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 1
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY AUGUSTUS INGALLS. 
 
 BY 
 
 REV. GEORGE W. BURNAP, 
 
 PASTOR OF THE FIRST INDEPENDENT CHURCH OF BALTIUOUE. 
 
 WITH 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM HIS WRITINGS 
 
 ** None knew him but to love him, 
 None numed him but to praiae,*' — Halleck. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 
 
 1846. 
 
 i J « J
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 
 
 James Mu^fROE axd Company, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of tlie District of Massachusetts. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PRINTED BY THURSTON, TORRT AND CO. 
 
 31 Devonshire Street.
 
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 A76" 
 Z44-29 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Committee, appointed by the Me- 
 tropolitan Association to make a selec- 
 tion from the writings of our late fellow 
 member, Henry A. Ingalls, and with it 
 publish a Memoir of him, submit the present 
 w volume as the result of their labors. 
 
 CD 
 
 •-' For the Memoir, we are indebted to the 
 _ Reverend George VV. Burnap, of Baltimore. 
 *u, It is a beautiful and a])propriate tribute to 
 g departed worth ; for it we tender to the 
 author our grateful acknowledgments. 
 
 With regard to the selections, it is not 
 8 intended to submit them to the " unfeeling 
 3^ ordeal of criticism." Many of them were 
 A written at an early period of Mr. Ingalls's 
 3t life, for his own amusement and improve- 
 ti ment; and all, with perhaps one or two ex- 
 ceptions, were, undoubtedly, never thought 
 of for publication. 
 
 462444
 
 IV" PREFACE. 
 
 The object of the following publication 
 is, simply, to embody in an enduring form, 
 the memorials which are left in his writings, 
 and the recollections of his friends, of the 
 mind and character of a young man, dis- 
 tinguished for moral and intellectual attain- 
 ment. The Association which undertook 
 the enterprise, w^ere desirous to possess, in- 
 dividually, the means of recalling more 
 vividly the image of their departed friend, 
 and thus of kindling within themselves an 
 ever-renewing desire of that excellence 
 w^hich they admired in him. They wished 
 to rescue from oblivion the memory of one, 
 w^hose example is calculated both to stimu- 
 late and encourage the young in all that is 
 good. They felt, too, that the benefit 
 would not be confined to themselves: for 
 whoever should thus learn his early develop- 
 ment both of mind and character, w^ould be 
 reminded of his own powers and responsi- 
 bilities, and be exhorted " to go and do like- 
 wise." They would have it manifest, that 
 the opinion too prevalent among young men, 
 that virtue, morality and honor, go unob-
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 served and unappreciated, and consequently 
 there is one reason less for their being prac- 
 tised, is erroneous ; as the affection of every 
 member of our Association for the memory 
 of our departed friend, abundantly testifies. 
 They commend it to the attention of the 
 young, as a plain, unvarnished tale of real 
 life, demonstrating by facts, how much may 
 be accomplished in a short life, directed by 
 wisdom and sanctified by true religion. 
 
 JOHN J. ANDERSON, 
 L. B. IIARDCASTLE, 
 THOMAS J. TAYLOR, 
 JAMES M. DRAKE, 
 REUBEN H. CUDLIPP, 
 
 > Committee.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Memoir, . . . . . . 9-76 
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 Sltitrrrsscs. 
 First Anniversary Address, . . . .77 
 
 Second do. do. .... 92 
 
 Bebatcs. 
 
 Philosophy versus Poetry, .... 107 
 
 Ancient rcr^MS Modern Laws, . . . 123 
 
 Youth versus Manhood, ..... 134 
 
 Sssai'S. 
 The Stream of Teridencies, .... 141 
 
 Happiness, ... ... 147 
 
 Novel Pleading, ...... 154 
 
 Influence of Character, .... 161 
 
 The Close of the Year, . . . . .167 
 
 Sale. 
 Isabella the Fair, ..... 171 
 
 The Vision, 186
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 j^vaQmcnts. 
 
 An Old Man's Reflections, .... 193 
 
 Death, ...... 197 
 
 Hope, ....... 199 
 
 Tears, ...... 201 
 
 Guardian Spirits, ..... 202 
 
 Proper Use of Time, .... 204 
 
 Time's Changes, ...... 205 
 
 Fame, ....... 206 
 
 For an Album, . . . . . .208 
 
 Memory, ...... 209
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 The friends of the subject of the following 
 Memoir have felt themselves constrained by their 
 affection for him, and by a desire to diffuse the 
 influence of so bright an example of moral ex- 
 cellence, to embody in a more enduring form the 
 memorials that are left of a brief, yet honorable 
 and well-spent life. We are told by a wise man, 
 that "honorable age is not that which standeth 
 in length of time, nor is measured by number of 
 years. But wisdom is the gray hair unto men, 
 and an unspotted life is old age." That life is 
 long enough which fulfils life's great purpose ; 
 and to the mature in virtue, no death can be un- 
 timely. 
 
 There never was a time, perhaps, when there 
 was more need that honorable mention should 
 be made of high moral attainment in early life. 
 There is a strong tendency, in our age and 
 country, to overlook and underrate the import- 
 ance of character in the young. There is great 
 2
 
 10 MEMOIR. 
 
 ambition in parents to give their children the 
 best advantages of intellectnal education, to hur- 
 ry them into the world, and then to push their 
 fortunes by every expedient. The signs of thrift 
 and enterprise are watched with the most anxious 
 eye. But the formation and development of 
 character, which is, after all, the only sure basis 
 of permanent prosperity, are looked upon with 
 comparative indifference. The consequence is, 
 too often, ultimate and bitter disappointment. 
 Without character, talent, acquisition and the 
 most flattering prospects, are sure to make early 
 and total shipwreck. Hence the spectacle, which 
 all our large cities exhibit, of multitudes of young 
 men, to whom life, though commenced under 
 the most favorable auspices, is a complete mis- 
 carriage ; who, instead of being ornaments to 
 society, are its pests and scourges; instead of 
 being the joy and comfort of their parents, are 
 their sorrow and disgrace, bowing down whole 
 families, in the midst of affluence and splendor, 
 to mourning and tears. It is salutary, to show 
 the young of our large cities, that the paths of 
 temptation may be trodden, even by the inexpe- 
 rienced, uncorrupted and unsoiled ; that contact 
 with the multitude by no means involves con- 
 tamination with their vices ; that the soul may 
 maintain its purity in the midst of a tainted at-
 
 MEMOIR. 11 
 
 mospherc ; and true piety may spring up and 
 mature, in the hurry and din of a mighty me- 
 tropolis. 
 
 Hknry Augustus Ingalls was born in Merri- 
 mack, N. H., on the eighth of September, 1823, 
 and resided in his native town till, at the age of 
 ten, he removed with his father's family to the 
 city of New-York. Until this period, there was 
 nothing in his character to distinguish him from 
 his associates, except, perhaps, a propensity to 
 reading, and a remarkably equable temper and 
 disposition. Soon after his removal to New-York, 
 he was placed at school, and became very fond 
 of study and books. He always occupied a 
 prominent position in his class, and excelled in 
 most branches of study. In 1S35, he entered 
 the Mechanics' Society School in Crosby-street, 
 where he remained four years, completed his 
 school education, and graduated in April, 1839. 
 While at this school, his career was marked by 
 a harmonious development of intellectual and 
 moral excellence. One of his associates bears 
 witness, that " while at school, Henry was be- 
 loved by every schoolfellow ; he was esteemed, 
 not alone for his superior mental qualities, well- 
 informed mind and studious habits, but for his 
 even and never-varying moral and courteous in-
 
 12 MEMOIR. 
 
 tercoiirse with those about him." As a testimony 
 of the estimation in which he was held, during 
 the last year of his course at school, the graduat- 
 ing class, having out of respect and gratitude to 
 the institution in which they had been educated, 
 formed an association for the collecting of a cabi- 
 net of natural science, unanimously, with the 
 exception of his own vote, placed him at its 
 head. To this honor he was twice reelected. 
 Upon all these enterprises for self-improvement, 
 he entered with a warm, but steady and perse- 
 vering zeal. On all public occasions, he acquit- 
 ted himself, both as a speaker and writer, with 
 distinguished success. This school association 
 became the nucleus of a more extensive and per- 
 manent society. Those who had derived so 
 much pleasure from literary intercourse at school, 
 determined to prolong their friendship and mental 
 advantages, by forming a literary society, called 
 the "Metropolitan Association;" the object 
 of which was, " to promote a spirit of inquiry 
 on useful subjects, and to extend the knowledge 
 of its members by means of debates, essays, 
 lectures, &c." Over this association, young In- 
 galls was chosen to preside ; an evidence that his 
 merits were discerned and appreciated, as well 
 after, as before, his separation from the scenes of 
 his pupilage. Of his connection with this so-
 
 MEMOIR. 13 
 
 ciety, the following communication from an inti- 
 mate friend gives a gratifying and satisfactory 
 account. 
 
 Enfield, N. C, March 22d, 1845. 
 Dear Sin : 
 
 I lately received a letter from Mr. J. J. Ander- 
 son, of New-York, communicating the pleasing 
 intelligence, that a committee, of which he is 
 chairman, has been appointed by the Metropolitan 
 Association to select for publication a portion of 
 the writings of the late Henry A. Ingalls, and 
 that the work will contain a biographical sketch 
 of the author, which you are to contribute. Mr. 
 Anderson therefore, desires me, as one who was 
 favored Avith the intimate friendship of the de- 
 ceased, for several years preceding his death, to 
 give you some information respecting his charac- 
 ter and deportment, whilst connected with the 
 above mentioned association, where my acquaint- 
 ance with him commenced, and the estimation 
 in which he was held by his fellow members. 
 
 The duty which this request imposes, T feel 
 myself incompetent to perform ; nor would I 
 venture to trespass on your attention, were I not 
 apprehensive lest my silence would seem to 
 manifest any indifference towards the memory 
 of a deeply regretted and venerated friend. True, 
 I had the best opportunity of becoming acquaint-
 
 14 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 ed with the rare merits of Mr. Ingalls, and of 
 ascertaining the high degree in which he pos- 
 sessed the esteem and affection of his associates. 
 But I am aware you do not want generalities ; 
 and when I attempt translating m.y recollections 
 into words, I find gentleness, truth and benignity 
 so blended with all he said and did, as to render 
 it a matter of extreme difficulty, to refer to any 
 particular acts, in which the goodness of his 
 nature was more prominently exhibited. It is 
 the confession of all his friends, that he glided 
 into their hearts at the very first interview. 
 That it was no holyday excellence which caused 
 this favorable prepossession, is evidenced by the 
 fact, that the longer he Avas known, the more he 
 was admired and loved. The uniform upright- 
 ness of his character, and the attractive suavity 
 of his manners, are still more fully attested by 
 the existence of the association, which now 
 seeks to honor his memory, and the circum- 
 stances attending its establishment. 
 
 A number of young men, in New-York, few 
 of them beyond their legal infancy, met to form 
 an association, for the purpose of mutual im- 
 provement. All were enthusiastic for the success 
 of the undertaking ; but, from a body of inex- 
 perienced youths, who could be selected, of 
 sufficient wisdom and influence, to conduct their
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 15 
 
 proceedings in a suitable manner, and direct their 
 energies into a proper channel ? Strange to say, 
 one of the youngest amongst us, was considered 
 the best calculated to accomplish these ends. 
 Though previously unknown to the majority of 
 us, Mr. Ingalls was chosen president at our sec- 
 ond sitting; and in this capacity, he more than 
 justified the confidence reposed in him. To 
 his consummate judgment, and the ascendency 
 which his virtues had obtained over the minds 
 of the members, may be attributed the continu- 
 ance of our society. Without giving the least 
 offence, he perfectly succeeded in tempering 
 rashness and preserving order. When any mis- 
 behavior occurred, he rebuked it in a manner so 
 sweetly impressive, that the offence was not 
 repeated ; and the persons censured, were more 
 strongly bound to him than before. Every thing 
 tending to promote the objects for which we had 
 combined, received his most devoted support ; 
 and when, according, to our rules, he ceded the 
 chair to another, the prosperity of our society, 
 principally through his management, was placed 
 on a permanent basis. 
 
 In a literary point of view, his talents much 
 elevated the character of our society. The ad- 
 vantages of a cultivated intellect were so brightly 
 exemplified in his own person, that his sugges-
 
 16 MEMOIR. 
 
 tions were readily attended to, on all matters 
 connected with mental discipline. In debate, 
 he displayed the utmost skilfulness and prompti- 
 tude, whether in giving a forcible exposition of 
 his own views, or successfully unravelling the 
 defective argumentation of his adversaries ; at 
 the same time, never permitting a word to escape 
 him which could hurt the feelings of the most 
 sensitive. Thus, while he generally triumphed 
 in every discussion, no hostility rankled in the 
 minds of the defeated. His essays on various 
 subjects, always found attentive and charmed list- 
 eners. In a word, the impression created by the 
 manifestation of his powers, both in extempore 
 and prepared composition, was such, that one 
 sentiment pervaded the minds of all : — since the 
 spring is so rich in promise, what treasures will 
 not the summer and autumn disclose ! 
 
 If discord sometimes prevailed in our body, 
 and feelings of enmity were engendered amongst 
 the members, Mr. Ingalls participated only in 
 their love ; for at his hands nothing was experi- 
 enced but affability and kindness. When angry 
 conflicts ensued, he used his best exertions to 
 restore harmony. On one occasion, a warm alter- 
 cation had taken place between two members, 
 in the course of the discussion ; after the meet- 
 ing dispersed, he was seen in earnest conversation
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 17 
 
 with one of the parties. He brought them to- 
 getlier, and the consequence was, a cordial 
 reunion. This Hue of conduct was duly appre- 
 ciated. I might mnhiply instances of his worth ; 
 but, perhaps it is enough to say, that every act 
 done by him during the time he bore a part in 
 our proceedings, tended deservedly to strengthen 
 his claims to the respect and admiration of his 
 brethren. It is my conviction, that no individual 
 in similar circumstances, was ever more loved 
 and honored. So far from hearing a word, at 
 any time, uttered to his disparagement, I ever 
 heard his name spoken of in terms of unqualified 
 commendation. Of one endowed with so many 
 amiable qualities, it is hard to say what was the 
 distinguishing excellency, or what most endeared 
 him to all who knew him. He was, perhaps, 
 the only one unconscious of his own merits; 
 for, like his Divine Master, he was " meek and 
 humble at heart." He resorted to no artifice, 
 put on no disguise, in order to obtain good will 
 from men. In his conversation, he eschewed all 
 frivolous topics and gave candid expression to 
 his sentiments. The stainless purity of his life 
 was, in itself, the most withering rebuke to the 
 vicious; and still he was acceptable to persons 
 of the most conflicting opinions, and of the most 
 opposite shades of character. I marked the
 
 18 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 unvaried mildness of his demeanor, his gentleness 
 and sweetness of nature, which made all around 
 him happy ; his sympathy for the poor and the 
 desolate, and the oppressed; his expansive phi- 
 lanthropy, which refused to be narrowed by the 
 limits of creed, country or color. I knew him 
 ready to succor "the fatherless and the widow 
 in their affliction, and keeping himself unspotted 
 before the world ; " and my heart was forced to 
 acknowledge, that "religion undefiled " dwelt in 
 his breast ; that since the days when angels came 
 down and conversed with men, goodness ap- 
 peared not on the earth in a more fascinating 
 guise. I was nurtured in a different belief; I 
 was only a denizen of his country ; yet, till I 
 knew him, I comprehended not the impassioned 
 truthfulness of that passage, " Jonathan loved 
 David as his own soul." It lessened not the 
 reverence I had conceived for his character, to 
 discover that he was identified in faith with a 
 body of men vv^ho were connected with my 
 earliest impressions of whatever was splendid in 
 talents, liberal in politics, or amiable in private 
 life : I mean the Remonstrant Synod of Ulster, 
 the men who in their own persons nobly and 
 successfully vindicated the rights of conscience, 
 and who, in the most trying times, "stood for 
 the right and the region," when the smiles of 
 power would have rewarded a different course.
 
