their !.■ alter Teres, the Tbraclana bad divan 
 
 nee had tw is, BUas \i and Spa ra docnB, among whosedsa- 
 
 i contests arose, till, aft of m urpolloni and rrvolu- 
 
 m ton' of his fat li irans- 
 
 laihei of Cersobleptes (:is Demos- 
 
 -s gays ; not his bl At the dea   -Ions 
 
 king Thrace had (hi fes, 
 
 i tho other two, and was 
 
 . Philip, i r, « i"" ho 
 
 had cnnquired Thra- • nncesof that country » tth him in his 
 
 oxp, .sin his alisence: 
 
 j [x.rry kings In 
 Thrace, who were vassals to Maocdnn TvurrcU. 
 
 18*
 
 206 
 
 Ulyrians, the Pasonians, against Arymbas,* I pass all 
 over. — But I may be asked, why this recital now? 
 That you may know and see your own error, in ever 
 neglecting some part of your affairs, as if beneath your 
 regard ; and that active spirit with which Philip pur- 
 sues his designs; which ever fires him, and which 
 never can permit him to rest satisfied with those things 
 he hath already accomplished. If, then, he determines 
 firmly and invariably to pursue his conquests; and if 
 we are obstinately resolved against every vigorous and 
 effectual measure ; think, what consequences may we 
 expect! In the name of Heaven! can any man be so 
 weak, as not to know that, by neglecting this war, we 
 are transfering it from that country to our own ? And 
 should this happen, I fear, Athenians, that as they who 
 inconsiderately borrow money on high interest, after a 
 short-lived affluence are deprived of their own for- 
 tunes ; so we, by this continued indolence, by consult- 
 ing only our ease and pleasure, may be reduced to the 
 grievous necessity of engaging in affairs the most 
 shocking and disagreeable, and of exposing ourselves 
 in the defence of this our native territory." 
 
 To understand the history of these ages, most of the 
 great orators of them should be consulted. They abound 
 in lessons of wisdom and beauties of composition. If 
 some of their beauties axe lost in translations, a com- 
 
 - Arymbas.]— He was the son of Alcetas, king of Epirus, and brother to 
 fteoptolcmus, whose daughter Olympias Philip married. About three years 
 berore the date of this oration the death of their father produced a dis- 
 pute between the brothers about the succession. Arymbas was the lawful 
 heir; yet Philip obliged him, by force of arms, to divide the kingdom with 
 Neoptolemus : and not contented with this, at the death of Arymbas, he found 
 means by his intrigues and menancos, to prevail on the Epirots to banish his 
 son, and to constitute Alexander the son of Neoptolemus sole monarch.— 
 Tcurrcil.
 
 207 
 
 petent knowledge of their subjects, and the methods of 
 treating them are retained. It" a little of the classic 
 miction evaporates in a translation, much of the origi- 
 nal virtue remains, to repay the reader for all his at- 
 tentions to them. 
 
 Isor rates is the model of many of our best writers. 
 Sir "William Jones, the most accomplished of modern 
 scholars, certainly drew from this princely writer ; not 
 directly, but as steel takes mysterious and powerful 
 principles from the loadstone, mind touches mind to 
 the utmost attractive power, and loses nothing by im- 
 parting its virtue. The giant orators of modern times 
 owe much of their celebrity to the study of the an- 
 cients. The elder Pitt's orations had the polished and 
 measured sentences of Isocrates, with the copiousness 
 of Cicero ; while the younger Pitt, with less feeling, 
 and more philosophical condensation, made Demos- 
 thenes his archetype. Some of our own speakers have 
 drank deeply of these fountains, and found them the 
 waters of inspiration. 
 
 There was another class of writers among the 
 Greeks, who were distinctly stile*! historians, i The 
 prince of these wan Herodotus. Cicero, the first writer 
 of any age, Stiled him the father of history. Herodo- 
 tus was born in Halicarnassus, in ('aria, in the seventy- 
 fourtli Olympiad, about four hundred and eighty-four 
 ITS before Christ, and was senior to the age of phi- 
 losopby. He was born in troublesome timi ?,his coun- 
 try being then in thraldom. He began bis travels in 
 ith, and extended them thn ugh Greece, Italy, and 
 rpl. He wen: out to observe every thing of the 
 
 Origin and character of D and the priests of 
 
 pi finding oat his thirst for knowledge, opened
 
 208 
 
 their treasures to him with pleasure and confidence 
 for the learned, are generally willing to impart their 
 stores of knowledge, when they find those anxious to 
 learn. He returned a patriot ; and having assisted to 
 retrieve his country from its oppressors, he retired 
 to Ionia to write the history which has given him fame, 
 and the world so much information. His mother 
 tongue was the Doric, but he preferred the bland Io- 
 nian dialect, as it was most in vogue as a medium of 
 polite literature in his time. When he was thirty-nine 
 years old he had finished his work, and repaired to the 
 Olympic games, and there read his history to his coun- 
 trymen. It was received with universal applause. It 
 was divided into nine books, and his countrymen 
 named them, in honor of his genius, after the nine 
 muses. This history embraced a period of two hun- 
 dred and forty years, from Cyrus the Great to Xerxes ; 
 and it contained, besides the transactions between Per- 
 sia and Greece, some sketches of other countries. 
 
 He has been charged with a love of the marvellous, 
 but more modern historians have justified him in some 
 things. It often happens that men of limited intelli- 
 gence are more incredulous than those of full minds ; 
 and, indeed, many things, says Herodotus, " I give you 
 as I received them" not putting his veracity at stake for 
 the truth of them. In those matters which happened 
 in his time no one ever doubted his correctness. His 
 style is easy, graceful, flowing, and, at times, exuberant 
 and sparkling with genius. His periods flow in Ionian 
 mellifluousness, and his history remains a model for fu- 
 ture generations. Some things in his geography have 
 often been questioned, but Major Eonnells, an English 
 gentleman, has lately satisfactorily explained most of
 
 •J:HJ 
 
 it. To the English and French officers we are indebted 
 for many admirable tracts upon ancient geography. 
 
 They have improved every opportunity to enlighten 
 mankind ; and tlu'ir profession gives them both leisure 
 and opportunity. And it is but justice to say that 
 among the best members of the peace society, have 
 been found those trained to anus. There is nothing 
 mote narrow minded than enmities to particular pro- 
 fessions. Professions are the accidents of society, 
 while talents are the gift of God ; and their improve- 
 ment the disposition or the fortune of their possessors. 
 I look, forward to this profession from our national 
 school for those who shall give us the minute history 
 of our country, as it regards her battles, her sufferings, 
 and her triumphs, in her days of small things, which 
 have become great by consequences. Already they 
 have begun their topographical surveys, and laid a 
 broad foundation of physical geography. The military 
 and civil departments will follow, and not at a far dis- 
 tant period. 
 
 Thucydides. it is said, when a youth, heard Herodo- 
 tus read his history at the Olympic games-, and the 
 genius of history kindled in his soul a fire that did not 
 go out during his life. He treated of his own country; 
 and leaving the rules of the poets, he made his fame 
 to rest rather on the faithfulness of his narrative and 
 nations, and the accuracy of his chronology, than 
 on the splendor of his diction, or the power of his ge- 
 nius in poising periods, and inventing illustrations. It 
 in iv 1m- said of him, that he i< a higher standard for 
 
 accuracy than his great predecessor, but not so i; 
 writer. He had, probably, heard Herodotus criticised 
 
 for being too negligent of dates, and be wras careful not
 
 210 
 
 to err on that side. Dates sometimes injure the har- 
 mony of periods, but, nevertheless, tire indispensable in 
 philosophical history. They are sad incumbrances to 
 impassioned writers, but are never neglected by honest 
 ones. If history were considered only as an amusing 
 tale, dates would, indeed, be useless ; but if it be writ- 
 ten for the purpose of enlarging the mind and instruct- 
 ing us in the survey of nations, as well as of individu- 
 als, dates must be crowded into the page, notwithstand- 
 ing they march awkwardly on with sentiment, and are 
 annoying to ornament. A bald chronicle is tedious 
 enough in all conscience, but a history without time or 
 place is no better than a fable ; in fact, it is a fable. 
 
 The works of Xenophon are more familiarly read in 
 the original, and in translations, than those of any of 
 his predecessors ; perhaps, for the reason that he had 
 more fame as a warrior than most scholars. His re- 
 treat with the ten thousand Greeks, has been consider- 
 ed by military chieftains, of all times since, as a most 
 masterly feat ol generalship. This story is told in such 
 a simple, elegant manner, that youth and age, learned 
 and unlearned, are delighted to read it. The perseve- 
 rance and fortitude of this Grecian band have attracted 
 and roused our infant wonder, before we had ever 
 thumbed a grammar, or conjugated a verb. But in 
 this, the youthful hero was only emulating the feeling 
 of Alexander the Great, who was fired by the subject, 
 and who was determined to march into Persia, by 
 learning how Xenophon marched out. If the elder 
 was not the greater, he was the most prudent man. 
 The son of Philip was a wonder of the world. Full of 
 the knowledge of the age, he was a patron of philoso- 
 phy, and a protector of wise men. His instructer, the
 
 211 
 
 trite, was the most acute of all the philosophers of 
 antiquity, and it is difficult to say whether the writings 
 of t. - or the sword of the warrior, has had the 
 greatest effect on mankind. If it were left to the 
 Bchoohnen they would decide for Aristotle, against 
 
 - aider; but had the question been submitted to 
 Napoleon, he would have held a different opinion. 
 
 The track of Alexander from Maeedon to the Gran- 
 ieus, from thence to India, and the triumphal entry 
 into Babylon, was one unquenchable blaze of glory, 
 which has illumined the world unto the present time, 
 and has now become a familiar household flame, as full 
 of reflection as attraction, and offers as much for the 
 tin iralist as for the historian. Individ uals perish — gene- 
 rations pass away — empires sink to dust — but the grave 
 digger, Time, has no influence over the immortal part 
 of man ; that is indestructible. The bounds of earth 
 are narrow, extended as they may seem ; but the hopes 
 of man are boundless, obscure as they are. Every 
 page of history is full of wisdom, but no one more so 
 than the history of Alexander the Great. I am happy 
 to set that it is in the volumes composing what is called 
 the Family Library. 
 
 Tin re is a fastidiousm sa among many of our modern 
 
 olara about reading ancient history, and particularly 
 the hi«tory of such warriors as Alexander. An orator 
 of some note, within a short time past, has decried the 
 histories of heroes as tending to make our youth of 
 too martial a spirit l can only lay, that I different 
 lirelv from him in his conclusions. The fate of the 
 greatest heroes i- calculated to damp the ardor of a 
 
 martial pniWJim Et< ry one, as he reads, reflects how 
 short is the course of the succi ssfa] conqueror, and in
 
 212 
 
 how restless and unhappy a manner even the few years 
 he lives, pass away. The great Roman satirist had 
 a most thorough view of human nature, and he puts 
 the life of Alexander in its true light in a few lines. 
 
 There can be no danger in opening all the fountains 
 of human knowledge to the human mind, as early as 
 it can comprehend what it reads, if under proper 
 guidance. The mind should be exposed as the Spar- 
 tans exposed their infants, provided they are watched 
 with parental care. The world is full of moral evil, as 
 well as natural, and flying from exposure is not the 
 way to avoid either. Care and attention, anxious atten- 
 tion, are necessary. It is the duty of one generation to 
 educate another. The youth should see all, grasp at 
 the good, eschew the evil, and overcome the tempting. 
 The union of moral delicacy with moral hardihood, is 
 a desideratum in education. A good sound moral, in- 
 tellectual, and religious education is the great life pre- 
 server in the storms and tempests of our existence; 
 and will, by the power of the Father of all things, con- 
 duct us to the haven of everlasting happiness. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 We shall now take a survey of the Roman empire, one 
 which has been of more importance to the world than 
 any to be found in the annals of history. Its early history 
 is involved in fable and abounds in legends. The time 
 of the foundation of the city has not been precisely 
 fixed ; but some of the most accurate writers of the
 
 213 
 
 present day. fix it in the year 3251, that is, 753 years 
 before Christ 
 
 In the reign of the kings for 2U years, the city grew 
 in size ami strength. The good Numa had tried hard 
 to change the habits of the people, which bad been 
 pretty di eply rooted in the days of his predecessors; 
 in tins he Buccei ded in part, for during his long reign 
 there was peace, but his successors were ambitious, and 
 Rome was growing up by the spoils of conquered na- 
 tions. On the expulsion of Tarquin, a consular govern- 
 ment was formed. This revolution grew out of an 
 outrage committed on "the rights of a citizen; it was 
 also, a violation of the rights of nature; and ended by 
 the expulsion of the proud and savage race of kings. 
 The quiet of Rome was secured by the stern virtues of 
 Lucius Junius Brutus, who taught the citizens that 
 they must obey the laws by a high resolve of justice — 
 by adjudging to execution his son who had committed 
 an offence against them. To this act of the godlike 
 Brutus. I shall leave it for moralists to give the proper 
 epithet: I will not do it. But, however high or low 
 the deed may rank in morals, it was a masterly stroke 
 of political wisdom, and the blood of millions was saved 
 ''V it; for by it consular power was established, and a 
 dread of insulting the majesty of the laws was im- 
 i . minde of the Roman people, which was 
 never forgotten in the long continuance of consular 
 power. 
 
 Tie- consuls were, according to their laws, patricians 
 by birth, elected every y<ar. Abuses soon crept into 
 consular authority, which was quite equal, while it 
 lasted^ to kint'ly power. In 494, before Christ, the 
 plebeians revolted from the tyranny of the consuls and 
 
 19
 
 214 
 
 'he arbitrary conduct of the senate, and confusios 
 reigned for a time ; but at length, matters were settled 
 oy creating a dictator. He was elected only for six 
 months. The dictator armed the victors with axes, and 
 made many alterations in the customs as well as the 
 laws. At this time, new officers, called tribunes, were 
 created. They were elected by the people, and their 
 persons were sacred. Their duty was to defend the 
 oppressed ; to arraign the enemies of the people ; to 
 pardon offences ; and, at their fiat, to stop all proceed- 
 ings in every branch of the government, — to put, as it 
 were, their hands upon the heart pulses of the empire, 
 and stop the blood from flowing. This was a dangerous 
 power, for their hatred to the patricians often made them 
 use it most outrageously. The tribunes demanded two 
 other officers, called ediles,who had the care of the public 
 buildings. The buildings were mostly temples of the 
 gods, and their superintendence was nearly connected 
 with religion and morals. 
 
 The aristocracy were proud and overbearing, and the 
 lower orders ignorant and vindictive. It was only the 
 intermediate classes that made Rome great, or saved 
 her from destruction, and these found it difficult to re- 
 strain the senate, or pacify the rabble. These tribunes 
 were often great men, but could not always do what 
 they would have wished to have done. We must not 
 take Shakspeare's representation for the true one. He, 
 probably, had some design in making them vulgar men: 
 they were not so. In 491, before Christ, the tribunes 
 and the people banished Coriolanus, who deserved his 
 fate for his superciliousness. 
 
 In these times of confusion, a patrician, Spurius Cas- 
 sius Viscillinus, aimed at supreme command. He was
 
 215 
 
 the first who proposed an agrarian law. He soon fell 
 u victim to his ambition. 
 
 About this time, the tribunes were increased to ten. 
 Hitherto the Romans had no written laws. The ordi- 
 nances of their kings ; the decrees of the senate; and 
 their customs and usages, were all the laws they had. 
 They sent a mission to Greece to get the laws of Stolon. 
 These laws were Engraven upon twelve tables of stone, 
 and hence the laws of the twelve tables. A set of legal 
 forms were soon made, and something like a system 
 grew out of them. 
 
 The Romans getting tired of the consular form, 
 Changed it to a worse one, by establishing the decemvir, 
 who were invested with all the powers of government. 
 I. h presided for a day ; and the other nine were en- 
 gaged at the same time as law judges. But an end was 
 put to the decemvir by the outrageous conduct of Ap- 
 pius Claudius, towards the daughter of Virginius. In 
 this, soldiers,— for Virginius was a soldier of distinc- 
 tion,— senate, people and all. joined to break down this 
 ten headed monster of political birth. Th'e consular 
 and tribunition government were again restored. This 
 w i- 1 l!t years before Christ. The people made another 
 Struggle, uhich, in fact, succeeded, and that was to re- 
 peal the law« prohibiting marriages between the patri- 
 cian-; lad the lower orders, and preventing these orders 
 from holding any high office, SttCh as consul, &c. The 
 senate struggled hard, but repealed the first law, and 
 then got rid of the other by a compromise ; such as 
 
 making six tnilitarj tribunes,— three of patricians, and 
 
 three from the plebeians, instead of consuls. 
 
 The people ever restless, because for ever oppressed, 
 toon had the consuls restored. Two new magistrates
 
 216 
 
 were agreed upon, to be called censors, to take the cen- 
 sus of the people every five years, and to look after the 
 morals of the community. But this was an aristocratic 
 movement, rather to know where to look for recruits 
 in replenishing their armies, than for any moral pur- 
 poses. The people stood out against these censors for 
 a while, when the consuls proposed to pay the soldiers 
 for their services ; for down to this period, 437 years 
 before Christ, they had not received any pay as sol- 
 diers, — their reward was a share of their plunder. The 
 people were quieted by this prospect of wages, but the 
 thing was not done without resorting to a dictator for 
 a short period. But the soldiers were no better for 
 being paid, for not long after this period, they were 
 beaten by the Gauls, and Rome was plundered, and 
 burnt to the ground. The Romans showed great ener- 
 gy in building their city again, but the calamity was 
 felt for a long time. The Gauls returned rapacious 
 from a taste of the spoils of Rome; but the people 
 who had labored hard to build the city, now had energy 
 enough to defend it. In 367, before Christ, or about 
 this period, a plebeian was first elected consul, and the 
 office of qusestor was created, who was a sort of mili- 
 tary and chancery judge. 
 