 MEMOIR, 19 
 
 I am deeply sensible of the feebleness of this 
 sketch, and its worthlossness to the end designed. 
 Had I the reqnisite ability to portray Mr. Ingalls' 
 character as it deserved, I would consider any 
 amount of labor, for that purpose, well employed. 
 The homage now paid to his talents and virtues, 
 and the eflbrts being made to secure them a 
 durable monument, by his former associates, show 
 the feelings with which his memory is cherished. 
 Such a memory as he bequeathed us, wets the 
 eye and sweetens the heart ; and most sincerely 
 do I rejoice, that the task of embalming it has 
 been confided to the hands of one who has 
 reached so high a place in the republic of letters. 
 I am, respected sir. 
 Your ob't servant, 
 
 Edward Conigland. 
 
 The writer of this cannot forbear here to break 
 the thread of the narrative, to bestow his hearty 
 commendation on literary associations of young 
 men in large cities. They are, he believes, pro- 
 ductive of untold good. They have their dangers, 
 of running into form and superficial wordiness, 
 quibbling and pretension ; but the good, under 
 all circumstances, overbalances the evil. Intel- 
 lect is quickened, investigation is stimulated, 
 habits are formed of ease and fluency of speech
 
 20 MEMOIR. 
 
 before a multitude, and no mean preparation is 
 often made in these juvenile assemblies, for in- 
 fluence and efficiency in the business of after 
 life. The young learn to discuss with candor 
 and fairness, the principal subjects which must 
 ever divide the opinions and suffrages of man- 
 kind. 
 
 The sphere of life which he had chosen for 
 himself was that of a merchant, and he accord- 
 ingly became a clerk in a dry goods store, where 
 he continued for two years, giving his employer 
 the fullest satisfaction. It is a pursuit to which 
 he was well fitted, and one which he was calcu- 
 lated to adorn. There was in him, as it seemed, 
 by nature, an absolute and spontaneous integrity, 
 which, after all, is the only sure foundation for 
 lasting success. And it is one of the regrets, 
 which his early removal causes in the minds of 
 his friends, that he was not spared to contribute 
 his share to adorn and redeem a profession, which 
 has, of late years, been subjected to so much re- 
 proach. 
 
 The idea has been gaining ground, for some 
 years, in the confusion and revolutions of mer- 
 cantile affairs, that strict integrity in a merchant, 
 so far from promoting his success, is a positive 
 obstruction to his prosperity. There is so much 
 underhand management in every channel of trade,
 
 MEMOIR. 21 
 
 that he who conducts his business on the princi- 
 ples of plain honesty, will be ruined, or at least, 
 left behind in the race, by the unscrupulous and 
 unprincipled. If this be the fact, then no Chris- 
 tian ought ever to place a son in a situation 
 where he is exposed to such moral corruption. 
 But the proposition is incredible, and refutes it- 
 self. Trade cannot be pursued, in this age, with- 
 out credit. The precious metals, and even bank 
 notes, are not the only bases of exchange, are 
 not the only representatives of value. Personal 
 character is always taken into view in every 
 transaction. It is always considered whether 
 there is the disposition, as well as the ability, to 
 fulfil a contract ; and it is absurd to say, that he 
 who is known to want the disposition, while he 
 has the ability, stands on as good ground, as he 
 who is known to have both the ability and the 
 disposition. Character is capital, and the want 
 of it is the greatest disqualification for mercantile 
 life. If trade be, as it is represented, inevitable 
 ruin to integrity, then the friends of the subject 
 of this notice have reason to be thankful that he 
 was so early taken away, that his soul passed 
 into the spiritual world, unstained by the pollu- 
 tion which cleaves to the employment of buying 
 and selling. 
 
 But whatever are the perils of mercantile life,
 
 22 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 it was ordained that our young friend should 
 never know them. He did not quite reach the 
 age of majority. After remaining two years in 
 the employment we have mentioned above, he 
 obtained a situation as clerk in an insurance office 
 in Wall-street, where he remained till the ap- 
 pearance of that fatal malady which brought 
 him to an untimely grave. 
 
 There must have been in his constitution a 
 strong predisposition to pulmonary disease. His 
 form indicated it, and there was in his manner a 
 pensive gentleness, which physiologists have re- 
 marked as generally characteristic of the early 
 victim of tubercular consumption. It seemed, 
 moreover, to be finally developed without any 
 exciting cause. As if in anticipation of the 
 shortness of his time, his character, before re- 
 markably mature, from the first hour of his sick- 
 ness, seems to have developed and ripened apace ; 
 and what is often the work of a long life, was 
 concentrated into a few months — a preparation 
 for new and higher scenes. It is not to be un- 
 derstood by this,' that the graces of soul, which 
 he then exhibited, began to exist at that period, 
 or that religion and duty were then new and 
 strange ideas. They had been forming and 
 brightening in silence for years. They had blos- 
 somed in that sacred circle, where all that is good 
 
 •
 
 MEMOIR. 23 
 
 ill us originates, the sanctuary of home. lie 
 had tasted of its sorrows and its joys. He 
 had there found endearing objects of his affec- 
 tions and his sympathies, sufiicient employment 
 for liis active energies, and amusement for his 
 leisure hours. lie was thus saved, by his do- 
 mestic attachments, from other temptations which 
 assail the unfortunate youth, whose home has no 
 attractions, or who has himself no preference for 
 the society of mother and sisters, over the heart- 
 less companionship of the thoughtless, the idle, 
 or the profligate. Sickness merely brought out 
 and perfected what was in him before. Such a 
 decline and such a death, could not have followed 
 a heedless or an ill spent life. The sad tidings 
 of incurable disease, the cold grasp of inevitable 
 death, would have struck with consternation any 
 heart which was not sustained by the testimony 
 of a good conscience. 
 
 The realities to whicli death must introduce 
 us, were not new subjects of thought to him. 
 He could, therefore, contemplate them calmly 
 and unmoved ; and it may truly be said, that 
 young as he was, he looked on the great event 
 which was approaching with more composure, 
 thousrh it was to translate him to worlds un- 
 known, than those could do, who were merely to 
 lose for a short time, a companion of their earth- 
 lj4 pilgrimage.
 
 24 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 The writer of this has been favored with a 
 detailed account of his sickness and death, from 
 his physician, which is here given nearly in his 
 own words. This document is most important 
 to the present purpose, as it conveys a lively 
 transcript of the impression made by his whole 
 character, on one placed in the best possible situ- 
 ation to observe it. As by a modern invention, 
 the human countenance is made to create its own 
 image, unerring and exact, so the intimacy of the 
 family physician, creates in his mind a moral 
 image of the person, daily and hourly subjected 
 to his observation, as nearly corresponding to the 
 original as any human estimate can make it. 
 The reader of this narrative will perceive, from 
 the first, that an impression was made by this 
 young person, of marked mental and moral supe- 
 riority. There is in it evidently a spontaneous 
 and unstudied tribute to rare natural endowment, 
 and to a maturity of mind and character quite as 
 uncommon. Wherever he went, as far as the 
 writer can learn, he made the same impression 
 on all who became acquainted with his char- 
 acter. 
 
 New-York, March, 1845. 
 Rev. and dear Sib : 
 
 It is with much gratification that I have 
 learned from Mr. Ingalls that you have consented
 
 MEMOIR. 26 
 
 to draw up a biographical sketch of his deceased 
 son Henry. The publication of his manuscripts 
 has been a subject of much interest to me ever 
 since his death ; and now that it is about being ac- 
 complished, a sketch of his short life, so pure, so 
 holy, so heavenly-minded as it was, to accompany 
 it, is a circumstance, to me, peculiarly gratifying. 
 Mr. Ingalls has requested me to transmit to you 
 such incidents of his life and traits of his charac- 
 ter, as I may have been familiar with during 
 the six years of my professional acquaintance 
 with his family, hoping that it may be of some 
 assistance to you in the prosecution of your work ; 
 a request I most cheerfully comply with. 
 
 It was in the summer of 1838 that I was in- 
 troduced to the family of Mr. Ingalls, on the oc- 
 casion of an accident happening to his youngest 
 daughter. Henry at that time had not reached 
 his fourteenth year; and although slender in his 
 person, and in appearance youthful, even for his 
 years, presented to the eye of an observer a cast 
 of character of more than ordinary interest. It 
 was during this, and a temporary illness with 
 which his father was afflicted, but a few weeks 
 after that of his sister, (mentioned above,) that 
 those peculiar features of character were observed, 
 so beautifully and strikingly developed in after 
 life. He was naturally taciturn, said but little, 
 3
 
 26 MEMOIR. 
 
 unless something of more than ordinary interest 
 drew him forth; but his countenance, even at 
 that early age, was so beautifully expressive of 
 his feelings, that I might almost say, " words 
 with him were useless." How distinctly, in my 
 mind's eye, I even now behold him, as he then 
 appeared to me, hanging over his father, with his 
 eyes fixed upon him, (I had been letting a little 
 blood from his arm,) solicitous and ready to ren- 
 der the smallest assistance, and yet with feelings 
 suppressed, and countenance expressive of entire 
 submission! Ah! how strikingly, how beautifully, 
 did his after life illustrate that heavenly principle ; 
 "I bow in submission to the Divine will," which 
 was the first remark at the commencement of his 
 illness ; and he left us with it almost lingering 
 upon his lips. From the period just mentioned, 
 I became intimate in the family of Mr. Ingalls. 
 The succeeding year was a period of more or less 
 sickness among its members. Henry was fre- 
 quently brought before my notice, and always, 
 and under all circumstances, exhibited that same 
 tranquil, placid cast of character — the same 
 sweet smile sat upon his countenance, and a word 
 of kindness fell from his lips for every one that 
 approached him. It was not, however, until 
 after this, that I became acquainted with his in- 
 tellectual character. He was naturally, as I before
 
 MEMOIR. 27 
 
 remarked, somewhat reserved in his intercourse, 
 particularly with his seniors ; yet, when drawn 
 forth, exhibiting a mind well furnished from our 
 best authors, both ancient and modern, a know- 
 ledge of the passing literature of the day, together 
 with a general acquaintance with science and the 
 arts, truly astonishing in one just passing from 
 school-boy days. As each year of my acquaint- 
 ance with him elapsed, my interest in this dear 
 youth increased. I found him a close student, 
 especially bent upon mental improvement, and the 
 cultivation of every virtuous principle that could 
 adorn the mind or ennoble our race ; that could 
 fit him for usefulness here, or happiness hereafter. 
 In addition to the more solid branches of educa- 
 tion, his taste for music and drawing was cer- 
 tainly very remarkable. In the former he was 
 entirely self-taught, yet his performance on the 
 piano and flute was highly creditable to himself 
 and gratifying to his friends. Oh ! sir, never, I 
 think, was seen a happier family than that of 
 your friend, before death entered its sacred circle. 
 I have often watched them, as they, together with 
 their excellent father, were surrounding the piano 
 of an evening, joining in one of the popular airs 
 of the day; and the thought not unfrequently 
 pressed upon my mind, how dire would be the 
 blow, should the hand of death be ever raised to
 
 2S MEMOIR. 
 
 sever the ties that bind this affectionate, happy 
 group together, — a foreboding, alas, too soon to be 
 realized. They lived for each other ; and it was 
 here that the character of Henry shone forth with 
 peculiar lustre — it was here that even his beau- 
 tiful adornments of mind, his accomplishments 
 of person, were thrown into the shade. Never, 
 I believe, did he feel happier than when admin- 
 istering to the comforts or pleasures of his beloved 
 parents and sisters, — this was his ruling passion, 
 and it was "strong even in death." "I did 
 hope," said he, a little before his death, " I 
 did hope to be able to administer to their com- 
 forts (alluding to his parents) in their old age, 
 they have done so much for me, — but God's will 
 be done." 
 
 He seemed to possess feelings of unbounded 
 benevolence : — in his every suggestion, there ap- 
 peared something for the benefit of some of the 
 human family; and I think I may say, without 
 hesitation, I never, in all my walks, knew one so 
 entirely free from the form or appearance of any 
 thing like selfishness. He seemed to breathe a 
 spirit of universal philanthropy. I have thought 
 it somewhat remarkable, that in the sickness 
 occurring at various times in the family of Mr. 
 Ingalls, I never had had my attention called to 
 Henry, until six months before his death. So
 
 MEMOIR. 29 
 
 perfect had his health been, that I think I have 
 since heard his father say, that never, since his 
 infancy, had it been necessary to call for him a 
 physician. During the year preceding his death, 
 I had seen but comparatively little of him ; he 
 being engaged during the day in his clerkship, 
 and opportunities of meeting in the evening had 
 not been frequent, so that any other idea than 
 that of his being in perfect health, never once 
 entered my mind ; neither had any thing been 
 observed by his family, until a little more than 
 six months before his death ; so silently and se- 
 cretly had the destroyer done his work. It was 
 in the early part of November, that he called on 
 me one morning to get something for his cough, 
 which was only in compliance with his father's 
 wishes, as he said it only troubled him in the 
 morning. His appearance gave me no uneasiness, 
 and he assured me, that he otherwise felt quite 
 well. I gave him a remedy, and after a few vis- 
 its, he said it had left him, and he felt in perfect 
 health. The thing passed from my mind, until 
 the latter part of December, when accidentally 
 meeting him one day at his house, he mentioned 
 he had within a few days become very weak. 
 This symptom greatly alarmed me, and I imme- 
 diately took him nnder medical treatment. Re- 
 luctantly he consented to give up his business for
 
 30 MEMOIR. 
 
 a few days ; a duty, alas, to which he never re- 
 turned. A few weeks' closer investigation of his 
 disease, still further excited alarm, inducing the 
 fear, that it was of much longer standing than at 
 first was apprehended. At this period, I thought 
 
 proper to call in to my aid Dr. J. M. S , a 
 
 gentleman who has for the last fifteen years 
 held the chair of the theory and practice of me- 
 dicine in the medical college of our city ; and 
 who is considered inferior to none among us in 
 the treatment of this particular disease. Our 
 united opinion was, that there was no decided 
 disease of the lungs, although a strong predispo- 
 sition that way. A course of treatment was pro- 
 posed, from which, should no relief be obtained, 
 it was agreed to seek another climate. The pro- 
 posed time of a fortnight rapidly passed round, 
 but brought with it no relief, although there ap- 
 peared no aggravation of the unfavorable symp- 
 toms, and we lost no time in making preparations 
 for our departure. Savannah, and from thence 
 to the Floridas, for various reasons, had been se- 
 lected as our place of refuge from the dreaded 
 onset. Accordingly, we took passage on board 
 the brig Exact, bound for Savannah. Our dear 
 invalid bore the fatigues incidental to leaving 
 home, and a large circle of friends, with that 
 composure and serenity of mind, so peculiarly
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 31 
 
 his own ; and indeed seemed better, and more 
 cheerful ; so that, fall of hope, on the morning of 
 the seventh of February, we set out on our jour- 
 ney to the simny south. The day was remark- 
 ably fine for the season, and quite calm ; we 
 passed slowly down the river, and towards night 
 anchored in the lower bay, intending not to put 
 to sea until morning. How often, since that 
 period, has my mind reverted to this memorable 
 evening ! I know of no time, from the first dawn 
 of his disease, when my hopes were so high ; we 
 were gathered together in the cabin, — our dear 
 Henry was so much himself ; his cough through 
 the day had been so trifling ; his sweet smile 
 was playing on his countenance, while he talked 
 cheerfully, looking forward to a return, with 
 health regained, to his " sweet home," and circle 
 of kind friends. The hour was late, and we be- 
 gan to think of retiring. It was just then that 
 Henry quietly took up a flute that had been lay- 
 ing near him, and placing it to his lips, began, 
 with peculiar sweetness, the Scottish air of " Ye 
 banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." It was a little 
 incident, my dear sir ; but now, while I am wri- 
 ting, methinks I can almost hear the notes of 
 that evening floating across the air ; there seemed 
 something unearthly in the sounds. They were 
 the last he ever played. Our passage was full of
 
 33 MEMOIR. 
 
 hope and fear : the first two days were very 
 rough ; the next was pleasant, and we all felt 
 mnch better, while the appetite of our invalid re- 
 turned, and he seemed very comfortable. The 
 next day was the Sabbath, and a delightful day 
 indeed it proved to us. Henry sat up nearly the 
 whole day ; he walked the deck, and really 
 seemed to enjoy himself. During the day, he 
 expressed a desire to hear read one of his pas- 
 tor's (Dr. Dewey's) sermons. I accordingly chose, 
 at his request, " Religion as the great sentiment 
 of Life." He listened very attentively to the 
 words of exhortation, occasionally dropping such 
 remarks as the subject suggested. In the after- 
 noon he again expressed a wish to hear another 
 of these affectionate discourses. It seemed to 
 bring home very near to him, and all those he 
 most tenderly loved. Thus passed our first Sab- 
 bath on the ocean ; it was a day long to be re- 
 membered, and with grateful hearts did we retire 
 to our rest that night, thankful to our Heavenly 
 Parent that we were allowed to indulge even 
 in hope. Our voyage was considered, on the 
 whole, a remarkably fine one ; and on the after- 
 noon of the sixth day from our leaving Sandy 
 Hook, we arrived safely at Savannah. 
 
 We disembarked on the evening of the 13th 
 of February ; and having obtained comfortable
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 33 
 
 lodgings, were all soon enjoying a refreshing 
 sleep. Hitherto, every thing seemed to favor us 
 with regard to tlie restoration of our beloved 
 Henry to health ; our voyage had been a jjleasant 
 one, remarkably so for the season ; he had been 
 benefited by it ; and now we were favored by a 
 continuance of fine weather, finer than it gener- 
 ally is at this season, even in this charming 
 region. The morning after our arrival, the sun 
 rose upon one of the most delightful days ever 
 witnessed ; the sweet south wind was wafted in 
 upon us as we sat by the open window, every 
 breath of which seemed to revive my patient, 
 who had now become so dear to me, that every 
 breath he drew was watched with the deepest 
 interest. During the day, he took a long ride, 
 came back much refreshed, and after enjoying a 
 short sleep, arose and dined with us at the public 
 table ; during the afternoon, enjoyed the visits of 
 several friends, to whom we had letters, and re- 
 tired early, evidently much improved. It was at 
 this time, after all was quiet, that his excellent 
 father put to me the question, (with a depth of 
 interest that may be conceived, but not de- 
 scribed,) " whether, indeed, he might not noio 
 indulge a hope ? " To which I was forced to 
 reply, "a hope, but that is all." Henry's disease, 
 from the first, had appeared to Dr. S and
 
 34 MEMOIR. 
 
 myself, thus : a small spot (not probably larger 
 than a dollar) of tuberculous deposite, was evi- 
 dently forming in the superior portion of the left 
 lung ; our object was to prevent its extension, as 
 well as its softening into matter, from which 
 would probably be formed an abscess, a state of 
 things which would immediately extinguish all 
 hope. It was a case in which medicine could 
 do but little; my principal dependence was an 
 avoidance of all exciting causes, exercise in the 
 open air, diet, &c. Two months had now passed 
 by, and yet there appeared no increase of the 
 disease ; and thus far, room was left for hope. 
 Among the letters we were favored with, to 
 friends at Savannah, was one from Henry's much- 
 loved pastor, Dr. Dewey, to the Rev. Mr. Clapp, 
 pastor of the Unitarian congregation of that place. 
 To this gentleman, 1 feel much indebted for his 
 many acts of kindness to me, personally, as well 
 as his unremitting attentions to my patient, dur- 
 ing the whole of his residence at Savannah. 
 His intercourse with him was of such a charac- 
 ter, as to enable him to furnish much that will 
 be of value to you, I have no doubt, in the 
 prosecution of your work. Through Mr. Clapp, 
 I was, at my request, made acquainted with Dr. 
 A , a valued friend with whom I was de- 
 sirous of consulting ; and as my absence from
 
 MEJfOIR. 35 
 
 home could not be coiilinuod beyond a few 
 weeks, I was solicitous to leave him the charge 
 of my patient. In conjunction with him again, 
 before my departure, a critical examination was 
 made of the state of his chest. I was gratified 
 to find the disease still very circumscribed, hav- 
 ing made no progress within now nearly three 
 months, and that his general health had much 
 improved. But, ah ! what a treacherous disease 
 is consumption ; delaying oftentimes in its pro- 
 gress, just long enough to allow us to build ilp 
 our hopes, and then hurrying its victim with rapid 
 strides to the close of life, as if more than to 
 make up for the momentary delay ! I was happy 
 
 to find in Dr. A , an entire concurrence of 
 
 opinion as to the plan of treatment to be pursued. 
 I accordingly made my preparations to return 
 
 homeward, having agreed with Dr. A , that 
 
 our patient was to remain at Savannah, or pass 
 on to Florida, according as his health, or the 
 state of the weather, might render it desirable. 
 
 The season, however, was so far advanced, 
 and there being a prospect of the mild weather's 
 continuance, k was thought highly probable that 
 Savannah would be the permanent place of so- 
 journ, until his return north. Accordingly, it 
 became necessary to remove our lodgings from 
 the public house to a more retired location ; and
 
 36 MEMOIR. 
 
 here we were singularly fortunate in procuring 
 accommodations in a private family, whose kind- 
 ness and attentions to our invalid during his 
 whole stay at Savannah were unremitting ; they 
 were remembered by him as long as life lasted; 
 and after his return home were often referred to 
 with feelings of the warmest gratitude. 
 
 Indeed, the kind attentions of many friends 
 at Savannah call forth, even at this day, our 
 best thanks. Should any of them be so situated 
 as to need the acts of kindness they extended to 
 our invalid, I trust they may meet with those 
 who will as deeply sympathize with them, as 
 they did with us ; and then, and only then, can 
 they fully appreciate our feelings of thankful- 
 ness. 
 
 On the 17th of February, I bade adieu to my 
 friends and my dear patient, with whom now for 
 weeks I had been continually in the closest con- 
 tact, and with whom I thought it highly proba- 
 ble I might again never meet on this side the 
 grave. I shall never forget his farewell, his 
 affecting farewell. I can now see his bright 
 eyes suffused with tears, can feel his feeble arms 
 thrown about my neck : he uttered not a word — 
 his countenance bespoke all he felt. 
 
 I returned home by land, and shortly after 
 my arrival received from him a letter stating,
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 37 
 
 very clearly, that he felt himself daily increasing 
 in strength ; that he rode out, continually enjoy- 
 ing the society of the kind friends he had met 
 with there. This continued until the early part 
 of April, when it hecame very evident, from 
 his handwriting, that there was a decrease of 
 strength. It became tremulous, instead of the 
 usually bold and manly style natural to him. I 
 felt that my worst fears were now about to be 
 realized, apprehending that the loss of strength 
 and nerve could arise from no other cause than 
 the formation of the much dreaded abscess. 
 Soon after I received a communication from Dr. 
 A., confirming the fact. I immediately wrote to 
 Mr. Ingalls, urging his instant return ; this he 
 did by easy journeys by land, during which you 
 had an opportunity of seeing him when passing 
 through your city. And here let me pause a 
 moment in my narrative to remark, that the resi- 
 dence of Henry at Savannah formed an interest- 
 ing period of his life, and especially showed 
 forth in a clearer light than any former period 
 the religious state of his mind ; and this will be 
 furnished you by our mutual friend, the Rev. 
 Mr. Clapp. I might also remark here, that he 
 was, in my view, most conscientiously attached 
 to his particular faith, yet breathing at all times 
 a most catholic spirit. I might relate a little in- 
 
 4G2444 ;
 
 38 MEMOIR. 
 
 cident by way of illustration during our journey. 
 We had of course been constantly in close contact, 
 yet separated in our morning and evening devo- 
 tions ; this appeared to me wrong ; that two im- 
 mortal beings, bound to the same eternal world, 
 could not worship the great Author of their being 
 in unison, seemed to me an absurdity. One morn- 
 ing, my book of Common Prayer laid on the 
 table, and I observed he had but a few minutes 
 before been reading it. I asked him if he were 
 familiar with the prayers ; he said he was, and 
 thought them very beautiful. And could you, I 
 remarked, join with me in the morning and 
 evening family prayers, which you doubtless have 
 looked over ? " With pleasure," he replied, " al- 
 though I might mentally put a different con- 
 struction on certain expressions from what you 
 would." It was enough — from that morning be- 
 gan our united prayers to the Giver of all good, 
 and I believe were never once omitted while we 
 remained together. 
 
 It was at this point of his sad progress toward 
 the tomb, that he became known to the writer of 
 this memoir. His sister, younger than himself, 
 came as far as Baltimore to meet him on his re- 
 turn from the south, and was my guest till his 
 arrival. She had evidently no idea of his des-
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 39 
 
 perate condition, and expected to see him reno- 
 vated in strength, or at least in no worse condi- 
 tion than when he went from home. She daily- 
 spoke of her anticipated pleasure in seeing him 
 comparatively well. Forming my own anticipa- 
 tions by hers, I too expected to see him, if not 
 recovered, yet restored to comparative health. 
 
 I had not seen him more than once since boy- 
 hood, and I recollected him rather as a sedate, 
 reflective, retiring child, than as a young man, 
 mature in mind, settled in character, and full 
 grown in stature. The first intimation we had 
 of his approach, was the present of a box of 
 strawberries, sent us just at evening, by him, on 
 his arrival in the steamboat from Norfolk. This 
 delicious fruit was not then ripe in our latitude. 
 From this, I augured favorably as to the condition 
 of his health. To me, it did not seem possible 
 that any one could be so thoughtfid of others, 
 who was himself an invalid, and in the last 
 stages of weakness and decline. It was all ex- 
 plained, however, when I became acquainted 
 with his character. 
 
 I attended his sister to the hotel, with raised, 
 and rather pleasant anticipations. He had re- 
 tired to his room, though not to rest. He first 
 saw his sister alone. I was soon sent for, and 
 followed to his room. It was a scene which I
 
 40 MEMOIR. 
 
 shall never forget. The door was opened, — 
 and a glance revealed all. He was sitting up, 
 and rose with difficulty to receive me, — the very 
 picture of consumption, pale, thin, M'eak, and 
 panting for breath ; yet there was in his bearing, 
 a calmness, a dignity, a resigned meekness of 
 expression, which awed, at the same time they 
 touched the feelings. He evidently labored to do 
 his best, in order to mitigate, if possible, the 
 shock which his condition was manifestly giving 
 a sister whom he tenderly loved, and from whom 
 he had never perhaps before been so long sepa- 
 rated, since they had played together around 
 their mother's knee. What a withering of hope 
 was there ! an only son, meeting his eldest 
 sister, both in the very bloom of life, bearing in 
 every limb and feature the sad evidence that he 
 would soon be her companion no more ! The 
 first moral trait which struck me at this inter- 
 •view, was an entire forgetfulness of himself, 
 and solicitude for others. There was a total 
 absence of that anxiety for his personal com- 
 forts, which long sickness too often produces. 
 The claims of indisposition were instantly 
 waived, to give place to those of courtesy, and 
 the drooping invalid was the last to be consid- 
 ered. 
 
 I had seen many cases of consumption ; and
 
 MEMOIR. 41 
 
 my eye, by long practice, had become nearly un- 
 erring in detecting its presence, and foreseeing its 
 issue. The whole future came up in a mo- 
 ment before my mind. That marble brow had 
 already assumed its last whiteness; those glassy, 
 earnest eyes, must soon look their last ; those 
 emaciated hands were soon to rest from their 
 appointed task ; soon that youthful form will be 
 seen no more ! Such thoughts, only infmitely 
 more bitter, seemed to occupy the mind of my 
 companion. Still, she bore the interview with 
 admirable fortitude, I may say with cheerfulness, 
 and gave no external sign of the agony she suf- 
 fered within. In compassion to his weakness 
 and weariness, we made our interview short. 
 We closed the door after us, and paced the long, 
 silent passage together, without speaking a word. 
 The first attempt to speak brought with it a 
 flood of tears. " It will kill my father, it will 
 kill my father. He never can be well ; what* 
 will become of us?" I could not conscientiously 
 utter a syllable of hope, for I saw there was 
 none, and I therefore suffered her grief to find 
 its natural relief. 
 
 The next day he came to my house, and there, 
 
 in the family circle, I became fully acquainted 
 
 with the trnly Christian graces of his mind and 
 
 character. He seemed to me, on more intimate 
 
 4
 
 42 MEMOIR. 
 
 knowledge, to be a person of rare natural tem- 
 perament and moral constitution. He appeared 
 to have never had anything to unlearn, never to 
 have contracted any of those obliquities, which 
 the young are too apt to incur in their intercourse 
 with a corrupted world. He seemed to be good 
 without effort, because the right, the just, the 
 true and the generous, was the first and only 
 thought that was suggested to his mind. Older 
 persons looked on him with astonishment, as 
 having, at the very commencement of his career, 
 made attainments in excellence which usually 
 come only with a long life of religious experi- 
 ence. He was especially free from one of the 
 most besetting sins of the young of this country 
 and this age, irreverence, want of respect for 
 his elders. It was a precept of the Mosaic dis- 
 pensation, " Thou shalt rise up before the hoary 
 head, and honor the face of the old man, and 
 'fear thy God." It was a precept too, which had 
 a more important bearing on individual character 
 and the welfare of society, than may, at first 
 sight, appear. Reverence always flows from a 
 sound mind and a good heart. Wherever it is 
 absent, there is something wanting, or something 
 wrong. The want of this disposition is a bad 
 indication every way ; it is too often the incipi- 
 ent stage of a general recklessness. It is signifi-
 
 MEMOIR. 43 
 
 cant to observe the connection in which respect 
 for the aged is placed with piety to God ; " Thou 
 shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honor 
 the face of the old man, and fear thy God,''^ in- 
 timating that these two duties are generally 
 joined together, either in performance or neglect. 
 And certainly, the want of a disposition to 
 venerate what is venerable in man, will lead to 
 want of reverence to God. I know not why it 
 is, but there is evidently a decline of proper re- 
 spect in the young for their elders, in this coun- 
 try ; and this same spirit of irreverence yearly 
 blights the prospects of multitudes. It early 
 leads them to despise the restraints of law and 
 order, set at defiance the moral sense of the com- 
 munity, and thus make shipwreck of their pros- 
 pects in the very morning of life. 
 
 At the greatest possible distance from this un- 
 promising disposition, Avas the character of our 
 young friend. I doubt if his most intimate com- 
 panions can recollect his ever indulging in a sneer. 
 His heart was too good, his feelings too kind and 
 candid, to allow him to pour contempt on the 
 weaknesses, or even the vices, of erring, suffer- 
 ing humanity. He had that divine charity 
 '' which thinketh no evil." 
 