 Rome had found it for her advantage to be at peace 
 heretofore with Carthage. Their intimacy had been 
 great for two hundred and fifty years ; an alliance had 
 been formed which had never been dissolved. In 273, 
 before Christ, the Romans sought cause of war against 
 the Carthagenians, — it was a mere pretence ; but suffi- 
 cient for an ambitious people. The first Punic war was 
 severe, and the Carthagenians sued for peace ; but the 
 proud Romans could not bear to see the prosperity of
 
 217 
 
 their rival, and " Delenda est Carthage,'' was a com- 
 mon cry at Rome. In 218 before Christ, the seeond 
 Punic war began, and lasted sixteen years, w ben peace 
 was made between them. In this the Koinans had the 
 WOTS! of it ni many battles. The third Punic war be- 
 gan 140 before Christ, and ended in three years with 
 the destruction of Carthage. 
 
 At this period, Rome conquered Greece, and made 
 that once free country, which had contended against 
 half the world, a Roman province. Within the century 
 then last past, Rome had extended her conquests into 
 Europe, Asia, and Africa. Riches had been amassed, 
 in a measure before unknown in Europe or Asia ; and 
 its usual consequences, luxury and dissipation, followed 
 in their train. The Gracchii made an effort to bring 
 back the people to temperance and industry, but in 
 vain. They fell in the struggle. The manly virtues 
 remained in the breasts of a few only, and the spirit of 
 patriotism was nearly extinct. The senate became as 
 corrupt as the people ; and their judgment in favor of 
 Jugurtha, was as indelible a stain on Rinnan virtue as 
 the conspiracy of Catiline, in a subsequent period. 
 
 The civil wars of Marina and Sylla shook Rome to 
 its centre. Marius was a plebeian, and Sylla a patrician, 
 which embittered their rancor towards each other and 
 their .adherents. Marius was the greater man, in point 
 of talents, but it would be hard to say which of the two 
 wis the greater villain. Marius died the last, but neither 
 lived long to scourge mankind and to depopulate 
 Rome. Next the rivalry of Lepidusand Pompey kept 
 the city in I state of agitation. Catiline's conspiracy 
 happened in the mean time, which threatened Rome 
 with destruction. He was ; most consummate traitor; 
 
 19*
 
 218 
 
 and the name of Catiline has come down to us a term 
 for all that is great in villany, reckless and daring in 
 action, and deep in plot and stratagem. 
 
 Then Caesar arose, the loftiest name in the history of 
 military chieftains, — learned, eloquent, brave, generous, 
 confiding, and ambitious. He became master of Rome, 
 was made consul, dictator, imperator, and might have 
 had a crown, if he had lived a little longer. He was 
 using his mighty power in clemency and wisdom, de- 
 vising great things for Rome, — to give to the eternal 
 city all the wisdom and glory that any city ever en- 
 joyed, — when he was struck dead by the daggers of a 
 numerous band of conspirators; who paid, in the end, 
 for their perfidy. His eloquence was inferior to none 
 but Cicero's, and of this I am not satisfied. He re- 
 formed the calendar of Rome, and restored the year to 
 its true state by the equinoxes. His commentaries 
 have come down to us as an elegant model for the his- 
 torian. They are remarkable for neatness, modesty, 
 and discrimination ; they are productions of a clear, 
 lofty, noble mind ; and should be read by every one 
 who loves greatness of thought, or simplicity of style, 
 united to dignity and elegance. He fell forty-four 
 years before the Christian era. 
 
 Lepidus, Anthony, and Augustus Ca?sar, then formed 
 a triumvirate, which was soon destroyed, and Augus- 
 tus was made the first emperor. During the triumvir- 
 ate, Cicero, the orator, was slain. As an orator, he was 
 considered by his countrymen as having no rival ; and 
 by most men of letters since, as having no superior on 
 the list of ancient or modern orators. The produc- 
 tions of his pen are great in number, and many of 
 them of considerable extent. For depth of philosophy,
 
 219 
 
 soundness of principle, and for purity and copiousness 
 of language, Cicero stands unrivalled in the annals of 
 fine writers. The reign of Augustus has been consi- 
 dered an age of letters, poetry, and eloquence. The 
 emperor, by his minister, Mecaenas, was the patron of 
 the literati. Virgil and Horace, and others of minor 
 note, were drawn to his court by the amenity of his 
 manners, and the munificence of his patronage. His 
 reign was a splendid one, and attracted the gaze of the 
 world, from the sources of the Nile to the ultima tliule 
 of the ancients. Augustus was, indeed, munificent, but 
 he wanted the great soul of Caesar. His reign pre- 
 pared the way for tbe Christian dispensation. 
 
 His successor, Tiberius, had but few, if any, good 
 qualities ; and Caligula, who was the third emperor, 
 was most infamous. His temper was diabolical, and 
 his disposition mean. Claudius, his successor, was 
 weak and contemptible ; but Nero was formed and per- 
 mitted to exist, to be the concentration of every mortal 
 deformity in morals and conduct. Rapine, murder, and 
 incest, were with him but daily crimes. He was not 
 only a piece of moral deformity, but one of the most 
 deceptive character. His head was well formed, and 
 In- countenance had a touch of beauty in it, and was 
 illumined by a faint smile, that gave it the air of im- 
 becility and repose. He fired Rome, and fiddled while it 
 liurninL' ; lie sent his mother to execution, and 
 turned to his ordinary ;imusements, killing flies: he 
 *unk in blood, and Rome breathed more freely when 
 he mi gone. 
 
 Under the following emperors, Rome revived. Ves- 
 pasian had many good qualities. Trajan and Adrian 
 were excellent men, as well as good emperors : but the
 
 220 
 
 «vils they had to encounter were numerous, for the 
 seeds of the dissolution of the empire were deeply 
 sown, and could not be destroyed. The Antonines did 
 much to convey away the wrath of offended heaven, 
 by prudent conduct, and mild and peaceable demeanor, 
 as far as such a course was practicable in their time. 
 They were followed by Constantine, the first emperor 
 who became a convert to Christianity. 
 
 The historians of Rome were not numerous, but se- 
 veral of them were excellent writers. Livy was re- 
 markable for sagacity, candour, and learning. His 
 was a large work, but out of a hundred and forty- two 
 books only twenty-five have come down to us. This 
 is much to be regretted, as he began at the foundation 
 of Rome and closed about thirteen years before Christ. 
 The remaining books are a proof of how much has 
 been lost. Livy was educated after Greece became a 
 province of Rome, and the learned men of Greece had 
 migrated to the great city as the instructers of Roman 
 youth. 
 
 Tacitus was an historian, orator, and statesman, and 
 his style proves that he had read the Greek authors 
 with attention and admiration. 
 
 Pliny the elder was one of the most learned of the 
 philosophers of Rome. He fell a sacrifice to his thirst 
 for knowledge in the sulphurous atmosphere of Vesu- 
 vius, while attempting to ascertain the causes of vol- 
 canic eruptions. He left " a Natural History," in thir- 
 ty-seven books. His nephew, Pliny the younger, was 
 a splendid advocate, a fine epistolary writer, and was 
 called to pronounce a eulogy on Trajan in the senate 
 of Rome, which was admired for its loftiness, elegance, 
 *nd imperial splendor. The virtues of Trajan were
 
 881 
 
 embalmed by the genius of Pliny. The style of Ro- 
 man eloquence was then changing, and he was among 
 the last who wrote and bj oke the Language of Cicero 
 and Julius Caesar with taste and propriety; and even 
 in Pliny's eloquence, some marks of the affected and 
 overstrained style which soon followed in Rome, may 
 be traced out in his productions. Times and circum- 
 stances control fashion, and fashion enters into every 
 thing around us. The simplicity of primitive manners 
   be found in the Language of primitive times ; and 
 the very taste and luxuries of a people soon become in- 
 corporated intojtherrlanguagi'. Words of a good, strong, 
 wholesome meaning, soon become harsh and offensive 
 '• to ear* polite? When the language of a people dete- 
 riorates into mincing $<>ftness, and changes a direct for 
 an evasive phraseology, there may be polished man- 
 ners and much courtesy there, but little of the true spi- 
 rit of liberty and equality. 
 
 In the Roman history we find much to admire and 
 much to imitate, and many things to blame. Their 
 early history was full of rudeness. It was long before 
 they had much polish among them. They had no 
 lack of energy in their early days, but there was a 
 touch of the Bavage in them for many yean after they 
 became distinguished among the nations. For more 
 than rout hundred years from the foundation <>f Rome 
 
 they had not made many advances in science and lite- 
 rature. In this period their swords were more trans- 
 cendant instrunMMU than their pens. The nature 
 of their government kept them engaged in foreign 
 
 war- more than even their warlike dispositions; 
 
 fi.r Hie moment the] rested from the fight they were 
 
 engaged in some political strugghj at home. It was
 
 222 
 
 the policy of their leaders to keep some great object 
 ahead, that the collisions between the patricians and 
 plebeians should not burst into a flame. As the arch of 
 a bridge is made more compact by a proportionable 
 weight, so were they more secure when heavily press- 
 ed by foreign wars. They were, generally speaking, 
 politic in their treatment of the nations they had con- 
 quered ; certainly they were more lenient than any of 
 their predecessors after they had met their foes and 
 conquered them. This policy made the conquered 
 their allies and friends. 
 
 Their architecture, for many years, was rather a 
 matter of their ability and munificence, than of their 
 taste and genius. 
 
 The learned and scientific Greeks and Lidonians and 
 the Carthagenians, were taxed by the Romans for the 
 erecting of their temples and their navies, sueh as they 
 had. Their power commanded, and their pride read- 
 ily reconciled them to ths thought of using all the 
 first talents of all the first nations on earth. Military 
 success always led to such feelings, and always will. 
 It is in human nature. The Romans had a self consi- 
 deration unknown to those who have not become great 
 by conquest over others. The simple thought " / have 
 been in battle; I have fought ; who dares to say aught 
 against my valor dies;" is one that nurtures the pride 
 of man, and never feels any thing of self abasement. 
 " I was born free as Ca>sar, and can bear the winter's 
 cold as well as he," is, in every freeman's breast. But, 
 in Rome, the pride of arms was added to the lofty 
 bearings of freemen. 
 
 Their poets and their philosophers were for a long 
 time imitators of the Greeks. Their patricians were
 
 223 
 
 often too concealed and too vain to become highly in- 
 tellectual ; and the rabble rout,— for it always existed 
 in Rome, — were too debased to think of getting infor- 
 mation j while those who possessed it, in the middling 
 classes, had not often sufficient influence to make an 
 effort for its general acquisition fashionable. It has 
 been regretted by many good patriots, that Rome 
 should have changed her government, and have fallen 
 under the power of the emperors; and then have Lin- 
 gered, and lingering have fallen. With such I have no 
 sympathies ; for my own part, I do not think that Rome 
 fell one moment " ere her time." I believe that changes 
 in empires are as necessary to the ends designed by 
 providence, as the changes of seasons, or the vicissi- 
 tudes of day and night. While this mighty colossus 
 rode the globe, the sword was paramount ; the 
 warrior was greater than the philosopher ; and the 
 military chieftain superior to the statesman or scholar. 
 A love of blood had gone abroad, and man was verg- 
 ing to his native ferocity, when the civilized world, by 
 a new impulse. an w weary of battles, and left Rome 
 to sink by her own weight. The lessons of war are 
 more easily acquired by barbarians than lessons of 
 1 philosophy; and distant nations, who had 
 hear iman fa a in to i mulate her ambition 
 
 and affect her prowess, when Roman prowess was 
 falling in its crest. These rude nations were, in the 
 end. destine:! to overthrow the proud mistress of the 
 world, and i ,ce a new empire on the ruins of 
 
 the o 
 
 In lliis. on f the world, the lovers of science 
 
 or literature owe much less to Rome than to Greece; 
 for the number of scholar! of the former bear but a
 
 224 
 
 small proportion to those of the latter, and with a few 
 exceptions, are not equal in taste or genius to their 
 masters. To Rome we have no power to show our 
 gratitude. The Romans no longer exist — they have 
 been merged in new born nations. What Caesar wrote 
 and Tully spoke, is no longer a living language. But 
 Greece, buried and resuscitated ; oppressed, degraded, 
 delivered, elevated, and now speaking aloud to all the 
 sympathies of our best natures, is receiving our grati- 
 tude, which we are happy to bestow, and she delighted 
 to receive. Our scholars are in Greece, pouring over 
 her ancient monuments, encouraging her in the cause 
 of freedom, kneeling with her at the altar of a true 
 God, — whom ancient Greece never knew, — offering 
 prayers for her deliverance, and uttering vows for her 
 protection. Some of the most aspiring geniuses of 
 Greece are found in this country, learning our customs, 
 manners, and methods of thinking and acting, and 
 studying our constitutions and laws, to carry back to 
 their own country whatever may be useful of our insti- 
 tutions, to assist in the great cause of their resuscitation. 
 Their language is nearly the same as that spoken at 
 Athens by Pericles, and the elements of the people as 
 mercurial as when they fought at Thermopylae and 
 Marathon. They have been trampled upon and de- 
 graded for centuries. The Ottoman lash has whipped 
 them to the bone, and the Turkish sceptre ground them 
 to the dust; but heaven had decreed that they should 
 suffer all, and not be destroyed, that they should spring 
 up again to light and life— throw off the yoke of sla- 
 very — invoke the spirit of freedom — strike their op- 
 pressors to the heart — and peal a hymn to liberty, 
 where Demosthenes fulminated and Pindar sung. The
 
 225 
 
 ruins of the Parthenon may yet survive the crescent ; 
 and the Phoenix-banner of Attica float in the breeze of 
 freedom, when the standard of Mahomet shall be rent 
 by the blast and scattered by the winds of heaven. 
 They fought — they bled — they cried in agony for suc- 
 cor — and the decree for their deliverance went forth 
 from the God of armies. Let the nations cry — mat n 
 
 But to be more particular with some of the learned 
 men of that age. Lucretius and Catullus, the poets, 
 lived with Cicero, the orator, who was their friend and 
 patron. Lucretius was a philosophical poet, and ex- 
 plained, as far as he was able, the atomic system of 
 Epicurus. He had a fine command of language, and 
 reasoned with great strength upon absurd principles. 
 Catullus, with tenderness and passion, had delicacy 
 and strength. They must have been men of learning 
 and genius to have secured the friendship of such men 
 as Cicero and Julius Ca?sar. 
 
 The successors of these poets, Virgil and Horace, 
 were their superiors in genius and taste. Virgil read 
 and imitated Homer constantly, and in his great epic, 
 the /Eneiad, he does not seem to wish to hide his imi- 
 tations. The poems of Virgil, which have been consi- 
 dered minor ones, have more nature, genius, and ori- 
 ginality, than are to be found in his epic. Care, pa- 
 tience*, taste, were the characteristics of his muse; 
 inten<e labor is seen in every line of his writings. 
 They have been studied as a classic ever since the revi- 
 val <>f learning, and, probably, will hold their place as 
 long as classical learning is made a study in any 
 country. 
 
 20
 
 226 
 PASTORAL I. 
 
 OR, 
 
 Tityrus and MelibcBus. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The occasion of the first pastoral was this. When Augustus had settled him- 
 self in the Roman empire, that he might reward his veteran troops for their 
 past service, he distributed among them all the lands that lay about Cremo- 
 na and Mantua ; turning out the right owners for having sided with his en- 
 emies. Virgil was a sufferer among the rest ; who afterwards recovered 
 his estate by Maecenas's intercession, and, as an instance of his gratitude, 
 composed the following pastoral, where he sets out his own good fortune in 
 the person of Tityrus, and the calamities of his Mantuan neighbours In the 
 character of Melibceus. 
 
 MELIBfEUS. 
 
 Beneath the shade which beeehen boughs diffuse, 
 You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse, 
 Round the wide world in banishment we roam, 
 Forc'd from our pleasing fields and native home ; 
 "While, stretch'd at ease, you sing your happy loves, 
 And Amaryllis fills the shady groves. 
 
 TITYROS. 
 
 These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd ; 
 For never can I deem him less than God. 
 The tender firstlings of my woolly breed 
 Shall on his holy altar often bleed. 
 He gave me kiiie to graze the flow'ry plain, 
 \nd to my pipe renew'd the rural strain.
 
 227 
 
 MELIBCEDS. 
 
 I envy not your fortune but admire, 
 
 That, while the raging sword and wasteful fire 
 
 Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around, 
 
 No hostile arms approach your happy ground. 
 
 Far diff'rent is my fate: my feeble goats 
 
 With [>ains I drive from their forsaken cotes. 
 
 And this, you Bee, 1 scarcely drag along, 
 
 Who. yeaning, on the rocks has left her young; 
 
 The hope and promise of my falling fold. 
 
 My loss, by dire portents the gods foretold ; 
 
 For, had I not been blind, I might have seen:— 
 
 Yon riven oak. the fairest of the green, 
 
 And the hoarse raven, on the blasted bough, 
 
 By croaking from the left, presaged the coming blow, 
 
 But tell me, Tityrus. what heavenly pow'r 
 
 Preserv'd your fortune in that fatal hour? 
 
 TTTYRUS. 
 