 There was, most obvious to every observer, 
 another trait in the character of our young friend,
 
 ¥ 
 
 44 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 nearly allied to that of which I have just spoken, 
 — a hearty earnestness. We too often find the 
 young, at a very early period, completely initi- 
 ated into the manners of artificial society ; already 
 accustomed to measure every word and action by 
 considerations of expediency. Those who have 
 intercourse with them, are compelled at once to 
 assume the same caution, which they would use 
 were they conversing with a diplomatist. This 
 is called, and often boasted of, as knowledge of 
 the world. It may be, but it is a knowledge of 
 the world in the worst sense ; a knowledge of 
 its vices, which it is much better to be without. 
 It is a knowledge, which is possessed in its per- 
 fection by the very worst classes of society ; and 
 is too often, itself, the indication of deep de- 
 pravity. However it may be called knowledge, 
 it is not wisdom, unless it be that wisdom, which 
 is condemned by the Apostle, as "earthly, sen- 
 sual, devilish." Of all species of wisdom, it is 
 the most unprofitable ; it helps no one, but 
 rather destroys confidence, and puts every one 
 upon his guard, lest he be deceived and over- 
 reached by it. It precludes at once all genuine 
 and hearty communion. It creates an uncom- 
 fortable feeling of insecurity. It tends to isolate 
 each individual, and destroy, at the outset, all the 
 pleasures of society.
 
 MEMOIR. 45 
 
 There is another wisdom, which is infinitely 
 better ; the wisdom which cometh from above, 
 which is " pure, peaceable, gentle," and without 
 disguise. This is the wisdom which opens all 
 hearts, instead of shutting them up ; which wins 
 its way without effort, where cunning is resisted ; 
 which finds itself at home and at ease with those 
 whose friendship is most valuable, and whose 
 society is most desirable. 
 
 It was this quality in our young friend, which, 
 perhaps, more than any other, made him such a 
 universal favorite. It is so refreshing to meet 
 with an unsophisticated heart, in the dusty, worn 
 and weary paths of this life, — it is like a foun- 
 tain in a desert, like verdure in the sands. It 
 was impossible to approach him without feeling 
 — " here we have a true man, an Israelite in- 
 deed, in whom is no guile ; " one whose pur- 
 poses are good, whose words are sincere, whose 
 feelings need no disguise. 
 
 Such a trait of character as this, fitted him for 
 eminent success in life. He would have had the 
 very first requisite for advancement, the confi- 
 dence and best wishes of good men. This, to a 
 young man, is a tower of strength. He builds 
 his house upon a rock, and it will stand. The 
 cunning and the false have never a secure foun- 
 dation ; they build upon the sand, and if so, the 
 proudest structure is ever tottering to its fall.
 
 46 MEMOIR. 
 
 As a counterpart to this perfect transparency 
 of character, there was in him a true generosity 
 of heart. The finest natures are ever most liable 
 to be perverted by ambition. The love of excel- 
 lence is always strongly developed in those who 
 have the capacities for excelling. While it is 
 restricted to its legitimate object, an aspiration to 
 what is noble and praiseworthy, it produces noth- 
 ing but good. But it is capable of being per- 
 verted into emulation, jealousy, envy, detraction, 
 and then it exerts the worst influence upon the 
 character. It immediately disturbs the harmony 
 of social life. " There arose a strife among them, 
 which of them should be the greatest." Strife 
 is ever the immediate fruit of the degeneracy of 
 the love of excellence into mere ambition. We 
 too often see the young poisoned by this perver- 
 sion, at a very early period of life. It is this se- 
 cret feeling of emulation, which is at the bottom 
 of that love of scandal and detraction, which is 
 such a disgrace to a Christian community. The 
 vices, the follies or the misfortunes of others, 
 answer the same purpose as our own virtues, tal- 
 ents or success, in deciding the all-important 
 question, "which shall be the greatest." It is 
 utterly impossible for a person, possessing this 
 spirit, to be fair and candid. The whole ten- 
 dency of his conversation will be, to display what
 
 MEMOIR. 47 
 
 he possesses, and indicate what other people want. 
 Accordingly, we too often find the young so con- 
 taminated with this feeling, that all generosity 
 and candor of disposition are eaten out by a 
 reckless spirit of ridicule and detraction. To this 
 heartless propensity nothing is sacred. The 
 weaknesses, the sorrows, the misfortunes, and 
 even the vices of humanity, are the common sub- 
 jects of merriment or contempt. Such is the uni- 
 versal imperfection of the human character and 
 condition, that those who choose to indulge this 
 disposition to ill nature, can never long want em- 
 ployment. No lot, no character, is perfect ; and 
 if the observer fixes his regard alone on what is 
 displeasing, or censurable, he will, sooner or later, 
 take pleasure in noticing nothing else. The 
 habit of ridicule and detraction will increase on 
 him by indulgence, till at length his whole char- 
 acter will become sour and misanthropic. 
 
 The young, in their desire for amusement, are 
 not aware of the tendency of such unjust and 
 impolitic conduct. They are not aware, that it 
 is impossible to regard with respect, or treat with 
 kindness, those whom we are accustomed to as- 
 sociate with low and degrading ideas. Their 
 manners will become affected by their sentiments, 
 and they will become unfeeling, disrespectful, 
 and insolent to all. No trait of character is more
 
 48 MEMOIR. 
 
 deservedly odious than this. The very bearing 
 of such a person is a perpetual defiance to soci- 
 ety, and is felt, especially by the defenceless and 
 the dependent, as a continual insult. It is utterly 
 impossible for a young man to prosper and be 
 happy under such a load of odium as is sure to 
 accumulate upon the insolent and presumptuous. 
 Instead of lending him aid, there will be an unan- 
 imous desire to see him put down. His enemies 
 will be nearly as numerous as his acquaintance ; 
 and he who has no friends, must finally come to 
 nothing. 
 
 It would be difficult to find a young man who 
 was more opposite to all this, than our young 
 friend. I question whether he was ever heard to 
 depreciate a rival, or seen to take pleasure in de- 
 tailing the weaknesses or the vices of a human 
 being. The consequence of these characteristics 
 was, that wherever he went, he immediately con- 
 ciliated the esteem and won the favor of all. All 
 who became acquainted with him, felt them- 
 selves at home, in the society of one whom they 
 could love as a friend and trust as a brother. 
 
 I should leave his social character imperfect, 
 were I to omit to speak of his manners. These 
 were dignified, gentle, considerate, obliging. 
 They were not the result of the study of artificial 
 rules, nor the promptings of vanity, nor the cal-
 
 MEMOIR. 49 
 
 dilations of selfishness. They were the free and 
 spontaneous expression of his whole character. 
 He always acted with propriety, because he 
 always felt right. He treated others with respect, 
 because he felt respect for them. He forbore to 
 wound the sensibilities of any, because he could 
 not do so without inflicting greater pain upon his 
 own. He sacrificed his own convenience to that 
 of others, because it gave him greater pleasure to 
 please others than to please himself. He was 
 truly courteous, not in empty compliments, which 
 are merely lip service, but in that deference, 
 which is really more flattering than any device of 
 mere words. He made you feel, that good man- 
 ners are nothing more than Christianity carried 
 into little things, and made practical in the com- 
 mon intercourse of every day. It is merely to 
 love our neighbors as ourselves. 
 
 But the good manners which proceed from true 
 Christianity, have greatly the advantage of those 
 which are dictated by policy, pride, or artificial 
 rules. They are universal, " without partiality 
 and without hypocrisy." The good manners of 
 the worldly, which are studied as an accomplish- 
 ment, and practised as an art, have reference only 
 to equals or superiors. Inferiors are not taken 
 into consideration. This very fact demonstrates, 
 that they have their root in selfishness, and are
 
 50 MEMOIR. 
 
 dictated, not by a sense of duty, nor a feeling of 
 benevolence, nor yet a sentiment of justice, but 
 a desire to stand well with those who can pro- 
 mote or obstruct our interests. The proficient 
 in a merely worldly good breeding, is often totally 
 forgetful, that those who are his inferiors, or de- 
 pendents, have feelings as well as himself. To 
 them Jie is often inconsiderate, cruel and oppres- 
 sive. But that to him is no breach of good man- 
 ners, for he hardly puts them in the category of 
 humanity. But how infinitely short does this 
 come of the requisitions of Christianity ! Good 
 manners, in the worldly sense of the term, have 
 been possessed by some of the greatest profli- 
 gates the world has ever seen. In that sense, 
 they have been defined to be, " The art of pleas- 
 ing." And does not this very definition show 
 that it has self at the bottom of it ? The art of 
 pleasing whom ? Those whose friendship may 
 be of any service to us, or whose resentment may 
 injure us. Their feelings must be respected, their 
 favor must be won. But are not those whom 
 the world places below us, possessed of human 
 feelings too ? Is not their happiness to be con- 
 sulted, as well as that of those who are able to 
 take care of themselves ? In the Christian sense 
 of the term, manners comprehend our whole in- 
 tercourse with our fellow men, with all whose
 
 MEMOIR. 51 
 
 happiness is affected by our bearing and conduct ; 
 and the true Christian will be more careful of 
 the feelings of those below than those above him ; 
 they can vindicate their rights, while the other 
 must submit in silence. Every honorable feel- 
 ing in the human heart revolts at taking advan- 
 tage of the weak and defenceless ; yet the very 
 definition of good manners, makes them to be, 
 the art of pleasing those whose good will may 
 be of service to us, while it overlooks entirely 
 the claims of those who stand most in need of 
 our courtesy and forbearance. 
 
 There is no word in the English language 
 more perverted than the word gentleman. It 
 ought to be a good word, and comprehend every 
 thing that is honorable in principle, that is just 
 in sentiment, that is humane in feeling, that is 
 kind and courteous in conduct. As it is, it has 
 become almost an epithet of contempt, for it is 
 consistent with every thing mean and despicable. 
 In some latitudes, it means a well dressed man, 
 who has nothing to do. In others, it means a 
 man who will do everything that is immoral, 
 and then murder the man who tells him of it. 
 In all latitudes, it is consistent with indulgence 
 in the grossest vices, and the most palpable injus- 
 tice. And well it may be ; for good manners 
 are defined to be, the art of pleasing our supe- 
 riors.
 
 3^ MEMOIR. 
 
 / The subject of our memoir was a gentleman, 
 
 in the true sense of the term. He was a gentle- 
 
 / man, because he was a Christian ; not because 
 
 j he had trained himself to the arts of pleasing, but 
 
 I because he had a refined soul ; not because he 
 
 i had studied Chesterfield, but because he had stu- 
 
 t died his bible. He was court-ious to all ; not 
 
 more from respect to himself, than from respect 
 
 to human nature in its lowliest form. What in 
 
 others is too often the result of arbitrary rules, 
 
 I was in him the spontaneous promptings of a good 
 
 I heart. To him it was no effort to be kind and 
 
 considerate. To have been otherwise, would 
 
 have cost him more than any other sacrifice. 
 
 Such were the traits which appeared, to the 
 writer, most prominent in the character of this 
 most interesting young man, during his short 
 sojourn with us, on his return from the south. 
 
 It was now May, and he had brought the 
 spring with him thus far. It was deemed expe- 
 dient that he should not travel faster than the 
 advance of the season, or outstrip the mild breezes 
 which are so soothhig to the irritability of dis- 
 eased lungs. But it was a sad sight to see the 
 contrast between recovering nature and the in- 
 valid's decline. Every day there was a greener 
 shade in the fields, and a more luxuriant verdure 
 on the trees ; but each day there was a deeper
 
 MEMOIR. 53 
 
 paleness on the check, and greater feebleness in 
 the step, of the object of our solicitude, on whom 
 earth seemed to be smiling her last. It was a 
 moving spectacle, to see him, day after day, 
 while the busy and the joyous were hurrying on 
 their way, buoyant with pleasure or eager with 
 hope, attended by his sister, making his slow 
 and toilsome excursions, trembling with feeble- 
 ness, and inhaling with difficulty the balmiest 
 airs that ever breathed from heaven. The doom 
 of early death weighed like a stone upon the 
 heart of the beholder, and the thought was forced 
 upon the mind, that before the leaves which 
 were then expanding had fallen, he himself would 
 have been gathered to the tomb ! He was to die, 
 — in the very morning of his days, one who was 
 so well fitted to adorn and to enjoy life, around 
 whom so many fond affections clustered, in whom 
 so many hopes were centred. It was a mystery 
 in the dispensations of Providence, too deep for 
 human wisdom to solve ; and it sent the faith of 
 the meek inquirer in speechless submission to the 
 throne of '• Him, who maketh clouds and thick 
 darkness his pavilion round about." 
 
 As the weather became warmer, it was thought 
 advisable that he should pursue his journey 
 homeward. He accordingly left the circle of 
 friends whose interest he had excited, sorrowful
 
 64 MEMOIR, 
 
 to part with one so amiable, and sorrowful most 
 of all with the certainty that they should see his 
 face no more. He bore the journey home much 
 better than could have been expected. His own 
 spirits were excited and exhilarated by the warm 
 welcome of his family and friends, and he seem- 
 ed, for a deceitful moment, almost himself again. 
 I here resume the narrative of his physician. 
 
 " Henry returned to us on the 19th of May, 
 greatly emaciated, but with more strength than 
 I had expected to find. He met us all with 
 his usual cheerfulness. Surrounded once more 
 with all those so dear, new life seemed to be in- 
 fused into him ; but, alas ! his case was totally 
 hopeless ; a large portion of his left lung was 
 gone, while the right had already begun to sym- 
 pathize. He continued to walk about the house 
 and to ride out daily, but his strength gradually 
 wasted. I very soon accquainted him with his 
 state ; he expressed himself perfectly resigned, 
 and again bowed in entire '' submission to the 
 Divine will." And now it was, my dear sir, that 
 his character began to shine forth in all its 
 beauty. 
 
 Henry's disease, in many respects, had been 
 from the first peculiar ; you are aware that in 
 consumption the mind of the patient is generally
 
 MEMOIR. 55 
 
 impressed by a singularly illusive view of his 
 own case, and that while the disease is making 
 fearful ravages, and the wasting form shows how 
 rapidly he is advancing to the grave, yet no argu- 
 ment will convince him of the fact ; he laughs 
 at the fears of his friends, is convinced that they 
 are perfectly groundless, and feels every confi- 
 dence that a few days, or weeks at farthest, will 
 restore him to perfect health. This was not so 
 with our dear invalid. From the dawn of his 
 fatal disease he knew that it was of a serious 
 character, and the first impulse of his meek spirit, 
 was acquiescence in the divine will ; and this view 
 of his case never forsook him. Occasionally, in- 
 deed, he did indulge in hope, but never so clung 
 to life as to make him forget that he was a de- 
 pendent being. More than once he said to me, 
 " for the sake of others, I could wish my life to 
 \)e prolonged ; but for myself, I have no other 
 wish than to bow to the will of my Creator." 
 Again, he was mercifully relieved from pain, and 
 that distressing want of breath, so frequently an 
 attendant upon this disease ; he also had an un- 
 usual degree of strength until almost the last. 
 This we all felt to be a great kindness in our 
 Heavenly Parent. His mind also was clear, not a 
 cloud seemed to pass over it, and he retained so 
 much of his usual cheerfulness, that his friends
 
 56 MEMOIR. 
 
 continued around him, and we were thus enabled 
 to enjoy his society to the last. 
 
 When he first returned from the south, I had 
 thought, from the hitherto slow progress of his 
 disease, that he might continue with us through 
 the summer ; he so much enjoyed his morning 
 rides, and occasionally an afternoon walk, that I 
 could not realize he was so soon to be taken 
 away. About the middle of June, however, he 
 rapidly sank ; the hot weather affected him great- 
 ly. It now became evident that we were soon to 
 see his face no more. Of this, he became soon 
 well assured himself, and began to set his house 
 in order ; he procured little mementoes for his 
 sisters, and also for myself and others of his 
 friends, and presented them to us with the ut- 
 most composure of mind. 
 
 During the whole of his sickness, his father or 
 myself had been accustomed, at the close of the 
 day, after his retirement, to read to him a portion 
 of the New Testament, succeeded by a prayer. 
 This exercise he always seemed greatly to enjoy. 
 I would endeavor, my dear sir, to describe a 
 scene that occurred at the close of one of these 
 exercises. He desired his family might be called 
 around him ; his affectionate heart burst forth in 
 all its glow of feeling ; he raised his soul to heaven 
 in a most energetic appeal for strength to be given
 
 MEMOIK. 57 
 
 him in the approaching conflict with the king 
 of terrors, for a blessing upon his beloved family, 
 and that they might be sustained in the bereave- 
 ment that they were about to meet with. The 
 season was one among many, during his last days, 
 that never will be forgotten. It was about this 
 period that I said to him one night, " Henry, 1 
 want you to select some one of the promises that 
 you can take with you into the eternal world." 
 He seemed pleased with the thought, and said he 
 would. The next day I referred to the subject. 
 He replied immediately, as if he had been think- 
 ing much on the matter, " Yes ! there is one 
 which I think I can call my own : ' Whoso he- 
 lieveth in me shall never die.'' " How beautiful ! 
 and, as Dr. Dewey remarked, " nothing could be 
 more appropriate." There was so much in his 
 last days to cheer and comfort us, that I might 
 fill pages with the various incidents connected 
 therewith ; but I find I must bring my remarks 
 to a close. 
 
 Henry enjoyed, continually, the pastoral visits 
 of Dr. Dewey. They were always refreshing to 
 him. About this time his friend, Mr. Clapp, 
 came on from Savannah : this was a new source 
 of gratification to him. It was on one Sunday 
 morning in June, that Dr. Dewey, Mr. Clapp 
 being also present, administered to him the ordi- 
 5
 
 SB MEMOIR. 
 
 nance of baptism. He expressed to me his high 
 satisfaction at the reception of this holy rite, and 
 I thought he seemed to say, " What now wait I 
 for ?" He continued to take his meals with the 
 family, and to pass the day either sitting in his 
 chair, or reclining on the sofa, until about ten 
 days before his death. I said to him one Satur- 
 day evening, " Henry, I think you had better 
 not go down to-morrow, you are so feeble, and 
 the exertion is greater than you can bear." 
 " Yes, doctor," he replied, " I would like to meet 
 them all one Sunday more at dinner." He 
 wished me to be present ; but I thought the 
 hour would be too sacred to be intruded upon, 
 even by one so intimate with them as was their 
 physician. He went down and joined them at 
 the table with his usual cheerfulness. It was 
 the last time ; his dear father bore him back 
 again to his room, in his arms, alas ! to return 
 no more. 
 
 From this time he rapidly failed ; he reclined 
 the greater part of the time on his bed, his mind 
 still unruffled. Many were the conversations I 
 had with him on the subject of his expected 
 change ; his preparation was not that of a day, 
 it was that of a life ; and in a review of this life, 
 his friends have every possible consolation. 
 
 On the 2d of July, he appeared sinking all day ;
 
 MEMOin. 69 
 
 durin? tlie nii^ht, he wished me to remain with 
 him, and I thought it probable he might not con- 
 tinue until morning ; he, however, was more 
 comfortable than I had anticipated, and in the 
 morning somewhat revived. He continued very 
 low during the day, and at night I again remained 
 with him ; he slept uneasily the early part of the 
 night, and about 1 A. M. he called me to his 
 bedside, and asked if I thought [lim dying. I 
 told him I thought not, but that his hour of de- 
 parture was probably not far off. I asked him if 
 there was any thing more he wished to commu- 
 nicate ; he said, no ; all his worldly matters were 
 settled. Again I begged to know of the state of 
 his mind : I found it serene ; he said he felt hap- 
 py. He sank again into a tranquil sleep. About 
 5 A. M., again he told me he thought himself 
 going ; I found it to be so, and quickly sum- 
 moned the family. And here, Rev. Sir, opened 
 a scene that I dare not attempt to describe. To 
 each of his sisters he had a word to say, a sepa- 
 rate farewell ; to his beloved father ; to his almost 
 adored mother, " Be comforted, dear mother, said 
 he ; " — but I will not, I dare not enter upon a 
 description of this solemn hour. He again called 
 me to him, and said much of kindness and affec- 
 tion, which my pen refuses to trace. This scene 
 much exhausted him ; he felt himself sinking
 
 60 MEMOIR. 
 
 fast. And now, said he, I should hke once more 
 to join with you in prayer. With whom, I said, 
 my dear Henry ? With my father, said he, if he 
 feels able. Through the divine aid his parent 
 was enabled to kneel at the bedside of his dying 
 child, and, with his family around him, to com- 
 mit the soul of his dear boy to that God who 
 gave it. Oh ! sir, it was a solemn hour ! I have 
 witnessed many death beds, but never any thing 
 to equal this. We all arose from kneeling around 
 him, and stood watching his dying countenance ; 
 it spoke of perfect peace. Soon he fell asleep, 
 to awake no more, until the trump of the great 
 archangel shall awaken all to judgment. He 
 spoke but a minute or two before his breath left 
 him, and intimated to us that all was well. There 
 was no struggle in death ; his countenance soon 
 assumed that lovely, placid look, which all who 
 knew him loved to look upon in his days of life 
 and health. 
 
 He remained with us for two days, as if asleep 
 upon his couch. Kind and sympathizing friends 
 strewed sweet flowers around him as he lay ; the 
 rose, the jasmine, and the fragrant lily, emble- 
 matic of his virtues, his purity of life and char- 
 acter — they faded away, but he remained lovely 
 in death ; and then they bore him away to his 
 place of sepulture. Thus has passed away, in
 
 MEMOIR. 61 
 
 the morning of life, this interesting young man, 
 so full of promise, so well fitted to adorn society, 
 to benefit his fellow creatures ; — he has gone, 
 but his name still lives. May his extensive cir- 
 cle of young friends strive to emulate his many 
 virtues ; and may his holy example be held up 
 for their edification ! 
 
 These pages. Rev. Sir, have been written 
 amid a press of professional duties. I am sensi- 
 ble, that I have not done the subject justice. 
 With every sentiment of respect, 
 I am. Rev. Sir, 
 
 Your ob't serv't, 
 
 Jas. D. Fitch." 
 
 A life so beautiful, a death so calm and saintly, 
 are no accidents, are not the results of a fortunate 
 temperament, or a happy coincidence of external 
 circumstances. Such a life, and such a death, 
 could be the result of nothing short of religious 
 principle. This was the secret spring which fed 
 the roots of his virtues, and gave consistency, 
 strength and symmetry to his whole character. 
 His was no mere worldly and politic morality. 
 It was not the honor which cometh from men, 
 that he sought. There was an eye, that seeth 
 in secret, which he was conscious was ever upon 
 him, and to which he referred all his actions.
 
 62 MEMOIK. 
 
 He seems early to have made, and kept the reso- 
 lution, " My heart shall not reproach me, so long 
 as I live." His nearest friends bear witness to 
 his almost faultless conduct. The natural con- 
 sequence of such a life, is a peaceful and hopeful 
 death. "If our hearts condemn us not, then 
 have we confidence towards God." The filial 
 spirit ever rises up in an obedient heart, and the 
 filial spirit is one of confidence, assurance and 
 trust. 
 
 For the last six years of his life he was an 
 attendant at the church of the Messiah, under 
 the pastoral care of Dr. Dewey ; and he was de- 
 cidedly Unitarian in his religious opinions. He 
 had been educated in a different faith ; but ex- 
 amination and reflection gradually changed his 
 views, and made them more clear and definite, 
 and finally settled them in the doctrines respect- 
 ing God and Christ, and the work of salvation, 
 which have been entertained by some of the 
 greatest and best men who have ever borne the 
 Christian name. To him, at least, these views 
 were sufficient ; sufficient to secure him in the 
 paths of holiness, to maintain warmth and constan- 
 cy in his devotional feelings, to sustain him in every 
 trial, to smooth the bed of sickness, and deprive 
 death of its terror and its sting. He delighted in 
 the study of the Scriptures. They were to him
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 63 
 
 a perpetual source of light and comfort. He was, 
 for a long time, a teacher in the Sunday school 
 attached to the church of the Messiah ; and he 
 never spared himself in his exertions for the good 
 of others. It is testified of him, by one who 
 knew him best, " If there was any one trait in 
 Henry's character stronger than another, it seems 
 to me that it was the great desire he felt for the 
 improvement in knowledge and virtue of all 
 classes of men. His life was one of great purity 
 in thought, word and deed. I look back upon 
 it with wonder and admiration. I can see much 
 in it worthy of imitation ; and nothing, in a moral 
 point of view, that calls up the slightest unpleas- 
 ant recollection. He seemed to possess a soul 
 ever alive to virtue and happiness. His real en- 
 joyments in life have been, I think more than 
 those of most men who live to threescore years 
 and ten. He used the world without abusing 
 it ; and consequently, in every thing he did, and 
 in every situation, he found true sources of en- 
 joyment. During his sickness, his mind was 
 tranquil and ever cheerful. He did not appear 
 to have any slavish fears of death. His faith 
 was unwavering, and sufficient for him in the 
 great trial ; and I never witnessed such trust, 
 peaceful composure, and strong hope, as he ex- 
 hibited in his last hours."
 
 64 MERtOIR. 
 
 His had been a life, not only of duty, but de- 
 votion. Every day he read a portion of the 
 Scriptures, and not only were his prayers offered 
 morning and evening, but he was in the habit of 
 lifting his thoughts to heaven as he walked the 
 streets or strolled in the country, where nature 
 seemed in accordance with his feelings. " When 
 you speak of Henry in the domestic circle," writes 
 one who knew him at home, " you need not fear 
 to use strong language. I believe the life he lived 
 there was more perfect, by far, than that of any 
 one of whom I have personal knowledge." 
 
 How practical and intelligent was his faith in 
 Christ, may be learned from a few Avords which 
 fell from him soon after he had given up all hope 
 of recovery. " How very different is my case, 
 from what it would have been, had not Christ 
 died and risen again ! " To him, it is evident, 
 from this speech, that "Christ had brought life 
 and immortality to light through the gospel." 
 And his faith in Christ had not been a merely 
 speculative belief. That immortality, which the 
 resurrection of Christ made sure, had shed its in- 
 fluence over his whole character. While his 
 hands were engaged in his earthly duties, his 
 heart and his affections had been in heaven. 
 
 As he drew near his end, he felt desirous of 
 commemorating that Saviour, on whom he had
 
 MEMOIR. 65 
 
 believed, according to his last request. . His hope 
 was, that he was soon to be united to the peo- 
 ple of God in Heaven, and he desired to com- 
 mune with his visible church on earth. At his 
 desire, that affecting ordinance of the supper 
 was administered to him by his pastor. " It 
 appeared to give him much consolation. When 
 the ceremony was concluded, he exclaimed, 
 'Now, Lord, what wait I for?' " In this feeling 
 of strength and refreshment, from the participa- 
 tion of the Lord's Supper, his experience coinci- 
 ded with that of the whole Christian church. 
 By this is tested the wisdom of the whole insti- 
 tution. It is thus perceived to be most admira- 
 bly adapted to meet and satisfy the wants of the 
 soul. The soul, approaching the confines of the 
 spiritual world, having bidden adieu to the things 
 of time, desires to hold communion with the 
 Spirit of Him, who once passed through the 
 gloomy portal of death, and came back again to 
 assure and comfort his friends and companions. 
 It would sympathize with the joyful faith of the 
 early disciples, when they ate and drank with 
 him after his resurrection, and knew that " it 
 was indeed the Lord." 
 
 When the writer of this has seen the power 
 of this rite to awaken faith and hope in the 
 bosom of the dying, he has ceased to wonder
 
 66 MEMOIR. 
 
 that ill ignorant ages and superstitious countries, 
 the sacramental emblems have been carried 
 through the streets in pompous procession, amidst 
 kneeling and awe-struck multitudes, and thought 
 to contain a divine and supernatural virtue. 
 That which brings comfort in the last dark and 
 trying hour, when all earthly consolation is 
 powerless and mortal hope is jfled, has natural- 
 ly claimed and enjoyed the veneration of man- 
 kind. 
 
 As the summer advanced, he became more and 
 more feeble, till on the fourth of July, as has be- 
 fore been related, his spirit was released from its 
 wasted tenement, and departed to that better land, 
 " where the blessed inhabitant shall no more say, 
 I am sick." Though he was an only son and 
 tenderly beloved, and after his departure, left a 
 wide desolation in the hearts and the homes of 
 his immediate friends ; yet such was the saintli- 
 ness of his character, such his preparation for a 
 higher life, that there was less of sadness in his 
 death than there is in ordinary bereavements. 
 His presence had been a benediction, and now 
 his memory was more precious than the presence 
 of a multitude of unworthy sons. Death, though 
 early, had placed its seal upon his character, and 
 transferred him to other scenes, before his soul 
 had become sullied by the corruptions of the
 
 MEMOIR. . 67 
 
 world. Even his parents were willing to restore 
 to God such a precious gift. The feeling of be- 
 reavement was not confined to his family circle. 
 It pervaded the whole sphere of his acquaint- 
 ance. His former associates felt that they had 
 lost a brother, one on whose friendship and fidel- 
 ity they might have counted, and whose society 
 they hoped to enjoy for many years to come. 
 
 It was their solicitude to preserve some me- 
 morial of the virtues, the endowments and ac- 
 quisitions of their departed associate, which has 
 called this memoir into existence. They wish 
 to preserve in their own minds the moral image 
 of their friend from oblivion and forgetfulness, to 
 quicken their own sense of duty, and to stimu- 
 late themselves to higher and more persevering 
 endeavors. They would make known the story 
 of his life to those who had with him no person- 
 al acquaintance, that they may learn what may 
 be achieved in the very morning of our earthly 
 being, that they may feel that no period is too 
 early to attain the blessedness of " the pure in 
 heart, who shall see God." 
 
 These impressions of the singular purity and 
 elevation of his character, were not confined to 
 those whose connection with him was of long 
 standing. Strangers were equally affected by 
 the manner in which he bore the inevitable pros-
 
 68 MEMOIR. 
 
 •pect of early death, the readiness with which he 
 submitted to the mysterious allotment of his 
 Heavenly Father. A letter, which is here insert- 
 ^ ed, from the Rev. Mr. Clapp, of Savannah, af- 
 / fords a testimony that he was uniform and con- 
 sistent, the same to those whom he revealed all 
 his feelings, that he was to the most casual ac- 
 quaintance. It is not often that one so young is 
 spoken of with a commendation so hearty, and 
 a respect so profound. 
 
 Savannah, March 12th, 1845. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I regret not having been able to reply to your 
 favor of February, at an earlier day. I felt at 
 once deeply interested in your commemorative 
 enterprise, the contemplated biography of your 
 son Henry. Most cheerfully will I contribute 
 my impressions of his beautiful life, to the end 
 which you and your friends have in view. So 
 perfect a character deserves a record and a me- 
 morial. His worth, and our hearts, wherein he 
 yet lives, claim such a testimony. It will give 
 a new and abiding interest to his virtues and 
 memory, and I hope, a new impulse to our good 
 endeavors. 
 
 It was about one year ago that I first saw your 
 son. His appearance, then, gave me apprehen- 
 sions for the future. A few months confirmed
 
 MEMOIR. C9 
 
 this truth. Disease had set upon him no doubt- 
 ful marks, though, in common with yourself, I 
 cherished the hope, that our milder climate might 
 restore his health, or at least prolong his days. 
 But, though for a time he appeared to revive un- 
 der it, the disease still held its way. 
 