 Fool thsn I was, I thought imperial Rome 
 Like Mantua, where on market days we come, 
 And thither drive our tender lambs from home. 
 So kids and whelps their sires and dams express; 
 And so the greal I measur'd by the less. 
 But country towns, compar'd with her, appear 
 Like shrubs, when lofty cypresses are near. 
 
 MELIBOSUS. 
 
 What great occasion call'd you hence to Rome ? 
 
 TITYin 
 
 Freedom, which came al length, tho 5 slow to come. 
 Nor did mj search of liberty begin, 
 
 Till my black hairs m re changed upon my chin;
 
 228 
 
 Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look, 
 Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke. 
 Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain, 
 I sought not freedom, nor aspired to gain : 
 Though many a victim from my folds was bought, 
 And many a cheese to country markets brought, 
 Yet all the little that I got, I spent, 
 And still returned as empty as I went. 
 
 MEUBCEUS. 
 
 We stood amazed to see your mistress mourn, 
 Unknowing that she pin'd for your return : 
 We wonder'd why she kept her fruit so long, 
 For whom so late th' ungather'd apples hung. 
 But now the wonder ceases, since I see 
 She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee. 
 For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn, 
 And whisp'ring pines made vows for thy return. 
 
 TITYRUS. 
 
 What should I do ?— While here I was enchain'd, 
 
 No glimpse of godlike liberty reinain'd ; 
 
 Nor could" I hope, in any place but there. 
 
 To find a god so present to my pray'r. 
 
 There first the youth of heavenly birth I viewed, 
 
 For whom our monthly victims are renew'd. 
 
 He heard my vows, and graciously decreed, 
 
 My grounds to be restor'd, my former flocks to feed. 
 
 MELIBCEDS. 
 
 O fortunate old man ! whose farm remains — 
 For you sufficient — and requites your pains; 
 Though rushes overspread the neighb'ring plains,
 
 229 
 
 Though here the marshy grounds approach your fields, 
 
 And there the soil a Btony harvest yields. 
 
 Your teaming cuts shall no strange meadows try, 
 
 Nor fear a rot from tainted company. 
 
 Behold ! yon bord'ring fence of sallow trees 
 
 Is fraught with flow're, the ilmv"rsare fraught with bees, 
 
 The busy bees, with a soft murmuring strain, 
 
 Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain. 
 
 While, from the neighb'rtng rock, with rural songs, 
 
 The pruners voice the pleasing dream prolongs, 
 
 Stock-doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain, 
 
 And from the lofty elms, of love complain. 
 
 TITYRCS. 
 
 TV inhabitants of seas and skies shall change, 
 And fish on shore, and stags in air, shall range, 
 The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink, 
 And the blue German shall the Tigris drink, 
 Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth, 
 Forget the figure of that godlike youth. 
 
 MELIBCEUS. 
 
 But we must beg our bread in climes unknown, 
 Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone: 
 And some to far Oaxis shall be sold, 
 Or try the Lybkn heat, or Scythian cold; 
 The n -t among the Britons be confin'd ; 
 A race of men, from all the world disjoin'd. 
 ()! must tin- wretched exiles ever mourn, 
 N or, after length of rolling yean returnl 
 An- ui- oondemn'd by fate's onjusl decree, 
 No more our houses and our homes to see? 
 
 20*
 
 230 
 
 Or shall we mount again the rural throne, 
 
 And rule the country kingdoms once our own ; 
 
 Did we for these barbarians plant and sow ? 
 
 On these, on these, our happy fields bestow ? 
 
 Good heaven ! what dire effects from civil discord flow I 
 
 Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine j 
 
 The fruit is theirs, the labor only mine. 
 
 Farewell, my pastures, my paternal stock, 
 
 My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock ! 
 
 No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb 
 
 The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow'ry thyme ! 
 
 No more extended in the grot below, 
 
 Shall see you browsing on the mountain's brow 
 
 The prickly shrubs ; and after on the bare, 
 
 Leap down the deep abyss, and hang in air. 
 
 No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew ; 
 
 No more my song shall please the rural crew ; 
 
 Adieu my tuneful pipe ! and all the world, adieu ! 
 
 TITYRUS. 
 
 This night, at least, with me forget your care, 
 •Chestnuts, and curds and cream shall be your fare; 
 The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread ; 
 And boughs shall weave a cov'ring for your head. 
 For see, yon sunny hill the shade extends ; 
 And curling smoke from cottages ascends.
 
 231 
 PASTORAL IV. 
 
 OR, 
 
 Pollio. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The poet cefcbrates the birthday of Saloninus, the son of Pollio, bom in the 
 consulship of his father, after the taking of Salo»n, a city in Dalmatia. 
 Many of Uie verses are translated from one of the Sibyls, who prophesied 
 of our SavuxiT s birth. 
 
 Sicilian muse, begin a loftier strain ! 
 
 Tho' lowly shrubs, and trees that shade the plain, 
 
 Delight not all ; Sicilian muse, prepare 
 
 To make the vocal woods deserve a consul's care. 
 
 The last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes, 
 
 Renews its finish'd course : Saturnian times 
 
 Roll round again ; and mighty years, begun 
 
 From their first orb in radiant circles run. 
 
 Thetiase degen'rate iron offspring ends; 
 
 A golden progeny from heaven descends. 
 
 O chaste Lucina! speed the mother'6 pains ; 
 
 And hasi lorious birth ! thy own Apollo reigns! 
 
 The lovely boy, with his auspicious face, 
 
 Shall I'ullio's consulship and triumph grace: 
 
 M rjettie months set oul (with him) to their appointed 
 
 ra< 
 The father baniah'd virtue shall restore ; 
 And crimes shall threat the guilty world no more.
 
 232 
 
 The son shall lead the life of gods, and be 
 
 By gods and heroes seen, and gods and heroes see. 
 
 The jarring nations he in peace shall bind, 
 
 And with paternal virtues rule mankind. 
 
 Unbidden earth shall wreathing ivy bring, 
 
 And fragrant herbs (the promises of spring,) 
 
 As her first off* 'rings to her infant king, 
 
 The goats with strutting dogs shall homeward speed, 
 
 And lowing herds secure from lions feed. 
 
 His cradle shall with rising flow'rs be crown'd : 
 
 The serpent's brood shall die : the sacred ground 
 
 Shall weeds and pois'nous plants refuse to bear : 
 
 Each common bush shall Syrian roses wear. 
 
 But when heroic verse his youth shall raise, 
 
 And form it to hereditary praise, 
 
 Unlabor'd harvests shall the fields adorn, 
 
 And cluster'd grapes shall blush on every thorn; 
 
 The knotted oaks shall showers of honey weep ; 
 
 And thro' the matted grass the liquid. gold shall creep, 
 
 Yet, of old fraud some footsteps shall remain : 
 
 The merchant still shall plough the deep for gain : 
 
 Great cities shall with walls be compass'd round ; 
 
 And sharpen'd shares shall vex the fruitful ground ; 
 
 Another Typhis shall new seas explore ; 
 
 Another Argo land the chiefs upon th' Iberian shore ; 
 
 Another Helen other wars create, 
 
 And great Achilles urge the Trojan fate. 
 
 But, when to ripen'd manhood he shall grow, 
 
 The greedy sailor shall the seas forego : 
 
 No keel shall cut the waves for foreign ware ; 
 
 For every soil shall every product bear. 
 
 The lab'ring hind his oxen shall disjoin : 
 
 No plough shall hurt the glebe, no pruning-hook the vine;
 
 233 
 
 Nor wool ahall in dissembled color shine 
 
 But the luxurious father of the fold, 
 
 With native purple, ami unborrow'd gold, 
 
 Beneath his pompous Qeece shall proudly sweat ; 
 
 And under Tynan robes the lamb shall bleat. 
 
 The Pates, when they this nappy web have spun, 
 
 Shall bless the sacred clue, and bid it smoothly run. 
 
 .Mature m years, to ready honors move. 
 
 O, of celestial seed ! O, foster son of Jove ! 
 
 See, lab'ring Nature calls thee to sustain 
 
 The nodding frame of heav'n, and earth, and main! 
 
 See to their base restor'd, earth, seas, and air ; 
 
 And joyful ages, from behind, in crowding ranks appear. 
 
 To sing thy praise, would heav'n my breath prolong, 
 
 Infusing spirits worthy such a song, 
 
 Not Thraeian Orpheus should transcend my lays, 
 
 Nor Linus crown'd with never fading bays ; 
 
 Though each his heav'nly parent should inspire ; 
 
 The mnsp instruct the voice, and Phoebus tune the lyre. 
 
 Should Pan ei mtend in verse, and thou my theme, 
 
 Arcadian judges should their god condemn. . 
 
 Begin, auspicious boy ! to cast about 
 
 Thy infant eyes, and with a smile thy mother -single 
 
 out. 
 Thy mother well deserves that short delight. 
 The nauseous qualms of ten long months and travail 
 
 to requite. 
 Then smile ! the frowning infant's doom is read : 
 No god shall crown the board, nor goddess bless the bed. 
 
 The writings of Horace, although not read as much 
 by scholars in this country as those of Virgil, are 
 
 marked with as much gcniu- and a deeper knowledge
 
 234 
 
 -of the affairs of the world. He was educated in part 
 at Athens, and imbibed all the sweets of that attic hive. 
 He spent his days in literary ease, and associated with 
 men in the first rank in Rome, from Augustus to the 
 orators and poets around him. 
 
 " In the person of Horace there was nothing charac- 
 teristic of the Roman. He was below the middle size, 
 and extremely corpulent. Augustus compares him, in 
 a letter, to the book which he sent him — a little thick 
 volume. He was grey-haired at a very early age, and 
 luxurious living by no means agreed with his constitu- 
 tion ; yet he constantly associated with the greatest 
 men in Rome, and frequented the table of his illustri- 
 ous patrons as if he were in his own house. The em- 
 peror, whilst sitting at his meals with Virgil at his right 
 hand and Horace at his left, often ridiculed the short 
 breath of the former, and the watery eyes of the latter, 
 by observing that ' he sat between tears and sighs.' In 
 early life -Horace spfims to have been a disciple of Epi- 
 curus, and a professor of the doctrine of chance in the 
 formation of things ; but in Ode xxxiv. book i. we find 
 him abjuring this system of philosophy, and embrac- 
 ing that of stoicism ; mentioning as one great, though 
 apparently unreasonable motive for recantation, that it 
 thundered and lightened in a pure sky, which was a 
 phcenomenon not to be accounted for on natural prin- 
 ciples, and, consequently, an irresistible argument in 
 support of an over-ruling Providence. 
 
 " Horace has been, of all others, the poet for quota- 
 tion, and the companion of the classical scholar. His 
 Odes are indisputably the best models of that kind of 
 composition in the Latin language; for when many 
 others were extant, Quintilian pronounced him ' almost
 
 235 
 
 the only one of the lyric poels worthy of being read.' 
 It has been well observed of him, that he lias given to 
 a rough language the tenth rand delicate modulation of 
 the eastern song. His odes are pathetic, heroic, and 
 amatory. The srvt ateenth of the second book, writ- 
 ten during the last illness of Maecenas, is of the first 
 kind; it possesses all that variety of sentiment and feli- 
 city of expression in which he is so eminently superior 
 to his great Theban competitor. Of the heroic, one of 
 the most celebrated is that to Fortune, (Ode xxxv. 
 book i.) wherein he invokes her with the most insinuat- 
 ing grace, and recommends Augustus and the Romans 
 to her care. The amatory odes of this inestimable 
 poet evince the polished and delicate taste of which he 
 •was so eminently possessed ; they contain the refine- 
 ment and softness of Sappho, combined with the spirit 
 and elegance of Anacreon. In his ode to Pyrrha, 
 tin re is a mixture of sweetness and reproach, of praise 
 and satire, uniformly pleasing in all languages ; and 
 which Scaliger calls the purest nectar. Horace can 
 equally inflame the mind by his enthusiasm, and calm 
 it by his philosophy. Where shall we see in an unin- 
 spired writer, better consolation for poverty, or stronger 
 arguments for contentment, than are contained in his 
 admirable ode to Dellius? And his hymn to the praise 
 of the sods and of illustrious men, may claim the palm, 
 when put in competition with the finest compositions 
 of his Grecian predecessors. 
 
 "The entires and epistles of Horace are full of mo- 
 rality and good sense. In the first book of the satires 
 In- obvious end) avour to eradicate vice ; and in the 
 nd. to dispel those prejudices Which infest the hu- 
 man mind. Theepi-iir- ire an appendix to the satiras |
 
 236 
 
 they not only exhibit a forcible style of writing, but 
 contain a valuable system of ethics. Socrates refuted 
 before he taught, observing, ' that the ground ought first 
 to be cleared from weeds, before it be sown with corn.' 
 The satires are the purifiers of passion, and the epistles 
 are the lessons of virtue to fill up the vacancies in the 
 mind. In the epistles he steps forward as a vindicator 
 of morality ; and, warm in its cause, gives way to all 
 the strength and vigor of his genius. His sentiments 
 are manly and elevated, and his verse suitable to his 
 thoughts, powerful and sublime. The Curiosa Feli- 
 citas of Horace has beeome, as it were, proverbial 
 among the sons of genius ; and his name will continue 
 to be held in universal veneration, until the Goths of 
 ignorance shall diffuse a second darkness over the civil 
 ized world." 
 
 ODE TO LOLLIUS. 
 
 While with the Grecian bards I vie, 
 
 And raptur'd tune the social string, 
 Think not the song shall ever die, 
 Which with no vulgar art I sing, 
 Though born where Aufid rolls his sounding stream, 
 In lands far distant from poetic fame. 
 
 What though the muse her Homer thrones 
 
 High above all th' immortal choir, 
 Nor Pindar's rapture she disowns, 
 Nor hides the plaintive Caean lyre ; 
 Alcaeus strikes the tyrant's soul with dread, 
 Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread.
 
 237 
 
 Whate'er, of old, Anacreon sung, 
 
 However tender was the lay, 
 In spite of time is ever young, 
 Nor Sappho's amorous flames decay ; 
 Her living songs preserve their charming art, 
 Her love still breathes the passions of her heart. 
 
 Helen was not the only fair 
 
 By an unhappy passion fir'd, 
 Who the lewd ringlets of the hair 
 Of an adulterous youth* admir'd ; 
 For splendid vests, f and royal gTace, have charms 
 To tempt weak woman to a stranger's arms. 
 
 Nor first from Teucer's vengeful bow 
 The feather'd death unerring flew, 
 Nor was the Greek the single foe, 
 Whose rage ill-fated Ilion knew ; 
 Greece had with heroes filFd th' embattled plain, 
 Worthy the muse in her sublimest strain. 
 
 Nor Hector first transported heard 
 With fierce delight the war's alarms, 
 • Nor brave Deiphobus appear'd 
 Ahiid the tented field in arms, 
 
 " Youth.] Francis has beau, which socms the utmost depth of the Bathos. 
 t I) . .irk <>n m Bi "It was not 
 
 0| an AM:iiir prince should strike with 
 wonder a prtaoeM of Lacedn mon, whose peoptt   ted hi Ih 
 
   'st ages." Where did the crlth hat the a 
 
 °par 
 •herwUte educated than the other (ireeks, before the time of I.y- 
 eurcoiit 
 
 The Ifrtendld dre»» and irmour of Mcnelatu are particularly rncntioned by 
 Homer, Iliad iv. »er. 133. 
 
 21
 
 238 
 
 With glorious ardor prodigal of life, 
 To guard a darling son, and faithful wife. 
 
 Before great Agamemnon reign'd, 
 
 Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave, 
 Whose huge ambition's now contain'd 
 In the small compass of a grave ; 
 In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown, 
 No bard had they to make all time their own. 
 
 In earth if it forgotten lies, 
 
 What is the valor of the brave ? 
 What difference, when the coward dies, 
 And sinks in silence to his grave 1 
 Nor, Lollius, will I not thy praise proclaim. 
 But from oblivion vindicate thy fame. 
 
 Nor shall its livid power conceal 
 
 Thy toils — how glorious to the state ! 
 How constant to the public weal 
 Through all the doubtful turns of Fate ! 
 Thy steady soul, by long experience found 
 Erect alike, when fortune smil'd or frown'd. 
 
 Villains, in public rapine bold, 
 
 Lollius, the just avenger, dread, 
 Who never by the charms of gold, 
 Shining seducer! was misled; 
 Beyond thy year such virtue shall extend, 
 And death alone thy consulate shall end. 
 
 Perpetual magistrate is he, 
 Who keeps strict justice full in sight;
 
 339 
 
 With scorn rejects lh' offender's fe< . 
 Nor weighs convenience against right ; 
 
 Who bids the crowd at awful distance 
 And virtue's arms victoriously displays. 
 
 Not he, of wealth imm< - 3» ss'd, 
 Tasteless who piles Ids massy gold, 
 Among the number of the ble'ss'd 
 Should have his glorious name enroli'd; 
 Hi better claims the glorious name who knows 
 With wisdom to enjoy what heaven bestows: 
 
 W Bo knows the wrongs of want to bear, 
 
 Even in its lowest, last extreme; 
 Yet can with conscious virtue fear, 
 
 1   » than death, a deed of shame; 
 Undaunted, for his country or Ids friend, 
 To sacrifice his life — O glorious end ! 
 
 ODE TO MAECENAS. 
 
 D< ! from an ancient line, 
 
 That once the Tusc 'i sci ptre - 
 ' ' • iee to meet the 
 
 liereing is f< >■ iii a 
 
 I', 
 For thee, M . breathes the bloomi 
 
 Fr 
 Wh marshy prospect yii 
 
 with nn 
 Fair jEsula'a declining fieli
 
 240 
 
 r No more the verdant hills admire 
 Of Telegon, who kill'd his aged sire. 
 
 Instant forsake the joyless feast, 
 
 Where appetite in surfeit dies, 
 And from the towered structure haste, 
 
 That proudly threatens to the skies; 
 From Rome and its tumultuous joys, 
 Its crowds, and smoke, and opulence, and noise. 
 
 To frugal treats, and humble cells, 
 With grateful change the wealthy fly, 
 
 Where health-preserving plainness dwells, 
 Far from the carpet's gaudy dye. 
 
 Such scenes have charm'd the pangs of care, 
 And smooth'd the clouded forehead of despair. 
 
 Andromeda's conspicuous sire, 
 Now darts his hidden beams from far ; 
 
 The lion shows his maddening nre, 
 And barks fierce Procyon's raging star ; 
 
 While Phoebus with revolving ray, 
 Brings back the burnings of the thirsty day. 
 
 Fainting beneath the sweltering heat, 
 To cooling streams and breezy shades 
 
 The shepherd and his flocks retreat, 
 While rustic sylvans seek the glades j 
 
 Silent the brook its borders laves, 
 Nor curls one vagrant breath of wind the waves. 
 
 But you for Rome's imperial state 
 Attend with ever-watchful care,
 
 '2 11 
 
 Or, for the world's uncertain (ate 
 
 Alarm'd, with ceaseless terrors fear: 
 Anxious whal eastern wars impend, 
 Or what the Scj thians in their pride int. 
 
 But Jove, ;n goodm ss evi r w is 
 Hath hid, in rl.ni.:> of depthless night, 
 
 All that in future \ i us, 
 
 Beyond the kin of mortal sight ; 
 
 And laughs to see vain man opnress'd 
 With idle fears, and more than man distrcss'd. 
 
 Then wisely form the present hour ; 
 
 Enjoy the bliss which it bestows; • 
 
 The rest is all beyond our power, 
 
 And like the changeful Tiber* flows. 
 Wlio now beneath his banks subsides, 
 And peaceful to his native ocean glides: 
 
 But when descends a sudden shower, 
 
 And wild provokes his silent flood, 
 The mountains hear the torrent roar, 
 
 And echoes shake the neighboring wood ; 
 Then, swollen with rape, lie sweeps away 
 Uprooted trees, herds, dwellings, to the sea. 
 
 Happy the man, and he alone 
 
 Who, master of himself, can say — 
 
 To day at least, hath been my own, 
 
 * Tiber] These accounts of Ml rh • gfljr cxaefcratc.1, unless the 
 
 rtTer has decreased as much as Ram*. The chief i;lory of the Tiber now, to 
 use Ihe words of Whitehead, Is, that 
 
 " Its waves haft flow''! through Uitlan lands, 
 Have wash'd the walls of Rome." 
 
 21*
 
 242 
 
 For I have clearly liv'd to-day : 
 Then let to-morrow's clouds arise, 
 Or purer suns o'erspread the cheerful skies. 
 
 Not Jove himself can now make void 
 
 The joy, that wing'd the flying hour ; 
 The certain blessing once enjoy'd, 
 
 Is safe beyond the godhead's power; 
 Nought can recal the acted scene : 
 What hath been, spite of Jove himself, hath been. 
 
 But Fortune, ever-changing dame, 
 
 Indulges her malicious joy, 
 And constant plays her haughty game, 
 
 Proud of her office to destroy ; 
 To-day to me her bounty flows, 
 
 And now on others she the bliss bestows. 
 
 I can applaud her while she stays, 
 
 But if she shake her rapid wings, 
 I can resign with careless ease, 
 
 The richest gifts her favor brings, 
 Then folded lie in virtue's arms, 
 And honest poverty's undower'd charms. 
 
 Though the mast howl beneath the wind, 
 I make no mercenary prayers; 
 
 Nor with the gods a bargain bind 
 With future vows, and streaming tears, 
 
 To save my wealth from adding more 
 To boundless ocean's avaricious store.
 
 243 
 
 Then in my little barge I'll ride, 
 
 Secure amid the fuainy wave; 
 Calm will I stem the threatening tide, 
 
 And fearless all its tumults brave ; 
 Ev'n then perhaps some kinder gale, 
 While the twin stars appear, shall till my joyful sail. 
 
 Ovid was contemporary with Virgil, Horace, and 
 Propertius, but he did not reach them so nearly as 
 Moore does Campbell, liogers, and Byron. His ama- 
 tory verses have great sweetness in them, and when 
 the mind is matured, may be read without any injuri- 
 ous influences, as a whole, A part of his works are 
 sentimental without any indelicacies. 'What can be 
 more beautiful than his ele?y on his exile? He was 
 banished by Augustus, and died in exile, at Pontus, on 
 the Euxine sea. 
 
 ELECY ON HIS EXILE. 
 
 \ plumes are o'er my temples shed, 
 
 White age my Bable hair lias silvery spread: 
 Frail \< ars er< i p on : a life inert is near; 
 Nov i r< d i!i> frame infirm I rear: 
 
 Now were it tit. some h rm to toil assign'd, 
 No fear Bhould vex solicitous my mind : 
 
 Thai I Should re:q. my ever faVOTltl 
 
 t leisure with liuht studies please. 
 Haunt my small house, my anch nt home and board, 
 And patrimonial fields, that miss their lord. 
 While a 1 i children, should enfold 
 
 My neck, arid m my counti I >ld.
 
 * 
 I 
 
 244 
 
 Thus had I hoped to steal my life away, 
 
 Not undeserving of this mild decay : 
 
 The gods thought otherwise : o'er sea and land 
 
 They drove me to this bleak Sarmatian strand. 
 
 In hollow docks ( the shatter'd ships recline; 
 
 Lest, in mid-ocean split the starting pine ; 
 
 Lest faint he fall, and shame his palm-crown'd speed, 
 
 The languid race-horse crops the grassy mead : 
 
 The veteran soldier, active now no more, 
 
 Hangs by his old fire-side the arms he bore : 
 
 So, while in tardy age my powers decline, 
 
 The wand of free dismissal should be mine. 
 
 'Twas time no more to breathe a foreign air, 
 
 Nor to a Scythian spring in thirst repair ; 
 
 But to wide gardens (such I had) retreat, 
 
 Or seek the face of men in Rome's enlivening street. 
 
 This, for no thoughts the future could divine, 
 
 This soft old age I hoped would have been mine. 
 
 The Fates withstood : my early years they bless'd, 
 
 And bade calamity weigh down the rest. 
 
 Ten lustres, free from moral stain, are fled : 
 
 In life's worst stage misfortune bows my head. 
 
 The goal of ease just opening to my view, 
 
 A dreadful shock my chariot- wheels o'erthrew: 
 
 Ah ! madman ! have I forc'd from him a frown, 
 
 Than whom the world no milder heart has known? 
 
 And do my crimes that clemency exceed ? 
 
 Yet life is spared me for my error's deed. 
 
 Ah me ! a life beneath the northern pole ; 
 
 Left to the Euxine's waves that blackening roll: 
 
 Had Delphos' cave, Dodona's oak, in strain 
 
 Prophetic warn'd me, I had deem'd them vain. 
 
 But nought so strong, though adamant its frame,
 
 846 
 
 As that its strength repels Jove's rushing flume: 
 Nor aught so high, above misfortune's rod, 
 But lies beneath tlf o'er ruling arm of God. 
 What though my fault, 111 part, these miseries drew, 
 Too hard a doom from angry heaves I rue. 
 Warn'd by my fate, his gracious favor prize, 
 Who sits vicegerent of the deities. 
 
 Some critics have attempted to mark the decline of 
 Roman taste and genius, by the writings of their poets; 
 but tins is not a very accurate criterion, for there may- 
 be dissolute minds when the mass of the people are 
 still stern in their morality, and even Catoa in an 
 of degeneracy. It will not be denied, that with the 
 increase of sensuality the vigor of the Roman mind 
 declined ; yet there were stars of great magnitude 
 shining from age to age in every period of Roman 
 history. 
 
 In the reign of Domitian, flourished Juvenal. He 
 was a satirist of imperishable memory ; and what was 
 most extraordinary, lived in a profligate and sanguina- 
 ry court, and died in a good old age. The secret of his 
 security and long life was this — he attacked vices and 
 not the vicious. He would not have lived a year, if he 
 had, like Pope, brought living characters into his verse. 
 He made every moral deformity pass in review, but no 
 one said "this is an image of myself," even if he 
 thought so. This satire is more useful and more last- 
 ing. Who now looks after('olIey('ihber,('hartres, Hen- 
 ley, and the host Pope satirised; but every one reads 
 the indignant strains of Decimal Junius Juvenalis in 
 the Original or in translation. He attacked vices in 
 every form, and while all felt the lash no one could say
 
 246 
 
 he was the person intended by the Satirist. In every 
 age men who feel disturbed at the reigning vices will 
 speak out; and when they do, their words will last long 
 and be effective. Satire takes deep hold on the human 
 mind. In the worst of times there is a hatred to vice 
 in the publie mind. Widows and orphans are more 
 numerous than misers or hard-hearted landlords, and 
 their resentments to the latter never die. It is easier to 
 blame than to praise, and the science of pulling down 
 was more readily pursued than that of building up the 
 characters of contemporaries. The satirists have re- 
 ceived more honor than the eulogists, whose task has 
 been hardest. Juvenal, in the opinion of most^scho- 
 lars, has claims to an equality with Plutarch ; but the 
 philosopher will not consider the satirist as great a 
 man as the biographer. 
 
 We must pass the minor Latin poets with the single 
 exception of one extract from Claudian. 
 
 THE OLD MAN OF VERONA. 
 
 Blest is the man who, in his father's fields, 
 Has past an age of quiet. The same roof, 
 That screen'd his cradle, yields a shelter now 
 To his gray hairs. He leans upon a staff, 
 Where, as a child, he crept along the ground; 
 And, in one cottage, he has number'd o'er 
 A length of years. Him Fortune has not drawn 
 Into her whirl of strange vicissitudes; 
 Nor has he drunk, with ever-changing home, 
 From unknown rivers. Never on the deep, 
 A merchant, has he trembled at the storm; 
 Nor, as a soldier, started at the blare
 
 247 
 
 Of trumpets ; nor endured the noisy strife 
 Of the hoarse-clamouring bar: of the great world 
 Simply unconscious. To the neighboring town 
 A stranger, he enjoys the free expanse 
 Of open lu'aven. The old man marks his year, 
 Nut by the names of Consuls, but computes 
 Tune by bis various erops: by apples notes 
 The autumn ; by the blooming (lower the spring. 
 From the same field he Bees his daily sun 
 Go down, and lift again its reddening orb; 
 And, by his own contracted universe. 
 The rustic measures the vast light Of day. 
 He well remembers thai broad massive oak, 
 An acorn: and has seen the grove grow old, 
 I ieval with himself. Verona 
 To him m< int than the swarthy Ind: 
 
 acus like the shores 
 Of the n 1 gulph. But his a vigor hate, 
 And unabated : 1, w outlived 
 
 it] ; rs, 
 i firm and b rms. 'i 
 
 May roam to farthi b1 Spain : 1. has known 
 
 Of earthlj man more of life. 
 
 1 '. icienl history is 
 
 troubled to know what measure of credit should be 
 
 • :i to the ancient oraclos and my-tern -. concerning 
 which there arc so many marvellous talcs to be found; 
 and we ma   of this BUbjed here as at 
 
 any other tunc or place, Rollin's ancient history, a 
 hook much read among us. often mentions the respon- 
 ses of the oracles of antiquity. The writer was a 
 pious, excellent man, but w;ts fond of the marvellous"
 
 248 
 
 and not a little inclined to superstition. He believed 
 that wicked spirits were sometimes permitted by an 
 all-wise Providence to reside in these caves or inner 
 shrines to deceive mankind by indirectly shadowing 
 forth things to come. Other historians have spoken 
 of the magicians, soothsayers, and astrologers, as 
 having great confidence in their supernatural know- 
 ledge. 
 
 The first account we have of these wise men is that 
 given by Moses, in his interview with Pharaoh. They 
 were soon convinced that they could not struggle with 
 the servants of the Lord, and yielded after a few trials 
 of their skill. These magicians were scientific men 
 who soon discovered the natural from the miraculous. 
 
 The whole worship of Isis was full of mysteries, 
 and these wise men alone had the key to them. 
 Tombs, temples, and all public buildings, and all the 
 arts and sciences, were full of mysteries to the com- 
 mon people. It was the same in Persia and Assyria 
 as in Egypt. The wise men were advisers of the 
 king, and he supported them in ease and dignity. 
 They were called in to interpret .the hand writing on 
 the wall, but could not read it. 
 
 When the Greeks made themselves masters of the 
 learning of Egypt and Babylon they found these mys- 
 teries of no small importance to themselves. They 
 kept up the same air of secrecy, and devoted them to 
 religions purposes. The oracle of Delphos having by 
 accident established a reputation for correct prophecies, 
 continued it, by art, for religious, but more often for 
 political purposes. The Pythia, in every age, was a 
 shrewd woman, Avho knew what was wanted, and who 
 it was that inquired of her for knowledge; and her
 
 249 
 
 answers were made accordingly. The Egyptians and 
 the Greeks were well acquainted with acoustics, and 
 sounds were managed for their mysterious responses. 
 That they understood the science of sound, witness 
 the ear of Dionysius. This trick has been played ofl 
 in our times, by "the invisible lady," whom most of 
 us remember. The mysteries of Isis, and the Eleusi- 
 nian mysteries, were kept up by subterranean caverns, 
 so constructed as to throw strange images before the 
 eyes of the initiate by means of moveable lights, and 
 by tubes conveying strange sounds, when they were in 
 darkness, to frighten them. Every one can tell how 
 bu<y the imagination is when we are a little alarmed 
 for our safety. These strange sounds, persons accom- 
 panying those about to be initiated, were allowed to 
 hear, and sometimes they saw flashes of strange lights. 
 There can be no doubt but that some of these ceremo 
 nies were awfully imposing. The higher orders un 
 questionably understood the whole thing, but the lower 
 did not. There was an exoteric and an esoteric 
 meaning to all their ceremonies. From the whole 
 concurrent testimony of ancient history, we must be- 
 lieve that the Elensmian mysteries were used for good 
 purposes, for there is not an instance on record that 
 the honor of an initiation was over obtained by a very 
 bad man. The bieropbftnjs, — the higher priests of 
 the order, — were always exemplary in their morals, 
 and became sanctified in the eyes of the people. The 
 high-priesthood of this order in Greece was continued 
 in one family, — the Eumolpida:, for ages. In this they 
 resembled both the Egyptians and the Jews. 
 
 The Eleusinian mysteries in Rome took another 
 form, and were called the rites of Bona Dca; but abe 
 
 22
 
 250 
 
 was the same Ceres that was worshipped in Greece. 
 All the distinguished Roman authors speak of these 
 rites, and in terms of profound respect. Horace de- 
 nounces the wretch who should attempt to reveal the 
 secrets of these rites ; Virgil mentions these mysteries 
 with great respect ; and Cicero alludes to them with a 
 greater reverence than either of die poets we have 
 named. Both the Greeks aud Romans punished any 
 insult offered to these mysteries with the most perse- 
 vering vindictiveness. Alcibiades was charged with 
 insulting these religious rites ; and although the proof 
 of his offence was quite doubtful, yet he suffered for it 
 for years in exile and misery ; and it must be allowed 
 that he was the most popular man of his age. 
 
 These mysteries were continued until some time 
 after the days of Constantine, when they were prohi- 
 bited. Sad stories have been conjured up to give im- 
 portance to the Egyptian mysteries, but no one has at- 
 tempted to throw any dark shade over those of Greece 
 or Rome. The philosopher will readily believe that 
 there was nothing supernatural in any of their myste- 
 ries; and all may set it down as a fact, that among 
 themselves, — I speak of those initiated, — they never 
 pretended to any thing like a commerce with the in- 
 habitants of the invisible world. They unquestionably 
 often assumed to possess wondrous powers and great 
 ecrets ; but this was only a means of keeping know- 
 ledge from becoming too common; and this was an 
 error which lasted for ages, even down to our times. 
 
 Viewed by the light of a clear understanding, I be- 
 lieve all the marvellous deeds of the magicians, the as- 
 trologers, the soothsayers, the Pithia, and the whole 
 tribe of these mystery -dealing beings, vanish into
 
 
 251 
 
 things, if not easily explained, yet certainly to be 
 traced out. Incantations, charms, ami talismans, which 
 thicken on every page of early history, are dissolved 
 before the torch of reason, and a clear conscience. 
 
 The Sibylline Oracles of Rome had once great influ- 
 ence among the people, and many honest men have 
 now a belief that these oracles foretold the coming of 
 our Saviour; but the wise part of our theologians 
 have long since given tip this fancy, for it can hardly 
 be called a belief. The pastoral from Virgil, which we 
 have selected, contains the supposed prophecy, The 
 following is as fair an account of it as we have Been. 
 
 " The Sibylline Oracles having received information 
 from the Jews, tnat a child was to be born, who should 
 be the Saviour of the world, and to whom nations and 
 empires should bow with submission, pretended to fore 
 tell that this event would occur in the year of Rome 714, 
 aftej the peace concluded between Augustus and An- 
 tony. Virgil viewing this prophecy with the vivid ima- 
 gination of a poet, and willing to flatter the ambition of 
 his patron, composed his celebrated Eclogue, entitled 
 Pollio, in which he supposes the child, who was thus to 
 unite mankind and restore the golden age, to be the in- 
 fant with which Octavia, wife to Antony, and half-sister 
 \ugustus, was then pregnant by her former husband 
 Marcel fus. In this production the consul Pollio, Octa- 
 via, and even the unborn infant, are flattered with his 
 usual delicacy; and the rival Triumviri, though a short 
 lime before in open hostility, have the honor of equal- 
 ly sharing th<' poet'a applause. 
 