 He left Savannah in April. On the following 
 June, on my arrival in New York, I saw him 
 once more. He had greatly changed, and I felt 
 how soon his place on earth would be vacant. 
 Not long after, perhaps in July, I saw in the pa- 
 pers the announcement of his death. 
 
 My impressions of Henry's character are the 
 same with those of his other and older friends. 
 There was little" ranai/ewess in him. He was 
 cheerful, calm, mild and thoughtful, and all these 
 he was uniformly. I saw him only during his 
 illness, and I never saw him depressed; on the 
 contrary, he seemed satisfied ; not that life had 
 lost any of its beauty or charms, or that his en- 
 joyments of this world were not great. He was 
 keenly alive to beautiful things, and cherished a 
 trust that seemed perfectly to sustain him. He 
 appeared to live in his affections ; and, although 
 friends and home were so dear and loved, I heard 
 from him no resircts that he must leave them all. 
 The Father's will he made his own ; and in his 
 surrender and submission, he found tlie source of
 
 70 MEMOIR. 
 
 an unfailing happiness. Friendship, in his mind, 
 had a meaning not alone on this side of death. 
 His religion did not dream that he could lose 
 any love by a change of worlds. Hence he was 
 composed and hopeful, when we were so cast 
 down and disturbed. I saw him one morning 
 in the midst of you all — a morning that you 
 must all remember, when he first spoke freely 
 and plainly of his condition, and the prospect of 
 death. We were sad, and he was cheerful. It 
 was the last time I saw him, but the impression, 
 which his character gave to the scene, cannot die 
 from my memory. Religion had grown to en- 
 tire resignation. This occasion, with that of the 
 previous Sunday, when I went with your pastor, 
 and you were all received into the visible church, 
 are among the most deeply impressive of my 
 life. 
 
 While in Savannah, and during the few days 
 I afterwards spent in New-York, — in all my in- 
 tercourse with Henry, — I cannot remember that 
 I ever saw him sad. I could detect in him no 
 sign, appare?itlij he was almost unconscious, that 
 his life was pursuing any other than the accus- 
 tomed way. I have conversed with others who 
 knew him here, especially with our friend Dr. 
 
 A , and have found but one impression of his 
 
 character ; it was that of great gentleness and
 
 MEMOIR. 71 
 
 purity. He was the same to all. I look back 
 to him now, and cannot imagine a discontented 
 word or murmur to escape him, — a single in- 
 stance would be so entirely inconsistent with his 
 habitual life. The moral seemed to be, in him, 
 peculiarly the ruling power. I do not mean that 
 this part of his nature had developed, by any 
 means, disproportionately. He seemed to have 
 grown up harmoniously. It is seldom that we 
 find symmetry and completeness. Men are apt 
 to have prominent qualities — they are religious, 
 or intellectual ; but how rarely do we meet a 
 man in whom the wliole being is trained, and no 
 single feature or excellence will describe him ! 
 My impression of Henry is, that he possessed a 
 harmonious character. He had not so much 
 strong points, as strength upon the whole ; — he 
 was well balanced. His was not a striking char- 
 acter — not one to attract at first sight — he was 
 too modest ; but one that would win its way, 
 and grow upon you more and more. He was too 
 mild to dazzle. He was attractive — one to be 
 loved. He reflected the image of Jesus, and 
 breathed his beautiful spirit. In his departure, 
 we hear the angel voice crying, " Blessed are the 
 dead who die in the Lord." 
 
 I have poorly complied with your request. I 
 did not know where to stop. Do write to me
 
 72 MEMOIR. 
 
 again, and give my kindest remembrances to all 
 your family. 
 
 Yours sincerely, and with many affectionate 
 prayers, D. C. 
 
 With this account agrees most perfectly the 
 eulogy bestowed upon him by his own pastor, 
 shortly after his decease : "I think I never was 
 acquainted with a young man, who seemed more 
 perfectly to secure the esteem of those who knew 
 him. His unbounded benevolence, his love 
 toward the whole human race, his sympathy for 
 the sorrows and sufferings of his fellow creatures, 
 were touching traits in one so young ; and what 
 striking evidence of them did he give in that re- 
 quest to his father, that ' out of the little he should 
 leave, a portion might be given for the relief of 
 aged and infirm colored persons, such as may be 
 too old to provide for themselves.' What point 
 of human need more demanding attention, more 
 likely to be forgotten ? Even more touching, 
 if possible, was that other bequest, of one sick 
 and suffering ; ' Dear father, take this sum, and 
 see if you can find any poor, suffering being, sick 
 and in prison ; and if so, relieve him with it.' 
 Of his calm, sweet and grateful nature, of his 
 tender feeling for all ministrations, whether to 
 the body's comfort or the spirit's wants, of his
 
 MEMom. 73 
 
 religious thoughts and purposes before he was 
 ill, I myself have seen many proofs. His reli- 
 gious feelings were full at once of modesty and 
 submission. His death was a fit and gracious 
 close of such a life." 
 
 At the next meeting of the Metropolitan Asso- 
 ciation, the following resolutions were passed ; 
 
 Whereas it has pleased Almighty God, in the 
 dispensation of his providence, to remove from 
 among us our late fellow member and beloved 
 friend, Henry A, Ingalls, whose connection 
 with this Association dates from its foundation, 
 and whose memory is so intimately associated 
 with the history of the same : therefore, 
 
 Resolved, That in this sad bereavement, we 
 mourn the loss of one, whose kindness, intelli- 
 gence, knowledge, and experience, endeared him 
 to all who knew him, and made him one of the 
 brightest ornaments of this Association. 
 
 Resolved, That in his loss, we not only lose 
 one endeared to all and every one of us by his 
 many noble qualities, but the efficient aid of his 
 clear and comprehensive mind, and active spirit ; 
 and above all, we lament the loss of the bright 
 example of his ever courteous, kind and consist- 
 ent conduct. 
 
 6 
 
 t|»
 
 74 MEMOIR. 
 
 Resolved^ That in referring to the past, and 
 retracing the history of this Association, we 
 find his name foremost in the promotion of its 
 welfare, the prosccntion of truth, and the prac- 
 tice of every Christian and civic virtue ; and that, 
 therefore, we cherish his memory with feelings 
 of gratitude, commensurate with his deserts. 
 
 Resolved, That we sincerely condole with the 
 bereaved relatives of our late much loved associ- 
 ate, and hereby tender to them the Association's 
 deep-felt sympathies, in the grief occasioned by 
 the demise of their estimable son and brother. 
 
 Resolved, That a copy of the foregoing reso- 
 lutions (signed by the officers and members of 
 this Association) be transmitted to the father of the 
 deceased ; and another copy be entered at length 
 with the minutes of the Association, as lasting 
 proofs of the high estimation in which the de- 
 parted was held by this body. 
 
 May much of his spirit rest upon the associ- 
 ates he has left behind ! May they emulate those 
 virtues they knew so well how to appreciate in 
 him ! May they be prepared, when called to 
 follow him, to meet his pure spirit in a better 
 world !
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY AUGUSTUS INGALLS,
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ADDRESS, 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF 
 THE METROPOLITAN ASSOCIATION, MARCH 29, 1841. 
 
 It has long been customary for associationSj hav- 
 ing for their object some permanent good, to 
 celebrate, from year to year, the day on which 
 they were formed into bodies, that they may thus 
 bring before them a livelier remembrance of their 
 first object, and of the benefits resulting from it. 
 These anniversaries are beneficial, inasmuch as it 
 is ever well to contemplate that which is good. 
 At those periods, the mind recurs to the past, 
 traces its events and circumstances, and more 
 naturally ponders over them, than at any other 
 time ; for, then rise up and present themselves 
 to the view, the various scenes that have called 
 forth the energies of the mind, displayed the dis- 
 position, and drawn testimonials that serve to 
 endear us to our companions in the warmest ties 
 of friendship and grateful remembrance. Thus 
 is it that we, believing the object of our associ-
 
 78 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ating together a good and important one, have 
 assembled here this evening, to celebrate the an- 
 niversary of our formation into a society ; to 
 revive our recollections of the events that form 
 its history during the past year ; and to gather 
 from them new energies, with which to mark 
 our course for the future. 
 
 It is well, I have said, to contemplate that 
 which is good. What greater benefit than that 
 which tends to enlarge the conceptions of the 
 mind, and cultivate the intellectual faculties ? 
 The passions implanted in man are moderated or 
 strengthened by education, which gives to him 
 clearer perceptions of those habits which are 
 baneful in their influence ; sets in a clearer light 
 their pernicious effects ; softens the asperities of 
 his nature ; and renders virtue only truly attrac- 
 / tive. Knowledge gives to him who possesses it, 
 I a superiority over the uneducated, not to be ac- 
 I quired by any other quality ; power may com- 
 mand the bodily faculties, but can have little in- 
 fluence over the mind ; for one is the gift of men, 
 the other an emanation from the Supreme Being ; 
 and to none .but him will it bow, or the brighter 
 qualities of that same emanation will it reverence. 
 When we contemplate man's capacities, we 
 are filled with wonder and astonishment at their 
 seeming boundlessness, and we cannot but feel
 
 SELECTIONS. 79 
 
 tliat there are higher duties imposed upon him than 
 those that merely bid him gain a subsistence and 
 hve ; that there are social qualities to be cultiva- 
 ted, moral obligations to be performed, indepen- 
 dent of these. Were we confined, in our enjoy- 
 ment of life, to passions strictly sensual, we had 
 need to have been endowed, by the universal 
 Creator, with but comparatively few of the qua- 
 lities we now possess, to be enabled to enjoy it 
 to its full extent ; we had then, no need of the 
 higher and holier impulses of our nature ; we 
 had then, no need of those noble sentiments, — 
 those pure aspirations, — which now form so 
 great a part of the character of man. These 
 would have been of but little use. The mind, 
 then, if indeed man could be said to possess mind, 
 had need to be but little above the instinct of the 
 brute — its object scarce superior — to satiate 
 its passions. It need have no higher range than 
 to tell its possessor when the storm approached, 
 bid him shelter himself from its beatings, or 
 winter's piercing cold, without telling him also, 
 that in that storm, there is something more than 
 the mere howling of winds, and the falling of 
 rain drops ; that there is something more in win- 
 ter than its snows and chills. His object would 
 have been accomplished in avoiding its fury, and 
 further than that he need not go ; there need
 
 80 SELECTIONS. 
 
 arise in his mind no questions concerning the 
 cause of these things — no questions to enlighten 
 his ignorance of them ; but he might well view 
 these, and all that surrounded him, with a pas- 
 sive indifference, regarding them as only the re- 
 sults of fate or accident. How inferior would 
 have been our destiny, had we been created such 
 beings ! But we are endowed Avith nobler feel- 
 ings, and we know that we are something more 
 than flesh and blood, governed by the impulse of 
 the moment ; for there is within us a never-sati- 
 ated longing for something better ; we are not 
 content to hut live, glut our animal appetites, and 
 die. Thus is it with the brute creation ; but 
 there is an ever restless spirit within, seeking for 
 something good, searching for greater know- 
 ledge ; for in that good lies, in a great degree, 
 our happiness ; and shall the divine spirit which 
 breathes throughout us rest content with an in- 
 feriority of knowledge, when it may soar high, 
 — when assurance is given that it is kindred 
 with celestial spirits ? 
 
 In view of association with those spirits, do 
 we not owe it to ourselves to make every exer- 
 tion to enlighten the mind, that it may indeed 
 be like them ? We die — the spirit takes its 
 flight to another sphere ; and there shall that 
 knowledge, which was unacquired here, be sud-
 
 SELECTIONS. 81 
 
 denly diiFuscd, and all minds, all intellects, be 
 made alike ? Shall he, who neglected to improve 
 his faculties here, there be made e(iual with a 
 Newton, a Franklin, with those whose lives 
 were spent in search of light ? We cannot sup- 
 pose so ; mind is ever the same. 
 
 " The end of life is but the beginning of a 
 new existence." How much more probable 
 then, that there, as here, we shall continue in the 
 search of knowledge ; and he who has here 
 made the farthest advance in its attainment, will 
 there enjoy so great an advance in its heavenly 
 pursuit. Is not here a reason for the utmost 
 exertion to enlighten the mind ? We live not for 
 the present, we study not for the present ; for 
 though 
 
 " Art is long, yet time is fleeting ; 
 And oar hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave." 
 
 The future is before us ; and though for a 
 short time the present may fill our minds ; 
 though manhood appears rife with bright visions ; 
 still, the thought will have place, there is a future 
 beyond this — there is a future beyond age 
 — a future beyond the grave. 
 
 The mind that is uncultivated, that has been 
 unaccustomed to reading, can enjoy but compar-
 
 82 SELECTIONS. 
 
 atively few of the real charms of life ; for though 
 dissipation may so dull the senses that they 
 shall apparently know no care, yet its pleasures 
 are short-lived ; and though other enjoyments 
 may divert for a while, yet they are such as the 
 mind can soon be satiated with. But the thoughts 
 
 . and ideas gained from study are pleasing com- 
 panions at all times — never tiresome ; for 
 though the eye may grow weary, and seek, at 
 times, other enjoyments than the printed page, 
 the impressions gleaned from those pages are car- 
 ried with it, and impart to every innocent amuse- 
 ment an additional zest and charm. Poetry, with 
 its beautiful and expressive images ; Philosophy, 
 with its sublime ideas and elevated range of 
 thought ; are never lost on him whose mind has 
 been refined by their study ; for the little occur- 
 rences of life which, to others, would be but as 
 dull matters of fact, are, to such an one, never- 
 failing sources of amusement and instruction. 
 Perhaps, one of the most striking beneficial re- 
 sults of a liberal education, is its effects upon the 
 /disposition. With enlarged views of humanity, 
 
 / it becomes gentle ; and benevolence towards all 
 
 j forms the distinguishing mark of the character. 
 
 1 Violent resentment, dark revenge, can find little 
 place to act within it; but love, sympathy, and 
 a noble generosity, are its beautiful traits.
 
 SELECTIONS. 83 
 
 How many are there to whom life is all a mys- 
 tery ! who live and labor, yet can scarce tell 
 why ; who scarce know any other purpose of 
 life, than life itself ; to whom the future is a dark 
 void, with which they have but little to do ; who 
 only know the present, or if they do perchance 
 think of the future, think of it only with fear and 
 distrust, and soon, unable to pierce through its 
 shadowy veil, shrink back again from its contem- 
 plation with dismay, as promising but little for 
 them ! To those unacquainted with the world's 
 progress, with man's high qualities and powers, 
 to whom life is but a chapter of accidents, how 
 drear must that future appear ! But to the en- 
 lightened mind, who, in life's journey, has one 
 great object in view, to which all others are sub- 
 servient, how different ! These can view it with 
 pleasure and confidence, as, with the experience 
 of the past, giving them better opportunities of 
 doing good and of perfecting the end of their 
 lives. We live for some great purpose : we can- 
 not be placed here, surrounded as we are, with- 
 out something having been designed for us to 
 accomplish ; all analogy would contradict the 
 supposition ; all things else perform their various 
 parts, accomplish their respective purposes. And 
 can it be that man only is placed here with all 
 his resources at his command, in the midst of
 
 84 SELECTIONS. 
 
 beauty, with no end for Imn to accomplish ? It 
 cannot be ; and, as I understand it, it is the ob- 
 ject of all education, of all knowledge, to enable 
 him the better to understand and appreciate this 
 end of life, and point to him the method of attain- 
 ing it. This, one of the objects of our institu- 
 tion, is to give to its members greater opportuni- 
 ties of acquiring that education, that knowledge 
 so important. 
 
 It may not, perhaps, be uninteresting to many 
 of those who have favored us with their presence 
 this evening, to know something of our history 
 as a society. 
 