 While Pollio, ivho seems to have been the most ac- 
 jompliihed man of his age, and is celebrated as a poet, 
 soldier, orator, and historian, was engaged in an expe-
 
 252 
 
 dition against the Parthini, whom he subdued, Virgil 
 addressed to him his Pharmaceutria, one of the most 
 beautiful of all his Eclogues, and in imitation of a poem 
 of the same name by his favourite author Theocritus. 
 This production is the more valuable, as it has handed 
 down to posterity the superstitious rites of the Romans, 
 and the heathen notions of enchantment. Virgil him- 
 self seems to have been conscious of the beauty of 
 his subject, and the dignity of the person whom he was 
 addressing, and accordingly has given us, by the fertili- 
 ty of his genius and the brilliancy of his imagination, 
 some of the most sublime images that are to be found 
 in any writings of antiquity ." 
 
 Some of the Christian forefathers have stated, that 
 on the eve of the birth of our Saviour, all the oracles of 
 the heathen world ceased. It is certain that the Del- 
 phic oracles grew into disrepute about this time ; but 
 the Eleusinian mysteries, and those of the Bona Dea, 
 were kept up much longer. Milton adopted the belief 
 of the early fathers of the church, and has expressed 
 his poetical opinion, in an ode upon the subject of the 
 silence of the oracles, which is full of deep interest 
 and exquisite beauties. There is a solemn reverence 
 due to his opinions when they are given on great 
 points of faith ; for if ever there was a mind God had 
 filled with light and inspiration without the gift of 
 prophecy, it was that of John Milton. But there is no 
 more reason to think that he was convinced of this as 
 a fact, than that he believed all the incidents in his 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 " The oracles are dumb, 
 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 

 
 25:3 
 
 Apollo from hia shrine 
 
 Cm da more divin % 
 With hollow shriek the sleep of Delphos leaving. 
 No nightly traice, or breathed spell, 
 Inspires the pale-eyeil priest 6om the prophetic celL 
 
 The lonely mountains <>Yr 
 And the resounding shore, 
 A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 
 From haunted spring and dale, 
 Edged with poplar pale, 
 The parting Genius is with sighing sent: 
 With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 
 
 The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled thickets, 
 mourn. 
 
 In consecrated earth 
 And on the holy hearth, 
 The Lares and Lemures moa . with midnight plaint; 
 In utus and altars round, 
 A drear and dying sound 
 Affright the Flamens at their service quaint; 
 And the chill marble 9eeras to sweat, 
 While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. 
 
 Peor and Baalim 
 Forsake their temples dim, 
 With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; 
 And mooned Ashtaroth, 
 Heaven's queen and mother both, 
 Now sits not girt with tapers holy shrine; 
 Fhe Lybic Hammon shrinks his horo, 
 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thainmua 
 mourn. 
 
 22«
 
 254 
 
 And sullen Moloch, fled, 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 His burning idol all of blackest hue; 
 In vain with cymbals' ring 
 They call the grisly king, 
 In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
 Isis, and Oru3, and the dog Anubis haste. 
 
 Nor is Osiris seen 
 In Memphian grove or green, 
 Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud : 
 Nor can he be at rest 
 Within his sacred chest, 
 Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud. 
 In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 
 The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. 
 
 He feels from Judah's land 
 The dreaded Infant's hand, 
 The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
 Nor all the gods beside, 
 Longer dare abide, 
 Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 
 Our babe, to show his Godhead true, 
 Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. 
 
 So when the sun in bed, 
 
 Curtained with cloudy red, 
 Pillows his chin on an orient wave, 
 
 The flocking shadows pale 
 
 Troop to th' infernal jail, 
 Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
 
 And the yellow-skirted fays 
 
 Fly after the night steeds, leaving their moon-loved 
 mare. 
 
 Hut see, the Virgin-bless'd 
 Hath laid her babe to rest ; 
 Time is our tedious song should here have ending • 
 Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
 Bath lix'd her polish'd car, 
 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; 
 And all about the courtly stable 
 Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 
 
 All superstitions arc to be traced to the diseases of 
 the body or the mind. The fibres and charms are 
 made for a diseased body or mind. Sometimes they 
 may be efficacious, by chance ; sometimes nature, the 
 beat of nurses, overcomes all obstacles and heals the 
 malady in spile of the nostrums prescribed. Among 
 the ignorant, in all nations and ages, these panaceas 
 are found. The greater the ignorance tin 1 more effica- 
 cious the charm. The charm called the Obi, or Obiah, 
 which is now practised in Jamaica, and other slave- 
 holding places, was brought from Africa, and is now 
 known throughout the country bordering on the Sene- 
 gal and on the Gambia, and probably is a very ancient 
 superstition. Something resembling this charm has 
 been practised Vy the Indians all over this continent. 
 I attended the process of a charm as practised by the 
 Winnebagoes for the cure of one of their delegation, 
 when they were in Washinpton in 1829. The Indian 
 was very .sick ami qnke insensible. They began by 
 taking out of a bng a great variety of articles, such as
 
 beads, glass mirrors, pieces of human skin, with many 
 Other matters, — a medley shocking to the sight, and 
 offensive to the smell. A portion of the ingredients 
 was burnt, a sort of chant was held over the fire by 
 some members of the delegation which seemed to be 
 confined to those who could keep time in singing. 
 Then deep breathings and low moans were heard. At 
 times the voices were raised to the higher notes. Some 
 threw themselves on the floor as if in agony. This 
 was continued for two hours, during which time the 
 sick man was stretched by a fire in another room, and 
 entirely deserted by those making up the charm. In 
 their absence a physician of the city came in, at the 
 request of the host, and succeeded in relieving the pa- 
 tient. When the charm was wound up, an Indian wo- 
 man, the only one accompanying the delegation, crept 
 slowly towards the sick man. His eyes were opened ; 
 he spoke ; the spell had succeeded, — in an instant the 
 roof resounded with the yells of savage joy. Who 
 could dispute the power of the charm with those sons 
 of the forest. 
 
 This same charm, or one near allied to it, is now 
 practised in the Sandwich Islands. We need not 
 dwell on this part of the subject, for one half of our 
 quack medicines are legitimate descendants of these 
 superstitions. Diseases of ihe mind are prolific of su- 
 perstitious deeds. Saul did not consult the witch of 
 Endor until he was in despair ; nor did Brutus see the 
 ghost of Caesar, or any other spectre, until his hands 
 had been stained with blood, and his nerves had been 
 agitated in contemplating the fate of himself, and his 
 army. The thoughts of bloody deeds are often accom- 
 panied with superstitious omens. When the deed of
 
 257 
 
 death first darted into the mind of Lady Macbeth, she 
 said, in soliloquy, 
 
 " The raven himself is hoarse, 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 Under my battlements." 
 
 When Macbeth had been braced up to Duncan's death, 
 the dagger appeared before him, palpable as that he 
 •wore. 
 
 " It is the bloody business, which informs 
 
 Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half world 
 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 
 The curtain'd sleep ; now witchcraft celebrates 
 
 Pale Hecate's offerings ; and wither'd murder, 
 
 Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, 
 
 Whose howl's his watch, thus with stealthy pace. 
 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design, 
 
 Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm set earth, 
 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 
 Thy very stones prate of my where-about." 
 
 For a while he could hear Lady Macbeth's advice— 
 
 " Things without remedy, 
 Should be without regard"— 
 
 for Duncan was dead ; but Banquo and Fleanee were 
 still living; but when one had twenty mortal murders 
 on his head, and the other had fled from his murderers, 
 he could not any longer forbear consulting the
 
 258 
 
 • '■'Secret, black and midnight hags, 
 That keep the word of promise to our ear 
 And break it to our hope." 
 
 Feeble minds under the influence of supposed guilt, 
 are more likely to be affected by superstitious feelings 
 than strong ones, full of deeds of blood. Sickness, 
 fatigue, and hunger would have made Hercules a whin- 
 ing child, as chills and fever did the mighty Caesar; 
 but a sound mind in a sound body, with a good educa- 
 tion and a clear conscience, will never fear the charms 
 of superstition, the spells of witchcraft, nor the power 
 of magic. The seeds of superstition are too often 
 sown in the nursery, and cherished in our youthful 
 days. Bugbears are too often mingled with lullabys, 
 and raw-head and bloody bones with the first tales 
 given to amuse infancy. The household divinities 
 should all be pure, kind, lovely characters, having 
 countenances of beauty and tongues of truth. The 
 stories of the fireside should be free from all hobgob- 
 lins and monsters. If it was thought proper to sur- 
 round the altar of Hymen with forms of taste for effect, 
 surely it is of as much importance to keep the infant 
 mind clear of all monsters. 
 
 Seen by the light of philosophy and sound sense, all 
 the marvellous deeds of the magician, the astrologer, and 
 the whole tribe of those who attempt to deceive the peo- 
 ple, sink into those of common men, and we only admire 
 their wisdom and skill while we are relieved by the in- 
 vestigation from all dread of enchantments, talismans, 
 and spells, which thicken in almost every page of the 
 early history of mankind. It is astonishing that the 
 press, at the present day, should teem with quartos and
 
 259 
 
 royal octavo?, upon the occulr science of astrology. A 
 splendid volume, called "The Astrology of the Nine- 
 teenth Century," has just been laid upon our tables. 
 The compile^ or author, is vexed to find that the very 
 useful subjects of which he treats do not attract more 
 attention from the learned! But the subject ensures 
 the .-; of the work, a d probably his ends are answer- 
 ed bv this alone. The curious may look into this work 
 to smile; to see hov< learning >caa put on a fool's cap, 
 and talk of conjurations and api>aiitions, and all the 
 onmeaniog words, letters, and ceremonies of an Abra- 
 cadabra. 
 
 Modern witchcraft is now only an amusing tale, and 
 mav be read for the purposes of a gentle sensation after 
 dinner, when other things are dull. Our countrymen 
 never made a charge against any one for bring a wiz- 
 ard. This term is from the same root as the word 
 tnV, or wisdom; while the word witch, is from a Saxon 
 word, meaning wicked, and is ased as a noun of com- 
 mon eender. 
 
 Do not understand me, that while I would, as with 
 a sponge, mpe out all traces of superstition from the 
 human mind, all records of our early days, when we 
 trembled and half believed tin- will authenticated tales 
 of some honest neighbor, who heard his grandfather 
 say,' that he had beard die famous Cotton Mather say, 
 in public and in private, that witches were an abomina- 
 tion, and thai they ought to have been cut olf when the 
 foolish people saved them; that I would prefer a cold, 
 selfish unb.'ii.f lor my guide. No: 1 should prefer the 
 highest extent of credulity to such a state of mind. 
 That apathy which looks on al! worlds, risiblt or m- 
 cistffk, as a sul>i< f ' of doubt, or unbelief, may be free
 
 26*0 
 
 from pain, but there can be no pleasure in it. There 
 are, perhaps, many things in our history, and even in 
 our natures and our hopes, hard to be understood, and 
 some portion of them that the Great Author of our race 
 never intended that we should be fully acquainted with 
 in our present state of existence. A sound mind will 
 very readily comprehend enough of its powers and 
 capacities to teach it never to strive to attain what is 
 above human reach, or to sink with fear at that which 
 it cannot readily explain. 
 
 There is a belief " that casteth out all fear ;" a belief 
 that gilds the joyous season of youth ; a belief that is a 
 light to the warrior in the hour of battle ; that beams in 
 the sage's eye, and breathes from his lips ; a belief that 
 sustains the martyr in the agonies of death ; that brings 
 beatific visions around the head of the dying saint; and 
 one that takes from death Ins sting, and from the grave 
 its victory. 
 
 " In the deep windings of the grove, no more 
 The hag obscene and grisly phantom dwell ; 
 Nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar 
 Of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell ; 
 No wizard mutters the tremendous spell, 
 Nor sinks convulsive in prophetic swoon ; 
 i Nor bids the noise of drums and trumpets swell, 
 
 To ease of fancied pangs the laboring moon, 
 Or chase the shade that blot3 the blazing orb of noon. 
 
 ** Many a long-lingering year, in lonely isle, 
 Stunn'd with th' eternal turbulence of waves, 
 Lo, with dim eyes that never learned to smile, 
 And trembling hands, the famish'd native craves
 
 261 
 
 Of Heaven his wretched fare : shivering in caves 
 Or scorch'd on rocks, he pines from day to day; 
 But science <:ives the word; and lo, he braves 
 The surge and tempest, lighted by her ray, 
 And to a happier land wafts merrily away. 
 
 " ' And e'en where nature loads the teeming plain 
 With the full pomp of vegetable store, 
 Her bounty, unimprov'd, is deadly bane: 
 Dark wood?; and rankling wilds, from shore to shore 
 Stretch their enormous gloom ; which to explore 
 Ev'n fancy trembles in her sprightliest mood: 
 For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore, 
 Nestles each murderous and each monstrous brood, 
 Plague lurks in every shade, and steams from every 
 flood. 
 
   ' 'Twas from philosophy man learn'd to tame 
 The soil by plenty to intemperance fed. 
 Lo, from the echoing axe, and thundering flame, 
 Poison and plague and yelling rage are fled : 
 The waters, bursting from their <dimy bed, 
 Bring health and melody to every vale : 
 And, from the breezy main, and mountain's head, 
 Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale, 
 To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale. 
 
 '"What dire necessities on every hand 
 Our art. our strength, our fortitude require! 
 Of foe-* intestine what a numerous band 
 
 Against this little throb of lift eonspin 
 
 Yet science can elude their fatal ire 
 28
 
 262 
 
 Awhile, and turn aside death's levelled dart, 
 Sooth the sharp pang, allay the fever's fire, 
 And brace the nerves once more, and cheer the heart, 
 And yet a few soft nights and balmy days impart. 
 
 " 'Nor less to regulate man's moral frame 
 Science exerts her all-composing sway. 
 Flutters thy breast with fear, or pants for fame, 
 Or pines to indolence and spleen a prey, 
 Or avarice, a fiend more fierce than they % 
 Flee to the shade of Academus' grove ; 
 Where cares molest not, discord melts away 
 In harmony, and the pure passions prove 
 How sweet the words of truth breath'd from the lips 
 of love. 
 
 " ( What cannot art and industry perform, 
 When science plans the progress of their toil 
 They smile at penury, disease, and storm ; 
 And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil. 
 When tyrants scourge, or demagogues embroil 
 A land, or when the rabble's headlong rage 
 Order transforms^ anarchy and spoil, 
 Deep-vers'd in man, the philosophic sage 
 Prepares with lenient hand their frenzy to assuage. 
 
 "'Tis he alone, whose comprehensive mind, 
 From situation, temper, soil, and clime 
 Explor'd, a nation's various powers can bind, 
 And various orders, in one form sublime 
 Of polity, that, midst the wrecks of time 
 Secure shall -lift its head on high, nor fear 
 Th' assault of foreign or domestic crime,
 
 263 
 
 While public faith, and public love sincere, 
 Anil Industry and law maintain their sway severe." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 When the C&svs had passed away, and Rome had 
 become aa corrupt as any city of the cast, a new direc- 
 tion wa> given to tin- human mind by the conversion of 
 Constantine to the Christian religion, in thecominence- 
 i! of the fourth century. In this century, 3?y, 
 Theodosius divided the empire, and Byzantium became 
 the seat of government. The western empire from 
 that date began to decline. New nations, almost un- 
 known before, now started up to agitate the world. 
 The linns, who had inhabited the north of China, a 
 numerous race, now swept over the better part of 
 Europe, and in their way made war upon Rome and 
 Greece ; and also upon their brother barbarians, the 
 Goths. 
 
 In 395, Alaric, king of the Goths, attacked Greece. 
 In 100, he was met by the Romans, and defeated. Ra- 
 dagaisos entered Italy with a vast army, and was de- 
 f< Ltee\and slain, which proves that the Romans were 
 still a warlike people En 406, Alaric took Rome, and 
 SOOIl after died, while !>esic!_ r mu r Klicgio. He was buried 
 under the bed of a river, which the Goths bad turned 
 r thai purpose. In 114, Attilla ttppi ared at the 
 head of the Ilmis ami over the earth as the 
 
 group."' Of God He laid cities in ashes, but wis in 
 
 lort tune defeated by Theodoric, kinL r of the Vis- 
 goths. He was permitted to die a natural death.
 
 264 
 
 The Goths, who had issued from Scandinavia and 
 overran Pomerania, divided into Vis-goths and Ostra- 
 goths, — west and east Goths. In their conflicts with 
 the Huns they were scattered and divided, and part of 
 them formed the new kingdom of Italy. 
 
 These nations, who had made their conquests and 
 settlements, though almost unknown to the ancient 
 Greeks and Romans, gave a new character to the world ; 
 for new elements were developed, and new powers ex- 
 hibited. The Roman character was not wholly lost in 
 these ages of war and blood, for in the days of Justin- 
 ian, Belisarius emulated the Scipios and the other 
 men of war of former periods. This great general is 
 used so much in the legends of fiction, as proving the 
 inconstancy of fortune, that he is almost overlooked in 
 sober history ; but the " Date obulum Belisario" wa3 
 no fiction, it was as sober truth as the story of St. He- 
 lena and Longwood, — "both awful lessons to ambitious 
 chieftains. The beggar through the cities of Italy and 
 Greece once annihilated the power of the Vandals, and 
 reduced them to as great a state of wretchedness as he 
 himself afterwards was by the power of a capricious, 
 ungrateful master. 
 
 New dynasties arose, and the world of matter was 
 again to be disturbed by the world of mind. There had 
 been a mixing up of the Christian with Pagan idolatry, 
 and a mongrel race of thinkers was formed throughout 
 all Europe, and in parts of Asia and Africa. 
 
 At the commencement of the seventh century, 622, 
 Mahomet arose, the founder of a new sect in religion. 
 He was a master spirit. He succeeded beyond all other 
 imposters, — for this sound reason : He fashioned his 
 general doctrines to the nature of man — his appetites,
 
 265 
 
 • 
 
 .dispositions, and Diodes of reasoning. I!r said himself 
 
 that lif . . </ human nature l" direct it, not to 
 
 overcome or subjugate it. With the aid of die .It wish 
 scriptures and r the first Christian writers, he 
 
 prepared the Koran, a meet sublime composition, as a 
 whole ; favorable, m general, to virtue, and particularly 
 useful as a law Inxik in the country in which lie lived. 
 It was a most admirable improvement on the code of 
 Asiatic laws, in relation to the rights of women, — de- 
 fining their rights, and securing what it defined. If he 
 is said to encourage licentiousness, it is because the 
 critic does not consider how much the impotter had to 
 contend with in forming liis creed. We should not, in 
 our estimation of the Koran, consider how much it falls 
 short of the code of Jesus of Nazareth, hut how much 
 superior it is to all the heathen codes then, or even 
 now. extant. It created and perpetuated a temperance 
 society; yet there is a great deal that is trivial mixed 
 ii]) with the moral and sentimental in it. It should be 
 remembered also, that the Mahometans did not wage 
 war with tin Christians until the Christians had made 
 a furious onset upon them. The historian should go 
 <i\i r his course impartially, on peril of forfeiting his one- 
 
 ter for principle and honesty as well as accuracy. 
 
 While this • Kcitemenl was going on in the east, and 
 thr doctrines of Mahometanisin were spreading over an 
 mrmense extent of territory, the northme'n were not 
 
 e. Pond of navigation, and fearless of the dan-, r- 
 of the seas, they in i progress in the size and 
 
 forms of then- ships, and in the method of sailing then. 
 Instead of being confined to oars, or a little sail used 
 only in Ion- the wind, — as the maritime people 
 
 of the Mediterranean were accustomed to,— they raised
 
 2Q6 
 
 • 
 
 decks to their " steeds of the ocean," and learned io 
 sail them as near the wind as the mariners of the pre- 
 sent day do their great ships. These hardy, bold, high- 
 spirited people,— the Saxons, Danes, Fins, and all their 
 tribes, — had in their veins the true currents of liberty, 
 and those which are now floating in ours, and those of 
 our English and Dutch ancestors. 
 
 Christianity travelled northward, and came to the 
 island of Great Britain in the days of Alfred the Wise ; 
 and it had been previously introduced into Ireland, 
 where the great king had been an exile and a student 
 for years. Soon after Italy had encouraged letters, and 
 cultivated a taste for learning, something of the spirit 
 grew up in France. Ireland also was renowned for its 
 attention to the learning of the age. Roman literature, 
 as well as the Aristotelian philosophy, was known in 
 Ireland in the sixth century. 
 
 In the fifth century some few persons, driven from 
 Italy, laid the foundation of the maritime city of Venice. 
 It seemed to grow up with the commercial enterprize 
 of Carthage and the military ambition of Rome. This 
 new Tyre was most powerful by sea. In her pride, she 
 fought, single handed, with the mighty Ottoman power 
 and bore her flag, generally triumphant, from the mouth 
 of the Nile to the pillar of Hercules, about as much of 
 the coast as was then known. The civil government of 
 Venice was, notwithstanding her power, most oppres- 
 sive and unjust. It 'was an unchecked aristocracy. 
 The nobles were the government. The people had no 
 rights, and the doge,— the head of what was called the 
 republic,— was only a shadow of a king. In the senate 
 he had no authority, and out of the city he was only a 
 private man. Whoever was vain enough to be coiv
 
 207 
 
 i. ated by the rubes of office, was happy as a doge; 
 hut lie who wished for power and influence was always 
 wretehe I and n Btlese in thai office. Fur many centu- 
 ries,! - - .-ci!\ held her away over the commerce of 
 the Levant ; and from her wealth and judicious com- 
 mercial regulations) notwithstanding her wretched civil 
 government, she kept all her rivals at a distance, until 
 she found a competitor in the republic of Florence. 
 During the crusades, from 1070 to 1250,— for in this 
 period the most important of these expeditions were 
 undertaken. —the ships of Venice were employed as 
 transports to aid the invaders of Palestine on their way 
 to the scene of action. Venice profited by freighting 
 contracts, and by her discoveries of the best channels of 
 the commerce of the east ; while the other nations were 
 engaged in their Quixotic expeditions for the avowed 
 good of religion. The instance of this aristocracy, with 
 that of Kome. are beacon lights to all nations, never to 
 eonfide power to one class of men alone. The doctrine 
 of checks and balances was not then understood. 
 
 In the ninth century, the Arabs,— hitherto a race 
 which now am! then struck a blow in the world wor- 
 th) of note, but who held no precise or decided rank,— 
 suddenly became the most enlightened people in the 
 world. They pursued the elements of learning with 
 an ( mhusiasm aknown in the annals of letters 
 
 and sciences. They translated the Greek writers, and 
 mad. th< in their own. The Arabic language became 
 one of the most copious and lovely that time lias pro- 
 duced or matured. A great portion of this learning was 
 in the confusion of the succeeding ages, but some 
 of it has eon* down to us, snd this small portion i 
 full of life and splendor, that it increa^ - our regret tl t
 
 268 
 
 we cannot have more of it. The persevering linguists 
 of the present day are searching for whatever remains 
 of the Arabic literature from Cairo to Bagdad, and they 
 cheer us with hopes that much may yet be found. The 
 sweet and sparkling current of the Arabic would relieve 
 the leaden and ponderous language of the deep philo- 
 sophy of modern times, and would assist the inventors 
 of our day, — who are now a great class in our coun- 
 try, — to many happy terms of art and science. They 
 have almost exhausted the fountains of Greek litera- 
 ture for terms in their inventions. It would be'a hap- 
 py circumstance if a new one could be opened. 
 
 In 1137, the pandects of Justinian were recovered at 
 Almasi, and these excellent laws were copied, read and 
 adopted by the nations of Italy first, and then generally 
 adopted throughout all Europe. The commerce of 
 several nations was then rapidly increasing, and in the 
 course of the century, reached a much greater extent 
 * than we of the present day have generally supposed. 
 France and England, particularly the former, were 
 greatly exhausted by the crusades, and now turned 
 their attention to commerce in order to replenish their 
 treasuries. The English were a spirited people at this 
 time ; in 1215, the magna charta was wrested from 
 their weak and wretched monarch, king John. From 
 this instrument, the British date their liberties. It is, 
 indeed, a bill of rights for the nobles, bishops, and land- 
 holders in that country. In 1200, the polarity of mag- 
 netized iron was discovered at Naples, and the phenom- 
 enon was soon communicated to all the maritime na- 
 tions of Europe. Some historians pretend that this was 
 known ages before in China. This is quite possible, 
 but there is no satisfactory proof that the discovery
 
 269 
 
 ftver made in China, and certainly, it was never 
 used for the purposes of navigation among the Chinese 
 Severn] causes about this time conspired to change the 
 business and character of nations in addition to those we 
 have Darned. In the y r ''-' '•' Constantinople was 
 taken by the union of the forces of France and Venice; 
 and they were, in {act, masters of most of the islands 
 in the Archipelago. The French, always quick in their 
 apprehensions, soon became acquainted with the infor- 
 mation to be found at Constantinople, and all the re- 
 gion round about it. Science and the arts were more 
 flourishing there than in other portions of the globe. 
 The power of France was not long continued at Con- 
 ■tantmople. The successors of the conqueror had 
 more military and religious zeal than political sagaci- 
 ty, and this fine position was abandoned in 1261. 
 The Greek emperors held it from that time until it was 
 taken by the Turks in 1453. France had not leisure or 
 inclination to profit by the lessons she had learned in 
 war, and did not take the lead in maritime affairs she 
 ■tight have done. It was reserved for smaller states to 
 achieve those enterprizes winch have given to Europe 
 the commerce of the world. The small kingdom of 
 Portugal was destined to have an early share in mari- 
 time exploits and discoveries. Portugal was proud of 
 having expelled the Moors from her territories, and 
 felt equal to great enterprise* Well situated for com- 
 mercial pursuits, sin- kepi up a respectable navy for 
 thai day. She bad learned the art of Bhip-building 
 from the north, and the still greater art of sailing them 
 from the same quarter. 
 
 In 1411, the Portuguese, under King John, began 
 their discoveries. They bad men among them who
 
 270 
 
 had studied geography and the mathematics, as far as 
 they were then known. The first enterprize was ra- 
 ther a matter of war than of commerce or discovery, 
 but it greatly enlarged their knowledge of the coast of 
 Africa. In 1418, some Portuguese vessels were driven 
 by a storm into the wide Atlantic, and thus the.Madeira 
 Islands were discovered by an accident. These islands 
 were soon taken possession of by the Portuguese. En- 
 couraged by their successs, the Portuguese fearless- 
 ly pushed their exploring expeditions along the coast 
 of Africa, and in 1433 they had reached the mouth of 
 the Senegal. In 1449, the Cape de Verd Islands were 
 discovered, and the Azores soon after. At this time 
 they had ventured a thousand miles from the Europe- 
 an continent ; thus^'evincing a degree of enterprize that 
 astonished themselves and other nations. The adven- 
 turous navigators of Venice, Florence, Genoa, and 
 others from the north, flocked to Portugal to join those 
 engaged in discoveries ; but notwithstanding their ex- 
 ertions, the Portuguese did not pass the line until 1471. 
 This was no small affair, for most geographers, previ- 
 ous to this period, supposed the torrid zone nearly or 
 quite uninhabited ; that burning sands and scorching 
 suns were too powerful for life, animal or vegetable ; 
 but what must have been their surprise, when they 
 found a new, and, in many respects, a more beautiful 
 creation there than they had ever seen or imagined ! — 
 a region teeming with inhabitants of earth and air, be- 
 yond what their own could support, and a vegetation 
 luxuriant and refreshing and full of food ! In 1484, 
 the Portuguese took possession of several places in the 
 southern hemisphere, but it was two years after this 
 before they reached cape Good Hope, which was first
 
 271 
 
 called the Cape of Storms. It is by no means certain 
 that any navigator had explored the Indian seas until 
 yi ars after this time, although no doubts were enter- 
 tained of the practicability of reaching India by ex- 
 tending the route they had pursued. 
 
 At the time these discoveries were made. Portugal 
 was nut wealthy; in fact, site had been exhausted by 
 long and fierce wars with the Moors. Their suecess 
 was. therefore, from their enterprize and hardihood, 
 and not from wealth or avarice, the two great springs 
 to adventure. Previous to this time, the Genoese had 
 been a much greater commercial and naval people than 
 the Portuguese. They had enjoyed a great share of the 
 commerce of the east, but were prevented at this time 
 from following up the enterprize of the Portuguese 
 from internal commotions and civil wars. 
 
 It was not so with the Tuscans. At Florence at this 
 period every thing of a commercial nature was prospe- 
 rous. Casmo De Medicis had carried on a most flou- 
 rishing commerce from 1415 to 1464. During this pe- 
 riod he was the patron of letters and the arts, and was 
 a magistrate of exemplary virtue in a republic of 
 wealth and enterprize ; but it does not appear that Cas- 
 ino attempted to make any discoveries. At the time 
 the Portuguese were the most successful, Lorenzo, his 
 grandson, who was called the magnificent, was in the 
 it of his power ami fame. He was just that bold 
 and gallant spirit that seemed likely to take these dis- 
 coveries into consideration and to have pushed them to 
 the Utmost extent; but whether his quarrels with the 
 
 pope and cardinals prevented his turning his attention 
 
 q exploring expedition, or that his mind wat too 
 
 much engaged in politics, is, perhaps, to be left to con-
 
 272 
 
 jecture. Lorenzo died April 8, 1492, while Columbus 
 was getting ready for sea on his first voyage of disco- 
 very. 
 
 The time had now arrived in the destinies of man 
 when a new view of things was to be taken, from new 
 objects of interest and ambition. The maritime world 
 had been mostly confined, when the Portuguese began 
 their discoveries, to the Mediterranean and the seas of 
 of the north. All the naval battles had been in the 
 Mediterranean. These seas were the fields of fame 
 for those nations who ventured to launch upon them, 
 and a western world was not dreamt of by those inha- 
 biting the eastern continent. It was reserved for Co- 
 lumbus, a Genoese, born in 1447, to be the discoverer 
 of this continent. He was well educated for the age 
 in which he lived ; and there was considerable science 
 then extant, for about the time he received his educa- 
 tion, the learned Greeks had fled from Constantinople, 
 and Genoa had next to Florence the benefits of their 
 knowledge. Of an enterprising disposition, he early en- 
 gaged himself as a mariner, and became acquainted with 
 all the coasts of the Mediterranean and the northern 
 seas, then the great wonder of the world. He engaged 
 with the Portuguese and followed their track to the Ma- 
 deira Islands and the Azores. He was also engaged 
 in sea-fights, and was, all things considered, one of 
 the most accomplished men of the age in which he 
 lived. He had married the daughter of a distinguished 
 mariner, and had access to his charts and journals, 
 which threw much light on the discoveries then made. 
 
 Columbus had no sooner conceived a plan of finding 
 a passage to the Indies, than he brought all his re- 
 sources to bear on the subject, and his mind became so
 
 273 
 
 convinced of the truth of his theory, that it amounted 
 quite to demonstration with him in his visions of fu- 
 ture glory. In the fulness of this conviction he applied 
 to Genoa, his native country, to assist him, but she 
 was in no situation to undertake the charge and ex- 
 penses of an enterprise which probably was thought 
 would be much greater in a pecuniary point of view 
 than they were prepared to meet He then proposed 
 the matter to king John II, of Portugal. The causes 
 alleged for this enterprising monarch's rejecting the 
 proposition have been variously stated; but the true 
 one was jealousy; for there was an attempt made to 
 forestall Coin minis in this adventure, which was defeated 
 bv ignorance and timidity. Ilenry-YII, who. after the 
 'the civil wars, attended much to commerce 
 and naval affairs, and had advanced ship-building to its 
 then highest s:ate among maritime nations, was applied 
 to by Columbus, through his brother, Bartholomew, 
 the king either had nO faith in the adventure, or 
 wanted r ady means to defray the expenses of it; at 
 any :lined aft o Columbus, 
 
 or to make regard to the enterprise. 
 
 ■\\ brother of Columbus was soliciting the 
 
 '. he himself was using i"nt 
 
 toi: • n of Leon and Castile to engage in 
 
 r-overy ; but after following up his 
 solicitations for a long time hi-- pati< nee was quite ex- 
 
 ; he was about quitting Spain, when a good 
 
 providi : le him acquainted with an intelligent 
 
 Juan Pen s, who was a prior of a convent. 
 This worthy man. by the assistance <>f the best mathe- 
 maticians lie could find, examined Columbus' plan, and 
 became thoroughly convinced of its soundness, and 
 
 84
 
 274 
 
 urged the reasons he had to give, with so much force 
 and sincerity, as to make Isabella pause, and at last 
 yield to them, with delicacy and grace ; hut Columbus, 
 with all the tenacity of a proud man, conscious that he 
 is about an important affair, urged his terms so boldly 
 that the negociation was broken off. 
 