 Our association was established in March last, 
 (1840,) by those whose daily avocations were 
 such as to deprive them of that time for pursuing 
 those studies which they deemed necessary to 
 prepare them to enter upon scenes, where it will 
 one day be their duty to take an active part, and 
 to enable them the better to appreciate and enjoy 
 the powers with which they are endowed by 
 the Creator ; or, in the language of the preamble 
 to the constitution of the association, " the sub- 
 scribers, young men of the city of New- York, 
 being desirous of extending their knowledge, and 
 of promoting a spirit of inquiry on useful sub- 
 jects, have, for this purpose, formed themselves 
 into a society, that they may thereby the more
 
 SELECTIONS. 85 
 
 effectually promote this desirable object, by 
 means of essays, debates, or in whatever other 
 manner may be deemed most beneficial." These 
 — the objects of our association, and the method 
 of attaining them. 
 
 Our history contains no important or striking 
 events for the general observer ; we have sent 
 forth no bright stars to illuminate and astonish 
 the world ; but what light there was at first, has 
 been, and we hope may continue, gradually, if 
 silently, to increase, till, though it maj'- not be 
 the beacon to guide the great mass of mankind, 
 it may not be without its benefits in the sphere 
 within which it may be called to act ; (for he 
 who possesses information may not confine it 
 under a bushel, as it were, but it will become a 
 source of amusement and reflection to himself 
 not only, but to others with whom he may asso- 
 ciate, and to whom he may impart it.) 
 
 ****** 
 
 In our endeavors, we are not confined to de- 
 bates and essays, but those means are adopted 
 " which may be deemed most beneficial " to us; 
 and we have therefore adopted, in connection 
 with them, readings from different authors ; reci- 
 tations, which tend to promote a graceful flow of 
 words, combined with beauty of delivery, and 
 which, being generally extracts from the best
 
 86 SELECTIONS. 
 
 poets, and writers of prose, make known not a 
 few of their brightest and best ideas ; — a maga- 
 zine also, read weekly, composed of short original 
 essays, by the members ; an institution, evidently 
 most beneficial ; for the reflection necessarily re- 
 quired to produce a good essay, tends to strengthen 
 and cultivate the mind. Soon, to these means 
 of improvement, will be added those afforded by 
 the establishment of a library, which will not 
 only yield instruction, but, also, in the language 
 of those who first recommended it, " a species of 
 amusement, not transitory, and affecting the sen- 
 sual passions for the moment only, but lasting," 
 and which shall indeed be a treasure more pre- 
 cious to the mind than gold or silver — "a well- 
 spring " of life and hope ; for, when riches shall 
 have failed to charm ; when sickness, sorrow, or 
 distress, shall find no pleasure in them ; then the 
 mind shall dwell with delight on the thoughts 
 gained from those books ; when those, thought 
 friends, neglect and turn coldly away, these shall 
 never refuse their aid and counsel in soothing 
 sorrow, affording amusement, or refreshing the 
 spirits. Though otherwise the world be cold 
 and desolate, the mind that has once learned to 
 delight in study, shall never be lonely, but shall 
 find in it companions that will afford pure and 
 unalloyed enjoyment. " We are born," says
 
 SELECTIONS. 87 
 
 Locke, in his ' Essay on the Understanding,' 
 " with faculties and powers capable of almost 
 any thing ; such, at least, as would carry us far- 
 ther than can easily be imagined ; but it is only 
 the exercise of those powers which gives us skill 
 and ability in any thing, and carries us towards 
 perfection." And one of the chief benefits of 
 associations like ours, is the better opportunities 
 they grant to their members of exercising those 
 powers : in debates, where are called forth both 
 grace of action and force of thought ; in essays, 
 which require qualities that constitute the free 
 and easy writer ; recitations which strengthen 
 the memory, and store the mind with beautiful 
 thoughts and images. 
 
 What a sublime subject for contemplation is 
 the history of the past ! How many strange 
 scenes does it present to us ! As we trace the 
 progress of the world, we see nations born, cities 
 springing up, empires founded, and works of art 
 built. Time passes on — no vestige of them re- 
 mains — its progress has been one continued 
 
 series of revolutions and changes. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Yet, amid all the ravages of time, and all its 
 changes, there is that which has ever survived 
 them, and to which they have been but as the 
 refiner's fire, from which it has issued each sue-
 
 88 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ceeding revolution, purer and brighter than be- 
 fore ; they have served fgrcibly to show, that 
 " the eternal years of God " do indeed belong to 
 truth. All the past has been as a great teacher 
 of wisdom, developing new principles, each 
 generation preparing the way for the succeeding 
 one. 
 
 What changes have been wrought in our oion 
 country ! How different were its scenes a few 
 centuries since ! Where once forests " reared 
 their lofty heads " in undisturbed grandeur, noble 
 cities now are seen ; the streams whose smooth 
 surfaces were only disturbed by the ripple of the 
 solitary skiff of the hunter, containing, perchance, 
 the scanty fruits of a weary chase, now bear on 
 their bosom the proud vessels of the white man, 
 laden with earth's richest produce ; where the 
 ground lay waste, and the Indian roamed in igno- 
 rance, whose highest name was to be known as 
 the best huntsman, or most terrible warrior, those 
 now reside, who have made the " desert to blos- 
 som as the rose ; " who are spreading abroad the 
 principles of light and science to all parts of the 
 globe ; and who, instead of striving to acquire 
 the name of most mighty in war, endeavor to 
 gain that of most benevolent, and diffuser of most 
 happiness among men. How quickly, and how 
 seemingly strangely, have the aborigines of our
 
 SELECTIONS. 89 
 
 country passed away ! Of the many nations wlio 
 once occupied our vast extent of territory, how- 
 very few remain ! How many have entirely dis- 
 appeared from the face of the earth ! Can it be 
 lamented, that it is so ? Though theij have dis- 
 appeared, the }>laces they occupied have become 
 the theatre for the achievement of the " first great 
 act " in the history of the reformation of the gov- 
 ernment of the world ; a part they could not have 
 accomplished. Their position in the world was 
 such, as scarce exercised any influence over its 
 important aflairs ; scarce capable of improving 
 themselves, how could they carry out the great 
 principles of political and social reformation ? 
 However the philanthropist might have wished 
 a better fate for them, when he reflects on the 
 great principles that have been illustrated and 
 carried out, in the places of their savage govern- 
 ment ; principles so important to mankind, and 
 which are difl'using themselves throughout every 
 clime, to every shore ; he cannot but rejoice that 
 they have gone, even as they have ; but joy shall 
 not be confined to a few, as those principles pro- 
 gress. Each spot, as it receives them, shall take 
 up the shout, that sounds so joyfully in our own 
 country, and nations shall add their voices, till 
 all Europe, Asia, Africa, the extremities of the 
 western continent, the islands of the ocean, shall 
 7
 
 90 SELECTIONS. 
 
 join in one universal chorus, to attest their ex- 
 cellence ; and the names of Columbus, the pil- 
 grim fathers, Washington and Jefferson, resound ■ 
 from every hill and valley — be graven on every 1 
 heart ! Here has been established, by their aid " 
 and influence, a government founded on more 
 liberal principles than any that ever before ex- 
 isted ; a government dependent, not on the de- 
 sires of the few, but on the will of the majority. 
 How important, then, that that majority should 
 consist of enlightened persons, who could not 
 only know, but appreciate and maintain their 
 rights. The stability of our institutions, it is be- 
 lieved, depends on this. And here let me ask, 
 may not associations of young men like ours, 
 having for their object the diffusion of that know- 
 ledge, on which it depends, become one day, one 
 of the most important aids in contributing to that 
 stability? 
 
 Time is rolling on, and of what shall future 
 history consist? Shall it, like that of the past, 
 be a history of revolutions effected in blood ! Let 
 us hope that a new era has arrived, and that 
 instead of such recitals, it shall consist of records 
 of the overthrow, — not of nations, but of false 
 prejudices, both political and moral; — of the 
 progress of intellectual improvement, and the 
 appreciation of mind throughout the world. In
 
 SELECTIONS. 91 
 
 this new era, each individual person has his im- 
 portant part to perform, for individuals compose 
 the mass ; and may lue hope that, amidst the va- 
 rious influences which are operating together to 
 establish it, by associating ourselves together, the 
 better to promote our " mutual improvement," * 
 our iiijluence, however small, may not be entirely 
 lost ; and that, at some future period, as we look 
 back upon the events of our lives, we may re- 
 joice in the reflection, our part was not left un- 
 done ? 
 
 * Motto of the Association.
 
 92 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ADDRE SS, 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF 
 THE METROPOLITAN ASSOCIATION, MARCH 27, 1843, 
 
 In one of the racy " Letters from under a 
 bridge," the writer, after decribing to his friend 
 the manner in which he had been passing an 
 hour, "falls to wondering," to use his words, 
 " whether the hour of which he has given the 
 picture, was a fitting link in a wise man's des- 
 tiny." 
 
 " The day," he continues, " was one to give 
 birth to great resolves, bright, elastic, and genial ; 
 such air and sunshine, I thought, should overtake 
 one in some labor of philanthropy, in some 
 sacrifice for friend or country, or in the glow of 
 some noble composition." 
 
 Another cycle is now finished in the history of 
 the Association that meets you here this evening, 
 and it is about entering upon the fourth year of 
 its existence ; and at such a time, and on such 
 an occasion, it may not, perhaps, be unmeet, that 
 we also should, in a similiar spirit with the above, 
 "fall to wondering" whether the hours we have 
 spent in the Association have been fitting links 
 in the chain of life.
 
 SELECTIONS. 93 
 
 The history of the Association during the past 
 three years presents little, it may be, that would 
 appear important or interesting to a mere obser- 
 ver ; true, there has emanated nothing from the 
 Association, which, thundering loud in its ear, 
 has startled the public, and given, for a while, 
 food to all the thousand tongues of rumor ; but 
 there has been a by-life, quiet perhaps, far from 
 uninteresting, or even unimportant, to those con- 
 cerned in it. 
 
 The progress of such societies is not dissimilar 
 to that of individual life. Ardent at first, sur- 
 rounded by many friends, warm and hopeful as 
 himself, man commences his career with pros- 
 pects that seem to brighten ever as he contem- 
 plates them ; his visions are gay, illumined by 
 the sunshine of the imagination. As he moves on 
 with the rapid flight of years, one by one those 
 who started with him he sees dropping away, 
 some to the grave, some to dwell in distant 
 places ; as he nears the scene, at the noon of life, 
 the view of which in the distance was so 
 charming, the exaggerations of the morning mist 
 disappear, and only reality is there ; not without 
 beauty, but less beautiful. The loss of friends, 
 and the absence of his former excited imagin- 
 ation ; the formation of new friendshij)S, which 
 have but little of the warmth of earlier ones, have
 
 94 SELECTIONS. 
 
 calmed and sobered the feelings, though the ener- 
 gies, mental and moral, are strengthened and 
 matured in this struggle. So with societies — 
 many ardent spirits form their first meetings ; all 
 is enthusiasm ; months or perhaps years roll 
 along, and as they pass, faces that were wont to 
 shed an additional beam of life and happiness at 
 each gathering, are seen no longer ; voices that 
 were accustomed to sound in the ear with plea- 
 sant words, as they endeavored to promote the 
 objects of their association, by earnest partici- 
 pation in its exercises, are heard no more ; the 
 places of those who owned them, become one af- 
 ter another vacant ; or, as the weeks flow on, are 
 filled by others, who again, as they become fa- 
 miliar, drop away, some forced by the strong 
 hand of death, others by the ordinary changes of 
 life. Yet, amid these changes, the institutions, 
 as such, become more firmly settled ; and though 
 there be missed, in some, the enthusiasm of their 
 first meetings, this is succeeded by the stronger 
 and more enduring energies of greater experience 
 and deeper convictions. 
 
 Onr Association was formed by those who, to 
 use their own language, " were desirous of extend- 
 ing their knowledge, and of promoting a spirit 
 of inquiry on useful subjects," by means of de- 
 bates, essays, or in whatever other manner might
 
 SELECTIONS. 95 
 
 be deemed most beneficial. The plan of debates 
 and essays first adopted lias since been adhered to, 
 varied, at stated times, with readings from differ- 
 ent authors, recitations, and familiar colloquial 
 discussions, in the place of formal debates. 
 
 Those who instituted the society were san- 
 guine in their expectations ; they hoped much 
 from their exertions ; those hopes have, perhaps, 
 been more than realized ; they did not extend, 
 like those of the ambitious politician, over vast 
 tracts, embracing at once thousands of people, 
 but were confined more to the influence their 
 meetings might have over individuals; over the 
 character of those who would compose its num- 
 ber. Nor, it is hoped, did they over-estimate 
 that influence ; of the many who have belonged, 
 and still belong to it, there are none, probably, 
 who will not acknowledge that there reached 
 them from it, some good influences. 
 
 There is much in our nature that requires such | 
 or similar associations. As a social being, man 
 feels the want of some common object, the pur- 
 suit of which will unite him to his fellow man ; 
 the collected energies carry each individual far- 
 ther than he himself would have gone alone. 
 To most men, perhaps, this want is satisfied by 
 the ordinary business of life, the difl'erent branches 
 of that business depending, as they do, upon each
 
 96 SELECTIONS. 
 
 Other, the prosperity of the individual on that of 
 the whole ; by the interest taken in those poli- 
 tical questions in which all are equally concerned, 
 or by their sympathies with their families, and 
 the friendly intercourse of family with family. 
 
 Though one may, solitary and alone, pursue 
 literary studies with ardor, yet, being solitary, 
 he is much more easily diverted from them than 
 he would be if incited by the thought that there 
 are others striving with him ; or that while . he 
 studies for his own immediate, personal advan- 
 tage, there are those who, encouraged and stimu- 
 lated by his efforts, and beholding his success, will 
 be also benefited by the results. Thus the ar- 
 dent are encouraged by each other's endeavors, 
 and perhaps excited, also, by a spirit of emulation, 
 while the influence these exert over the otherwise 
 . indilFerent, is not, slight; for few things strike 
 I the mind and draw admiration sooner than supe- 
 I rior mental qualifications ; and there springs up 
 in nearly every beholder, on witnessing the dis- 
 play of them, either regret that he does not pos- 
 sess like powers, or a strong desire to possess 
 them. Sympathy is almost always strong for 
 the cultivated mind, if that mind has not been 
 false to itself, and allowed its possessor to fall 
 from the high pedestal on which he stood. 
 
 That the cultivating the mental faculties of
 
 SELECTIONS. 97 
 
 a single person, is no unimportant thing, few- 
 will deny; then, the centering the energies of 
 many to this object, that they may pursue it toj 
 their mutual advantage, it must be admitted, is 
 still more desirable. 
 
 As sources of pleasure, also, to those engaged 
 in them, such associations are desirable. The 
 pleasures resulting from the pursuit of the object 
 which unites them, are not, like ordinary ones, 
 soon exhausted, worn out, but increase with every 
 effort; they grow within themselves; and suf- 
 ficient to themselves, they need not other con- 
 tinually new extraordinary excitements to pre- 
 vent them from palling or satiating the desires. 
 
 But independent of these pleasures, there are 
 others proceeding from mere intellectual associ- 
 ation itself; from the familiar intercourse of 
 member with member, and the friendships thus 
 formed. How many pleasant remembrances are 
 connected with the meetings of those who, three 
 years ago this night, gathered together for the 
 first time to consult upon some plan of action ! 
 They were nearly all strangers to each other 
 then ; but, with a common high object in view, 
 how soon friends ! Many of those are now separ- 
 ated from the society, but pleasing associations 
 linger around the memory of them ; and they, 
 doubtless, wherever they wander, sometimes glad-
 
 \ . 
 