 Towards the close of 1491, the Spanish arms were 
 successful, and Grenada surrendered. In this happy 
 moment the friends of the enterprize brought it up 
 again, and the terms, such as Columbus had insisted on, 
 without his yielding one jot, were at length agreed to. 
 But it is quite certain that this pride of genius was the 
 Cause of the misfortunes of himself and family ; for after 
 his discovery, all Spain were jealous of his fame, par- 
 ticularly the grandees and the king. The fleet procur- 
 ed for the purpose of discovery was a miserable business, 
 — one vessel with a single deck, and two without any, 
 manned with only ninety men, was the whole naval con- 
 cern. The Pintons, two brothers, commanded the two 
 vessels without decks. They were enterprising sailors, 
 and had much of the Spanish gentlemen in their cha- 
 racters. The admiral found them of great service in 
 his voyage. The expedition sailed on the 3d of Au- 
 gust, 1492. After touching at one of the Canaries, and 
 overcoming every obstacle, he had the good fortune to 
 discover land, and take possession of it on the 12th of 
 October following. It would be a very delightful task 
 to go minutely through the voyage of Columbus, and 
 trace out the incidents of so eventful a life, as this great 
 navigator's. This has been done by several writers, 
 but by none with so much truth, taste, and genius, as is 
 found in the Life of Columbus, by our illustrious coun- 
 tryman, Washington Irving. He has done justice to
 
 875 
 
 all parties in this greal affair. In this book, to the pure 
 and mellow light of Goldsmith, lu> has added the accu- 
 racy of Lingard, and the eloquence of Turner. All 
 
 other histories of the discoverer will hereafter he only 
 epitomes, on -. or tedious narratives. It was a 
 
 happy subject most happily executed. It was not until 
 the third voyage of discovery that the great navig I It 
 touched upon this continent : he had spenl his time pre- 
 viously upon the is 
 
 in 1 199, Qji . I ti : out by 'ho merchants of Seville, 
 nia'.i hie He had been with Columbus 
 
 inlr irize. He was accompanied 
 
 in this voyage by A i Vespucci, a navigator from 
 
 Florence, a man of science, and of nautical and classi- 
 cal attainments. lie published an account of his voy- 
 age at Florence, where It tiers had been highly cultivat- 
 ed, under the auspices of the successor of Lorenzo the 
 Magnificent. This reading community, as well as 
 maritime, wished to have their share in the glory of the 
 discovery. It was very natural that they should think 
 well of their distinguished navigator, but in all proba- 
 bility there was no intention in the mind of Amerigo 
 of robbing Columbus of his glory. But as the book 
 was called the Voyages of Amerigo, the continent, or 
 what -was, but not then ascertained to bo one, was called 
 the land of Amerigo. As the universal language of 
 the learned of Kurope at that time was Latin, Ameri- 
 go's book was. of course, to use the old phrase, dont 
 into Latin. In this, his name was Americns Vespucci, 
 in that language, and AmericUBi the prefix, in Latin 
 became, to suit the gender of names of countries, was 
 made into America. 
 It is not often the case that discoverers, or inventors,
 
 276 
 
 or other benefactors of mankind, receive their proper 
 meed of praise in their own times. Envy, jealousy, 
 and honest rivalry, all interfere to stop the current of 
 honest fame ; but there is a redeeming spirit in man- 
 kind, that sooner or later shows itself, and turns and 
 overturns public opinion, until all things, in a measure, 
 come right. Columbus, in the end, lost nothing of his 
 fame ; but has had, and ever will have, his just share 
 of glory. 
 
 But neither Columbus, nor Vespucci, nor Ojeda had 
 In truth, and fact, the honor of discovering this conti- 
 nent. John Cabot, a Venetian, who had often been in 
 England, and was well known in that country as a 
 pilot, as he was then called, meaning a distinguished 
 mariner and navigator, made a proposition to Henry 
 VII to make an exploring expedition, and take a more 
 northern course in order to find the way to India. 
 These proposals were acceded to by the king, who with 
 the aid of several merchants of Bristol, fitted out an 
 expedition for discovery. The letters patent were 
 signed 1497, by Henry VII, empowering Cabot and his 
 three sons to discover, conquer, and settle lands then 
 unknown ; yet it was nearly two years before their 
 small vessels could be got ready for the enterprize. 
 The king furnished one ship and the merchants three, 
 and the fleet sailed in the spring of 1499. In July the 
 island of Newfoundland was discovered. The great 
 navigator then coasted down to Florida. He was truly 
 the discoverer of this continent, for he anticipated Co- 
 lumbus the space, of several days. 
 
 Sebastian Cabot, son of John, was born in Bristol, 
 England, and of course was attached to the land of his 
 birth. He was young when he accompanied his father
 
 27? 
 
 on his first voyage In the eighth year of the reign of 
 Henry VIII. Sebastian Cabol was sent out again on a 
 voyage of discovi ry, but from some disaffi ction he re- 
 turned, and left the service of England and went to 
 Spain. By this time all maritime nations, feeling not 
 a little jealous of eaeh other, were ready to employ 
 any gnat navigator who might offer his services. 
 Spain made him up a tine fleet, and he pushed for 
 South America, and made some advances towards a set- 
 tlement. This was in 1525. He had spent twenty 
 years on shore, previous to his last voyage from Eng- 
 land. He had high Spanish titles, but as every sea- 
 man is somewhat restless, if not exactly capricious, he 
 soon after his return left Spain for England. Tins was 
 at the close of the reign of Henry VIII; but notwith- 
 standing he had been in the service of foreign powers, 
 he was cordially received in England— retained his 
 hold on public opinion — and died in quiet, at the good 
 old age of eighty years, highly honored and respected. 
 
 In 1500, Cabral, a Portuguese, in wending his way 
 to the East Indies, fearing the dangers of the African 
 coast, swept off into the expanse of the Atlantic, and 
 was by force of a storm driven on to the South Amer- 
 ican coast. He took possession of that part of the con- 
 tinent in the name of the Portuguese government, and 
 called the place Brazil. This name the country has 
 retained until this day. Thus most of the maritime 
 countries of that day had some claim to the discovery 
 of the new world. The pope had encouraged the voy- 
 ages of discovery from Prince Henry of Portugal, and 
 the see of Rome holds some ecclesiastical jurisdiction 
 over every part of it now. 
 
 It has been regretted by many historians that Co- 
 
 24*
 
 278 
 
 lumbus had not, through the intervention of his bro- 
 ther, succeeded with Henry VII in getting up a voy- 
 age of discovery ; as if that would have changed the 
 destinies of this continent. For my own part, I can 
 say that I have no such feelings. England at that pe- 
 riod had no surplus population for colonies; nor had 
 man become sufficiently enlightened to have com- 
 menced a new population that would have done much 
 honor to the human race. The impulse given to 
 the world by Luther and Calvin, and other reform- 
 ers, and the freedom of thinking coi sequent on that 
 impulse, were necessary in planting a nursery of free- 
 men. All the South American colonists brought with 
 them the superstitions of their native land: nor for 
 ages was there the slightest amelioration of it. If the 
 settlers of North America had not improved on the 
 scanty doctrines of civil liberty which were known and 
 practised upon in the days of Henry VII, we should 
 not now have been in the possession of all our free in- 
 stitutions, which we so greatly enjoy. In fact, the fin- 
 ger of heaven directed the hour, more than a hundred 
 years after this period, for the settlement of North 
 America. The germ of civil liberty was swelling and 
 bursting into life at that period of her settlement, not 
 only in England, but also in Holland, and all those 
 countries that furnished colonists for the new region. 
 The Waldenses and the Hugonots, who came next after 
 the very first settlers, were those, or a remnant of those 
 oppressed at home. They made good recruits for the 
 new field of thought, action, intention, and purpose. 
 The new doctrines of the rights of man found here a 
 congenial soil ; the bosom of the new earth cherished 
 them, and the sun of the new heavens beamed upon
 
 211 
 
 thorn his fructifying ray. From a seedling, (he tree of 
 libertv became a mighty oak, under whose shade na- 
 tions were to repose ; whose leaves were to emit the 
 vital air, to be breathed by all, and from whose boughs 
 were to drop the germinating principles of freedom 
 that were one day to be planted in other soils. 
 
 The superb character of Columbus, full of genius, 
 science, patience, piety, and all that honor the man and 
 adorn the Christian, should never be lost sight of by 
 the American people. They should raise his monu- 
 ment, and read his history. 
 
 The Florentine should also be a subject of our ad- 
 miration; he was a high-spirited and intelligent cha- 
 racter, and did nothing unfair or unjust. If he was 
 destined to give a name to our birthplace, it was no 
 fault of his. Spain kept the voyages of Columbus a 
 secret in their details for many years, but the Floren- 
 tines wished nil things to be open and free as air. The 
 Venetians, father and son, under the auspices of Eng- 
 land, gave all their discoveries to the world most freely. 
 These navigators broke thee<.'u and set it on end ; they 
 plucked from the expanse of the ocean its terrors, 
 which arose from distance, uncertainty, storms, cur- 
 rents, trade winds, and unaccountable tides, and made 
 it. vast as it was, as harmless as the smooth waters of a 
 placid lake. The mini of man had now a wider range; 
 he did not feel as though penl up in the narrow con- 
 fines of one world, but thn w Ins glance to another, 
 and indul^-d in virions of new glories which might 
 r- sull from enterprise. 
 
 The century thai passed af i r the discovery of this 
 continent, before the settlem nt of that part of it now 
 railed the Doited States, was fraught with the deepest
 
 280 
 
 interests, as to South America. Ferdinand Cortes had 
 sailed from Cuba in February, 1519, with an army of 
 only five hundred and eight common soldiers, sixteen 
 horsemen, and one hundred and nine mechanics, pilots, 
 and mariners, to conquer the great kingdom of Mexico. 
 Of all the stories of romance the history of Cortes is 
 the most wonderful. With this handful of heroes, he 
 marched to Cholula, fought, and conquered myriads of 
 Flascalons, and made them vassals to his master, the 
 king of Spain ; and bade them follow him to assist, as 
 they did, in subjugating the Mexicans. The conquest 
 of Montezuma, and his dominion over the high-spirited 
 monarch, is a tale of wonder on a tide of blood. The 
 history of Gautimozin is, in the moral world, what 
 Ossa upon Pelion was in the fabled world ; it was an 
 effort never before equalled, nor, perhaps, ever will be 
 again. The royal standard of Mexico fell into the 
 hands of Cortes, and he arrayed one party of those ig- 
 norant natives to destroy another. Cortes left Mexico 
 " the skin of an immolated victim," and his name to be 
 associated with rapine and cruelty ; but if you could 
 wash him of the stains of unnecessary blood, he would 
 be unrivalled for military prowess in the annals of 
 his time. 
 
 In twenty -two years after the conquest of Mexico, 
 Pizarro conquered the Peruvian empire. The Incas 
 had been a race of men distinguished for ages. From 
 the time of Pizarro, until the last of the exiled Incas, a 
 term of twenty-five years, there is nothing but perfidy 
 and murder on the side of the Spaniards, and generous 
 and high feeling confidence on the part of the sove- 
 reigns of Peru. " The exiled Incas preferred the scan- 
 ty bread found in the wilds of the Andes to the pro-
 
 281 
 
 raises of Spanish munificence ; but intrigue and power 
 prevailed, and the blood so long hunted for was sucked 
 at last. What remained of the Inca race, they scut to 
 uncongenial climes to be destroyed by disease. Thir- 
 ty-eight of the Inca race were sent to Lima, and in 
 less than two years all but three of them were dead, 
 and these soon followed. 
 
 "Thus perished the males of the blood royal of Peru. 
 Tupac Aiinira. the head of the Inca family, was sen- 
 tenced to the scaffold, and those who invented the in- 
 lionfacked their imagination to make his death 
 iding. The representative of the sun. on the day 
 appointed for the execution, was lei forth on a mule 
 witli his hands pinioned, a halter around his nee!,, and 
 the crier going before him proclaiming his approaching 
 death and the imputed cause of it. While moving to 
 the square the procession was met by a numerous band 
 of Peruvian women, exclaiming with passionate cries 
 and loud lamentations against the conduct of Toledo, 
 the Spanish viceroy, and demanding that they might 
 be slaughtered in the company of their prince, rather 
 than to remain alive to be the slaves of his murderers. 
 N> ver. indeed, upon whatever occasion, was a move- 
 ment of popular grief communicated through a greater 
 hi uf indignant and agonized beings. Entering the 
 square, where the scaffold stood, the eye upoa 
 
 thnr hundred thousand souls, assembled to witness the 
 mournful hour of him who was the objeel of pro- 
 found veneration to all, as the heir of their ancienl sov- 
 ,, :it. eel of a lo;iL r Hue of km'_'s 
 
 only, hut of the ver iselves, whom the nation 
 
 iped. In his death tic to behold, not 
 
 merel; the prostration of the Eneas, but the fin is h ing
 
 282 
 
 stroke given to the glorious empire of the sun, and the 
 sceptre of Peru pass into the hands of a foreign race, 
 the despisers of the religion of the land, the" usurpers 
 of its dominion, and the tyrannical oppressors of its 
 inhabitants. They seemed invited, as it were, to attest 
 the act of finally setting the seal to their own perpetual 
 servitude. The idea roused them to shouts of ven- 
 geance. As the Inca ascended the fatal stage, and 
 stood environed by the priests in their sacerdotal vest- 
 ments, and near him the hateful executioner with his 
 drawn sword displayed, their excitement and indigna- 
 tion broke all bounds, and but for an incident as re- 
 markable as it was timely, the Peruvians might, even 
 then, in the extremity of their just rage, have fallen 
 upon the Spaniards, and crushed them beneath the 
 mere weight of the eager thousands, who seemed ready 
 to rush upon death to rescue their adored Inca. But 
 just as the elements of discord were on the point of 
 being wrought up to fury, the Inca raised his right 
 hand until the open palm was on a line with his right 
 ear, and then slowly depressed it down to his right 
 thigh. At this familiar signal of silence, instantly, as 
 if the angel of destruction had swept over the assem- 
 bled crowds, the noisy and tumultuous multitude sunk 
 into stillness the most profound, and not less appalling 
 than its previous commotion. The Spaniards were 
 struck with amazement at the scene, which manifested 
 so clearly the extraordinary authority still exercised by 
 the Inca over the minds of the Peruvians ; and justi- 
 fied, in some degree, the policy of Toledo. The exe- 
 cution now proceeded tranquilly to its conclusion, and 
 the Inca met his end with that unshrinking fortitude, 
 dignity, and contempt, which have universally markeG
 
 283 
 
 the Indian in the last struggles of dissohni? nature. 
 Thus terminated the direct nude lineage of the childrei 
 of the sun.'' 
 
 Without entering into more particulars, we may con- 
 clude that the first century of the discovery of the new 
 world was passed and ended in crime and hlood. The 
 great disenvt rer with all his enthusiasm, would, per- 
 haps, if he had foreseen all thing's, regretted that he 
 had ever been bom to give to the old world a new one. 
 
 When Elizabeth began her reign and showed her ta- 
 lents for politics, it was natural that she should have 
 easily been persuaded to have become the patron of a 
 plan for colonizing some portion of the western conti- 
 nent, which her grandfather claimed by the right of 
 discovery. She saw that her rival, and powerful foe, 
 Spain, derived great advantages from her cohmies of 
 South America. She was ambitious too of as exten- 
 sive a territory as other monarch?. At the suggestion 
 of Sir Walter Raleigh, then a courtier in high favor 
 with the queen, Sir Humphrey Gilbert was commis- 
 pioned with viceroy authority over all lands he might 
 discover, &e. 
 
 The equipment was a bad one, and his first voyage 
 was unsuccessful ; but in three years, 1583, he tried it 
 ;>. He had now the pecuniary aid of Sir George 
 Peckham, Sir Walter Raleigh, and raanyothers who took 
 ft al are in the enterprize. Gilbert sailed to Newfound- 
 land, and took | ii of the country in a formal 
 ner. In j aseing Boulhward his principal ship was 
 cast on -oine Bhoals, and nin< ty or a hundred of his men 
 perished, among whom was Stephen Par meniusBudeiua, 
 a Hungarian gentleman of learning, who embarked as 
 Journalist of the royage. These early navigators ware
 
 284 
 
 men of too much sense to suppose that one competent 
 to navigate a ship was always sufficiently learned to be 
 able to give a just account of the various kingdoms of 
 nature which might be noticed in a voyage. This dis- 
 aster did not break down the spirits of Gilbert until he 
 had made further struggles; but a sad fate hung over 
 him. On his return, a storm arose, his ship foundered, 
 and all perished. His fate was deeply deplored, for he 
 was pious, learned, brave, eloquent, — a statesman of sa- 
 gacity, integrity, and patriotism. 
 
 The death of Sir Humphrey was a severe blow to 
 Sir Walter, but he was not a man to give over an en- 
 terprize for a few untoward events. The queen was 
 his friend, and of course he readily procured a patent 
 of as extensive a nature as that before given to his la- 
 mented brother-in-law. Two small vessels were readily 
 fitted out to take a more southern situation, and ap- 
 proaching the continent by the Gulf of Florida, they 
 came to the island of Ocrakoke, which is near North 
 Carolina ; from thence they sailed to Roanoke, near 
 the mouth of Albemarle sound. This enterprize had 
 been entrusted to Amadas and Barlow. These gentle- 
 men, after a short visit, returned to England, and gave 
 a most glowing picture of the country in their report to 
 Sir Waiter Raleigh. They represented the manners of 
 the males and females of the natives as polite and gen- 
 teel; their manner of living as quite luxurious, and 
 their bounty as without stint. To use the precise lan- 
 guage of their report, " we found the people most gen- 
 tle, loving, and faithful, void of all guile and treason, 
 and such as live after the manner of the golden age." 
 Their manner of serving up their food was quite differ- 
 ent to the Indians of more northern climes.
 
 285 
 
 This report gave delight to all concerned, from the 
 queen to the smallest share-holder in the enterprize ; 
 and it was not difficult, after this, to obtain means 10 
 follow up what they had so successfully commenced. 
 Seven ships were despatched. Sir Richard Granville 
 took the command of the fleet. He was one of the 
 most enlightened and chivalrous men of the age. He 
 had in his company Ralph Lane, Esq., as governor of 
 the colony, and Herriat, a mathematician of renown, 
 and quite a corps of men of science. Grenville visited 
 the territory and people described by Amadas and IJar- 
 1'iw. and having examined the island of Roanoke, he 
 embarked for England, leaving Lane, with one hundred 
 and seven persons, to begin a colony. This was the 
 first English colony ever planted in America. Herriat 
 remained with this handful of men, and was unremit- 
 ting m his endeavors to learn every thing he could dur- 
 ing his stay on the continent; but the greater portion 
 of the inhabitants came to these shores with hope of 
 acquiring gold, not of settling a territory ; and giving 
 up a certainty for a most egregious uncertainty, they 
 neglected to secure the means of support, and soon 
 found themselves in a most miserable condition, when 
 sir Francis Drake, returning from an unsuccessful I x- 
 tion against the Spaniards, came to their relief. 
 But the vessel he sent loaded with provisions for them, 
 was wrecked before she reached the shore. In this ex- 
 tremity, nothing was left, in their state of mind, but to 
 take them back to England, which he did. If they had 
 been sufficiently courageous to have remained a few 
 days longer, they would have been relieved by supplies 
 from Sir Walter ; and in a few days alter the first BUOr 
 plies arrived, Sir Richard (Jrenville himself came to 
 
 25
 
 286 
 
 them with three ships, but could not find any thing of 
 the colony he had left ; and, leaving fifty of his crew 
 to keep possession of the island of Roanoke, he return- 
 ed home. These attempts at colonization had their 
 good effects. Herriat was a man of sense, and spoke of 
 things as he found them. All the romantic, idle sto- 
 ries were blown to the winds of heaven, and truth, 
 naked truth, alone appeared. 
 
 The people who returned home Avith governor Lane 
 had learned the use of tobacco, and Sir Walter under- 
 took, by using it himself in smoking, to make it fash- 
 ionable. The Indians considered the weed as the most 
 gracious gift of the Great Spirit. Smoking had been 
 in use in the east, but, probably, tobacco was not before 
 known. 
 
 Raleigh was induced to make further efforts to settle 
 his favorite Virginia, a name which had been given to 
 the whole Anglo-American coast, after the description 
 given by Amadas and Barlow. In 1 587, he sent ano- 
 ther expedition, but they could find nothing of the men 
 left there to guard the fort, — they had perished. Ne- 
 vertheless he landed a body of one hundred and seven- 
 teen colonists. They kept on for a while, and then all 
 sailed to England for supplies. Grenville was about 
 coming to their assistance, but the Spanish Armada 
 was announced, and every naval hero was required for 
 home-service. Raleigh made another ineffectual effort 
 and all was over for that time. The colonization of 
 Anglo-America was to be begun. 
 
 In 1602, Gosnold made a voyage with an intent to 
 awaken the spirit of emigration. He named the well 
 known Cape, afterwards politically consecrated by the 
 pilgrims. He landed on some island on the south side
 
 •>7 
 
 of Cape Cod, but his efforts are only matters of minute 
 history. Every exertion, however. Advanced nautical 
 knowledge, for Gosnold saved about one third of the 
 distance aerqss the Atlantic by his track. 
 
 Elizabeth died the next year, and .lame- of Scotland 
 came to the throne. The succeeding voyages title. 1 out 
 by the merchants of Bristol and Lord Arundel confirm- 
 ed all Gosnold related. Elizabeth was an excellent 
 queen, whatever mighl have been her failings as a wo- 
 man. If she was not tilted tor a bigh-priestesS of Vesta, 
 she made an admirable resistance n> Spain, and all her 
 enemies, but her greatest admirers cannot say liuah of 
 her exertions in attempting to settle this country. She 
 gave a liberal charter to Gilbert, and made the fortune- of 
 Raleigh ; but the public exchequer did not suffer by all 
 that w;ls done by them and others, and it is a little as- 
 tonishing that one so shrewd should not have made ar 
 rangementa for the settlement of colonies, as it was 
 then, as it has since been, a very favorite doctrine that 
 colonies wen necessary for commercial enterprize. 
 
 An ecclesia-tic was the next champion for coloniza- 
 tion. Richard Hackluyt, a prebendary of Westminster, 
 bad preached with L'reat effect the doctrines of coloni- 
 zation ; and after these repeated failures, he renewed 
 hi- exertions with success. Associations were formed, 
 and Jane- wa- petitioned for a charter. For a while 
 the whole business was in the hands of traders, who 
 joined in n>hiii!_' and purchasing furs,— not thinking of 
 making 8 permanent settli liuiit, and, probably, not 
 lint' for one; but Hackluyt and his friends were 
 confined to no narrow notions upop this subject. 
 
 In 1 1»* K>. a corporation was formed lor a new effort. 
 .Many now joined in the scheme lor public good, as we
 
 288 
 
 now subscribe for rail-roads, or turnpikes, or canals, 
 not thinking of exorbitant profits, but wishing to do 
 something for the public good. To carry their inten- 
 tion into effect, a vessel of only one hundred tons, and 
 two small barques, were taken up. Capt. Newport was 
 commander, and Mr. Percy, a brother of the Earl of 
 Northumberland, was in the enterprize, but the soul of 
 it was Captain John Smith. He has justly been called 
 the father of Virginia. 
 
 The next settlement on our coast was that of the 
 New-Netherlands. The states of Holland, and the 
 other provinces of the Netherlands, were no sooner in 
 quiet with Spain than they showed their enterprizing 
 spirit, and availing themselves of the discovery, by 
 Henry Hudson, of the great river, in 1609, a trading 
 community commenced a settlement on the island of 
 Manhattan. At first they seem to have had no char- 
 ter ; no other claim to the soil than the one obtained by 
 first possession and Hudson's discovery, who was then 
 in the employment of Holland. . 
 
 In 1614, the same year Smith was on the coast of 
 New England, Adnaon Blok and Hendrick Christaonse, 
 two Dutchmen, coasted along the New England bor- 
 ders. A fortunate peace was soon made by these sa- 
 gacious traders with the Indians, and their early days 
 passed without being harassed by this terrific foe. 
 
 The year 1621 was an era in the history of New 
 Netherlands, in the formation of a society, by their 
 high mightinesses the States General, which extended 
 to the settling of these countries, discovered by Hudson, 
 as well as monopolizing trade in every quarter of the 
 globe, as far as possible. This corporation did not go 
 into practical effect until 1623. The first trading com-
 
 280 
 
 pany had nearly despaired of getting on when the se- 
 cond arrived, and was finally merged in it. Peter 
 Bfinuit was the first governor. It was intended to be 
 as purely as possible a commercial government The 
 
 head nun were only first, second, third, and fourth 
 merchants. The legislative, judicial and executive 
 powers, were given to the council as merely incidt nts, 
 and not as primary principles. It was, in fact, a cham- 
 ber of commerce, with the power of carrying into ef- 
 fect their own decrees. 
 
 Until this time the settlers had made but a very slow 
 advance in agriculture or the arts, having confined them- 
 selves to the fur trade. In the year 1G24, these settlers ex- 
 ported 4,700 beaver and otter skirA The whole amount 
 of imports, including W84 and 1027. four years, wis 
 $46^07, and theexports$fl8^07. Thus trade continued 
 to increase, for. in 163&, the Dutch exported from N< w 
 Netherlands 14,801 beaver, and 1413 otter skins, esti- 
 mated at 134,000 guilders. 
 
 In 14 B5, the first child of European parents was born. 
 Tlu< is a -lron» proof that it was at first considered as 
 a trading fortress, not a permanent community; hut 
 this year the Waaloons went from the island of Man- 
 hattan to Long island, and began agricultural pursuits. 
 YVaalooni were a bold, hardy, yeoman race; they 
 
 were the last to wear the Roman yoke in their native 
 
 land, and the firsl to strike it off. They should have 
 had minute historit 
 
 About this time, !">>■ Leei went to Holland, and pub- 
 lished an account of the New World, particularly of 
 
 the V w Netherlands. This work made quite a v, liga- 
 tion, and Bold better, probably, than anj hiftorj of 
 New-York has since. 
 
 25*
 
 290 
 
 In 1627, the settlement, as well as the whole coast, was 
 annoyed by pirates ; and it behoved the great association 
 at home to see to this matter. Admiral Peter Pietersen 
 Heyn was sent to look them up. He pursued them 
 and took thirty of these merchant pirates under the 
 guns of St. Salvador, with immensely rich cargoes,, 
 He fought bravely and this quieted the whole concern 
 for a long while. 
 
 In this year, 1627, governor Minuit sent a deputation 
 to the governor and council of Plymouth,— one letter 
 written in Dutch and the other in French- The letters 
 the Dutch governor sent were kind and friendly, " touch- 
 ing upon the propinquity of their native countries, and 
 their long continued friendship;" and, minding the 
 main chance, suggested that it would be well for both 
 parties " to fall into a way of some commerce and 
 trade," offering any of their goods that might be ser- 
 viceable. This was fair and courteous. 
 
 Bradford's letter in reply was long, pious, courteous, 
 and shrewd. After expressing a deep modesty of read- 
 ing the sounding titles given them by the Dutch, Brad- 
 ford goes on to thank heaven that Holland and England 
 are united to humble Spain. He then alludes to the 
 'Circumstance that he and his people had lived in Hol- 
 i land ; but he wishes his Dutch friends to understand 
 that the grant to the New England company extends 
 all along the coast, and he desires that the Dutch would 
 not come to Narraganset Bay, " which is, as it were, 
 at our very doors," and this remark he concludes with 
 a hint, that if it is not regarded, he must look to his 
 majesty for redress. But now to the bargain. " We 
 ere .provided with articles now, but if we should trade, 
 we should like to know the terms." The language of
 
 291 
 
 Che governor is as wary as could be framed. He had 
 no prices current to send his correspondent, but he 
 •it may so fall out, that hereafter we shall deal with 
 you, if your rates be reasonable ; and thru fore, when 
 your people come again, we desire to know how you 
 will take beavers by the pound, and otters by the skin ; 
 and how you will deal per cent, for other commodities, 
 and what you can furnish us with ; as, likewise, what 
 commodities from us may be acceptable with you, as 
 tobacco, fish, corn, or other things, and what prices you 
 will give." 
 
 Minuit answered this letter by saying he had a right 
 to trade with the natives in the prohibited places, but 
 makes his declaration in a few words, and the courteous 
 demeanor is still kept up ; and to ensure k a most 
 friendly reception, the Dutch governor accompanied 
 his letter with "a runlet of sugar and two Holland 
 cheeses," as a present. For this, most courteous thanks 
 •were returned. 
 
 It must have been suggested at home, or these few 
 people would not have considered it of so much conse- 
 quence to have kept up such an intimacy ; for before 
 an answer was returned, Minuit sent an ambassador 
 to Plymouth. The second man in the colony. Mr. 
 - retary Hazier, went as ambassador to governor 
 Bradford, in -'the barque Nassau, freighted with a feu 
 articles for traffic, manned with a retinue of soldiers 
 
 and trumpeters, conformable t" the fashion of the day. 
 and proportional with the dignits pf the Becond officer 
 of the government" The barque started from the . ssl 
 Bide of where the Lattery oow i& The ambassador, 
 with hi 1 - flourish of trumpets, armed at Plymouth, in 
 truth, merely as a commercial manager but on hisar-
 
 292 
 
 rival some of the Puritans, from their long connection 
 with those in Holland, remembered him, or his friends, 
 and it passed off as a right kind, affectionate meeting. 
 The Dutch urged Bradford to leave the barren coast on 
 which he had landed, and come to fresh river, where 
 the soil was better. Bradford, in return, in the most 
 friendly manner, urged Razier to look to their titles to 
 this goodly heritage of theirs, — see well to the purchase 
 deed and guarantys. The whole interview was a most 
 perfect exposition of the characters of both people. 
 Good faith was kept up between them for a long time. 
 
 In 1629, when the company directing the West India 
 concerns became so great, that the States General be- 
 came alarmed, and the right of fighting, conquering, 
 and condemning as piracies was thought quite too great 
 to be entrusted in the hands of a few, the charter 
 was of course modified, and in 1632, Wouter Von Twil- 
 ler superseded Minuit. It was in remodeling this char- 
 ter that the States General acknowledged the advantage 
 and authorized the legitimacy of the settlement. It 
 was at this period that tbe fort was enlarged, and many, 
 who now lost all fear, did nothing but attend to agri- 
 culture and commerce. 
 
 One of the great securities in the political destinies 
 of tbis country is, that there is no long line of distin- 
 guished ancestors claimed by one set of persons. The 
 origin of all the early settlers were about equal. They 
 were honest, industrious people, belonging to those who 
 have in every country the true principles of liberty, if 
 they be preserved any where. 
 
 The year 1620 is memorable for the settlement of 
 New England. The Puritans had gone to Holland in 
 1607. thence removed to Leyden. They wished to find
 
 293 
 
 a new place. Several of the adventurers sold their es- 
 
 i, ind made oommon stuck of trie proceeds. They 
 
 purchased what they called a ship, of sixty tons, called 
 
 the Speedwell, and chartered the Mayflower, of one 
 
 hundred and eighty tons. They stumbled, literally, at 
 the threshold. They sailed from Leyden in July, but 
 wire obliged to return twice. On the second return 
 the Speedwell was condemned as unfit for service ; and 
 they finally embarked in the Mayflower, on the sixth 
 of September. After a boisterous passage they made 
 Cape Cod on the ninth of November. Tins was seve- 
 ral degrees farther north than they intended to strike 
 the continent, and in attempting to proceed towards 
 Hudson River they fell among shoals. 
 
 Finding themselves in the forty-second degree of 
 north latitude, they were sensible that their charter was 
 good for nothing; and on the eleventh of November, 
 after solemn prayer, they drew up a constitution or 
 form of government. This compact was signed by 
 forty one persons, for themselves and families, amount- 
 ing to one hundred and one souls. Mr. John Carver 
 was chosen governor for one year, and Miles Stand ish 
 was sent into the country to make discoveries. They 
 saw a few Indians, and found some baskets of corn. 
 This treasure gave seed for the next year. On the 
 BOth day of December, O. S— corresponding to the 
 twenty-second. N. S. — they landed on Cape Cod. 
 
 A short time after the departure of these emigrants, 
 a patent was granted by James to the Duke of Lenox, 
 and others, which covered the "round they had taken 
 
 up. 
 
 Thus commenced these settlements on the shores of 
 North America, which, amidst difficulties, dangers, and
 
 294 
 
 sufferings, have grown into a great nation. Here the 
 doctrine of self-government has been proved, for, from 
 the very first, the colonists had the habits, the forms, 
 and the spirit of liberty. Out of their necessities grew 
 those social compacts which were still preserved in 
 making up the federal union. The perpetuity of this 
 union depends upon the intelligence of the people, and 
 part of their knowledge should be the history of their 
 country, not only in its battles, and its increase, but in 
 the origin and growth of its political, moral, and litera- 
 ry institutions. The days of small things become im- 
 portant by the lapse of time. It required a sound acorn, 
 and a succession of ages, to have produced the majestic 
 oak ; but the tree was in the germ when it burst the 
 shell, and its growth was left to nature and the care of 
 man. Our ancestors searched into every age and na- 
 tion for the seminal principles of freedom, to plant and 
 cultivate them in the land which is now our goodly 
 heritage ; they took from Greece their indomitable spi- 
 rit of freedom, and their love of activity and enter- 
 prize ; and Rome had not an officer, from a consul to a 
 lictor, whose duties are not discharged by some one of 
 our own, — all virtually proceeding, with us, from the 
 people ; and there is a harmony in the whole worth 
 preserving. 
 
 To look to the early days of our nation's existence ; 
 to trace the progress of empire, step by step, through 
 more than two centuries up to the present time, is one 
 of the duties of the sons and daughters of America. 
 This was once a great, and a difficult task ; for our fa- 
 thers had not the facilities of getting this information 
 that we have. As soeiety advances, more and more is 
 required of every one, and he who is behind the age is
 
 295 
 
 trodden upon and passed over, by those who come after 
 him. To strive for the mastery, and to contend for the 
 race, on the course of knowledge, is the spirit of our 
 people, and, in fact, of our times, among other nations; 
 and it is to be hoped that the day is not far distant 
 when the abode of the domestic circle will be nigh to 
 the hall of philosophy. Almost every tiling may be 
 accomplished by energy and perseverance. The pas- 
 sage of Napoleon over St. Bernard, in the sweep of his 
 power, is an emblem, but a faint, one. of the conquests 
 of mind in the progress of knowledge. Intellectual 
 victories are permanent and useful, while those of the 
 sword may be of doubtful utility, even in the blaze of 
 their glory. — and succeeding times are seldom benefit- 
 ted by tin blood of nations, however profusely poured 
 out. In these times of peace and prosperity, the hu- 
 man mind may find full employment in getting know- 
 ledge of a useful kind. The natural and the moral world 
 have not yet been half explored. As far as philoso- 
 phers have gone, they have not sounded the depths of 
 the human soul ; high as moralists and religious men 
 have soared, they have only given us a partial analysis 
 of man, and but a glimpse of his Creator. Every de- 
 partment of knowledge opens a field for a virtuous and 
 a laudable ambition ; a field where none perish that 
 others may be great, but where every conquest makes 
 the paths of those who follow smoother and more de- 
 lightful. The value of human life is every day in- 
 n-eased by the progress of knowledge, for we begin to 
 think earlier, and reason longer, than those who had 
 less information than we have ; in proportion to the 
 height of the sun at noon is the length and beauty of 
 the dawn and the loveliness of the evening twilight.
 
 296 
 
 If in the visions of the future glories of this country 
 we behold villages, towns, and cities, extending from 
 the Atlantic to the Pacific, happy in accumulated wealth, 
 resplendent in taste and beauty, why may we not see 
 in the same glow of inspiration new men rising in the 
 boundless prospect, plucking up, with a strong hand, 
 the poisonous weeds of error, and cultivating the soil 
 on which they grew for a goodly purpose ? New men, 
 who with new ingenuity, and fresh vigor shall interro- 
 gate nature until she shall give new responses, develop- 
 ing her deep mysteries more freely. New men, a term 
 of reproach in decayed nations, but here the only no- 
 bility—the only order of distinction ; new, because they 
 bring new lamps into the temple of science that shall 
 burn with a broader blaze and purer flame than those 
 which have long been glimmering and flickering upon 
 her altars; new, because their names are identified 
 with new principles and new discoveries — and because 
 in collecting and diffusing knowledge they lay man- 
 kind under new obligations of gratitude. 
 
 the end.
 
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