 98 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ly call to mind many of the hours spent in those 
 meetings, and own their influence was good. 
 Of some, tlie memory of them is ail that remains ; 
 for each year has the " summons come to one 
 from among us," — to join 
 
 " Th' innumerable caravan that moves 
 
 To that mysterious reahn, where each shall take 
 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death." 
 
 Yet of these it may not be out of place to add, 
 they went not 
 
 " Like the quarry slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approached the grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his coach 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 
 
 But no, their memory is not all that remains ; 
 there is still the influence of their words and 
 example. 
 
 The exact extent of the eff'ect produced on 
 individual character by associations like ours, 
 cannot, it is true, be calculated ; but we may be 
 able to trace it sufficiently far, to ascertain, that 
 among the influences which afl"ect the character, 
 they hold no unimportant rank. 
 
 However often some may repeat, that man is 
 the creature of mere circumstances, blown this 
 or that way by the breath of every accident, a 
 little thought will show, that he is not this mere
 
 SELECTIONS. 99 
 
 bubble, the sport of the winds or waters ; that his 
 character, especially, does not change with every 
 accident ; that there is in every soul a deep prin- 
 ciple, a living motive power independent of these ; 
 tliat there are energies pertaining to the soul as 
 soul, to man as man, which, however they may 
 be modified by outward things, yet exist in a 
 strength, which, when fully developed and ex- 
 erted, no accidental circumstances can wholly 
 withstand or overthrow — for no two persons, 
 when placed under the same external circum- 
 stances and influences, will yield the same results. 
 Yet, that circumstances do have a great modify- 
 ing influence over the development of those en- 
 ergies ; and indeed, over the innate qualities, by 
 which the character is formed, cannot be denied. 
 The progress of the soul is often compared to 
 that of a stream. From the moment when it 
 issues from the hill side, it is hurried forward, as 
 the soul to its final destiny, to the ocean, where, 
 with a thousand others, it is swallowed up in its 
 depths. Its direction near its source is easily 
 changed ; new channels may be cut for it, or 
 impediments thrown in its way, that may turn 
 it hither or thither ; still, it must flow ow, or, if 
 for awhile it be arrested in its progress, it is but 
 that it may gather new strength to break its 
 bonds, and flow with an increased impetuosity.
 
 100 SELECTIONS. 
 
 The farther from its source it goes, the greater 
 the number of tributaries it receives to swell it, 
 and hasten it in its progress ; the deeper is the 
 channel it cuts for itself, and the more difficult 
 is it to alter its course, until, at last, it becomes 
 a mighty stream, defying all attempts to control 
 it. 
 
 So with the progress of those innate qualities, 
 mental and moral, by which the character of 
 man is formed. At first weak, they may be easily 
 guided; but, gathering strength with time, from 
 within themselves, as well as from without, they 
 mark at last their own course. 
 
 The first influences which affect the character 
 are the circumstances of early childhood — the 
 home where one lives — the place, the scenery 
 which surrounds it — the situation. This last is 
 perhaps a minor influence, yet not without its 
 permanent effects. There is little in the narrow 
 confined streets of the city, in its overloaded 
 atmosphere, to suggest such ideas of freedom of 
 spirit, or manliness of character, as are encour- 
 aged by the wide, boundless fields of nature ; 
 there is little in the harsh, grating sounds of 
 paved streets, or hoarse shouts of angry and dis- 
 sipated men, which has that gentle, soothing in- 
 fluence exerted by almost every sound that meets 
 the ear from nature's murmurs, or rural occupa-
 
 SELECTIONS. 101 
 
 tions. Ill the city the eye finds little of that 
 beauty to dwell upon, in irregular lines of red 
 and yellow buildings, dingy and dark with dust 
 and smoke, which, in the country, is drunk in 
 from all around, — green meadows and extended 
 fields, from forests with trees of every hue, or 
 mountains that, with softened tints, melt away 
 in the distance. There, the wide landscape, the 
 absence of all petty restraints, the free air, all 
 breathe of freedom and energy of character ; 
 while the tones from all around, from the rippling 
 stream, the rustling leaves, the singing bird, the 
 beauty of all, the sweet scents that load every 
 breath of air, — have a softening and refining in- 
 fluence ; they tend to bring out the better feel- 
 ings of our nature. " To encourage the instinc- 
 tive taste of the young for the beauty and sub- 
 limity of nature," says Alison, " is to provide 
 them, amid all the agitations and trials of society, 
 with one gentle and unreproaching friend, whose 
 voice is ever in alliance with goodness and virtue,' 
 and which, when once understood, is able both 
 to soothe misfortune and to reclaim from folly. 
 It is to identify them with the happiness of that 
 nature to which they belong ; to give them an 
 interest in every species of being which surrounds 
 them ; and, amid the hours of curiosity and de- 
 light, to awaken those latent feelings of benevo-
 
 102 SELECTIONS. 
 
 lence and of sympathy, from which all the moral 
 or intellectual greatness of man finally arises. It 
 is to lay the foundation of an early and manly 
 piety, amid the magnificent system of material 
 signs in which they reside, to give them the 
 mighty key which can interpret them, and to 
 make them look upon the universe which they 
 inhabit, not as the abode only of human cares, or 
 human joys, but as the temple of the living God, 
 in which praise is due, and where service is to be 
 performed." 
 
 True, bad passions may linger there, and 
 grow in the heart, but they find no sympathy in 
 nature's beauties ; and if external scenery or cir- 
 cumstances could banish them, they would be 
 banished. 
 
 But these, great as their influence may be, are 
 less important in the results than the home that 
 dwells among them ; no outward circumstances 
 have that eff"ect in the formation of the character 
 which follows from the teachings of home. 
 Home is where the passions and tastes first de- 
 velope themselves, and there they receive their 
 first direction. If, then, bad passions are not 
 checked or corrected, or if they are encouraged 
 and aided, almost all other influences will avail 
 but little to their correction ; till, at last, taking 
 deep root, they listen to no voice but the whis-
 
 SELECTIONS. 103 
 
 perings of their own desires and inclinations. On 
 the contrary, let the better impulses of our nature 
 be fostered and cherished by home associations ; 
 by its pure, fire-side enjoyments, and friendly 
 sympathies ; let them be strengthened by culture, 
 and the planting of deep-settled convictions ; let 
 them grow witii time, and no after circumstances 
 shall supplant them. 
 
 There are some, indeed, who, amid the best 
 influences of home and long continued — seem 
 not to yield to them, but to surrender themselves 
 to passion, and almost all that is evil ; but even 
 these, bad as they sometimes are, under these 
 influences, without them would have been, prob- 
 ably, still worse. Again, there are some who, 
 amid apparently every possible combination of 
 evil, come from them pure, and confirmed in 
 every good prmciple. These show that charac- 
 ter is not the result of external influences alone. 
 
 May we not see in the calm, meditative tone 
 of Bryant's poetry, in the beauty and truthful- 
 ness of his descriptions of natural scenery, and 
 the tenor of his reflections over them, some of the 
 influences of the circumstances of his early life ? 
 In the gentle spirit, and lofty tone of thought, 
 that pervade all his poetry ; in the purity of its 
 '' moral teachings and its noble truths ; have we 
 not a visible evidence of his sympathies with na-
 
 104 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ture, and the depth to which her feelings sunk 
 in liis heart, as well as the debt he owes to those 
 from whom his thoughts received their first 
 direction ; or, who strengthened and confirmed, 
 by their judicious culture, his high aspirations ? 
 
 The extremes of wealth or poverty have gen- 
 erally a modifying influence in the formation of 
 the character — the one by cramping the ener- 
 gies in denying those things necessary to their 
 full development, the other by too often taking 
 away the will to bring them out in their full 
 force ; though there are some, who, stimulated, 
 perhaps, by the noble example and wholesome 
 teachings of a parent, have permitted neither the 
 barriers, and oftentimes vicious associations of 
 the one, nor the enfeebling luxuries of the other, 
 to hinder the full expression of their better im- 
 pulses. 
 
 When one has grown up with every good prin- 
 ciple strengthened by habit, and by the influ- 
 ences of pure associations, no after vicissitudes of 
 wealth or poverty, or separation from friends or 
 country, can destroy the character thus formed. 
 
 The friendships formed in youth rank next, 
 perhaps, to the influences of home, in either form- 
 ing new traits of character, or altering or con- 
 firming those already springing up. 
 
 We are attached to our friends, because we
 
 SELECTIONS. 105 
 
 sympathize with them ; we like their habits, their 
 principles of action; and, liking these, we natu- 
 rally copy them, and incorporate their sentiments 
 with our own. Our amusements are not solitary 
 ones ; but as we are social beings, our greatest 
 pleasures are those afibrded by a familiar inter- 
 course with our friends : and the tastes and sen- 
 timents acquired from this intercourse, have either 
 a refining and elevating tendency, or an influence 
 of the reverse character. 
 
 Literary associations, like our own, combine 
 several influences. The friendships formed in 
 them, are often of a most pleasing nature ; for, 
 as the object for which they are formed, the 
 " mutual improvement " of their members, is a 
 high one, it is not calculated to bring together 
 for any length of time, at least, the vicious or 
 low inclined ; while the pursuit of that object in 
 increasing the store of knowledge, in constantly 
 providing new and pure sources of pleasure, and 
 thus purifying the tastes and giving a relish for 
 those quiet enjoyments which form one of the 
 chief charms of home, in bringing continually be- 
 fore one, for study and contemplation, elevated 
 standards of conduct or action, cannot but have 
 an ennobling tendency in the formation of the 
 character. 
 
 We have thus considered, briefly indeed, some 
 S
 
 106 SELECTIONS. 
 
 of the influences that enter into the formation of 
 the character, and among them the tendency of 
 the influences exerted by literary associations. 
 If it has been seen that those influences are good, 
 and that they have an elevating tendency, then 
 we may resolve the doubt or wonder, with which 
 we commenced, by concluding that the hours 
 which we have spent in such an association have 
 not been " unfit links " in the chain of life.
 
 SELECTIONS. 107 
 
 PHILOSOPHY VERSUS POETRY. 
 
 Are the pursuits of the philosopher more ele- 
 vated thau those of the poet ? 
 
 Mauy deliuitious have been given of the terra 
 Philosophy, but they all tend to this one, deep 
 knowledge. The pursuit of the philosopher is 
 truth, and the objects that engross his attention 
 in this pursuit are, God, Nature, and Man. Of 
 the first, than the contemplation of the attributes 
 of that being from whom all life and energy flow 
 — from whom we derive all those powers that 
 elevate the man above the brute — who has spread 
 around and invested with a sacred charm, all that 
 is beautiful and noble — what can be more ele- 
 vating ? That can only be elevating which tends 
 to raise the mind and give to it purity, and dig- 
 nify the character ; and what more so than this ? 
 As the infinite Being is only studied with pure 
 and high thoughts, so they fill the mind as it 
 contemplates his handiwork in the beauties of 
 nature. She presents a scene to the philosopher 
 that can only be understood by him who has 
 been habituated to elevated thoughts. The feast 
 of pleasure he enjoys in gazing on nature's beau-
 
 108 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ties, is greater far than epicurean ever experi- 
 enced ; one that does not pander to the baser 
 appetite, but engages all the nobler powers of the 
 soul — all the sublimer attributes of the mind. 
 He looks on them with a cold indifierence, merely 
 that he may learn how best to express their col- 
 ors ; but, penetrating deeper than the mere sur- 
 face he gazes upon, finds food for contemplation 
 which he only can taste. As he gazes on the 
 works of nature, he is at once struck with their 
 magnificence, their beauty and order, and in them 
 sees at a glance, the character and nature of their 
 Creator. Could a being that was not in the high- 
 1 est degree pure and holy, be the architect of this 
 f beautiful world ? Could it be possible, that as 
 he views the bright flowers that deck its plains 
 and valleys, and the beauty of its verdure, that 
 in them he could see any other than the power 
 of one who was virtue's and purity's self? Could 
 it be possible, that as he views the brilliant orbs 
 that shine so bright in the heavens above us, as 
 he traces their various paths and courses, wander- 
 ing on with the utmost regularity and order, and 
 asks himself why these things are so, that his 
 mind could revert to any other than God himself? 
 He considers that the same grand Being who 
 made thefii, and guides them in their eternal 
 courses, also controls the destinies of those beings
 
 SELECTIONS. 109 
 
 who inhabit them ; and as he reflects, that in 
 those works nothing but harmony and purity are 
 to be found, he inevitably draws thence a grand 
 lesson, teaching that, as in all his other works 
 they are prominent, so should they be the char- 
 acteristic traits of man as well as nature. As 
 the philosopher thus reflects, they become his 
 distinguishing marks, and a noble dignity per- 
 vades his character. Is there nothing elevating 
 in this ? What can be more elevating than that 
 which, in every precept, inculcates a lesson tend- 
 ing to render the character dignified, and inspire 
 the mind with noble sentiments ? But not only 
 are these the philosopher's study : truth is his 
 object, whether as developed in nature or man ; 
 and whether he looks for it in the starry heavens, 
 or in the passions that sway humanity, still is it 
 the same ; still has it the same effect. The na- 
 ture of man — the intimate, ^'■et wonderful, con- 
 nection of mind and matter — the manner in 
 which love, hatred, fear, hope, and the various 
 other passions influence us — arc his careful 
 study : and what nobler or more sublime study 
 can be found on earth ? In the pursuit of an ob- 
 ject, those means are invariably adopted for its 
 accomplishment, that agree in their tendency 
 with the nature of the things pursued ; so is it 
 with the object of the philosopher's pursuit-—
 
 110 SELECTIONS. 
 
 truth. As he seeks it^ it tinges all his actions, 
 and his soul and mind acquire that elevated cast 
 only to be attained in its knowledge. I do not 
 wish to detract from the merits of the poet ; he 
 may have some noble, some elevating points in 
 his productions, but still they do not affect us, 
 as do the reflections of the philosopher ; they do 
 not inspire us with such elevating sentiments, for 
 this is not the prime object of the poet ; his ob- 
 ject is to please ; and as this is his object, says 
 Dr. Blair, "it is to the imagination and the pas- 
 sions that he addresses himself." What are the 
 feelings with which we generally read poetry ? 
 Do we read it to gain elevating ideas, nobler con- 
 ceptions of humanity, or that the mere fancy may 
 be pleased ? When we study a piece of poetry, 
 do we feel, on arising from such study, as though 
 our ideas were more elevated than before, — as 
 though there were that within us which partook 
 not of the nature of earth, but belonged to an 
 higher and nobler region ? How rarely is it that 
 such thoughts of the nature of the mind, or les- 
 sons that all things teach, are diffused by the 
 reading of poetry ! On the contrary, there is 
 diffused throughout the reader, a feeling of lassi- 
 tude and languor, little favorable to elevating 
 ideas. But what are the feelings with which we 
 pursue the study of philosophy, of which, and
 
 SELECTIONS. Ill 
 
 of Newton, the poet has used the following lan- 
 guage : 
 
 " Philosophy, baptized 
 In the pure font of eternal love, 
 Has eyes indeed ; and, viewing all she sees 
 As meant to indicate a God to man, 
 Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 
 Learning has borne such fruit in other days 
 On all her branches ; piety has found 
 Friends in the friends of science ; and true prayer 
 Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. 
 Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage. 
 Sagacious reader of the works of God, 
 And in his word sagacious. Such, too, thine, 
 Milton, whose genius had angelic wings. 
 And fed on manna." 
 
 To the poet we go to obtain relief from the 
 weary hour, in harmonious numbers, and mea- 
 sured cadences, — a momentary and short-lived 
 pleasure. But the natural feeling with which 
 we go to the philosopher, is to obtain those ideas 
 which shall elevate us in the scale of humanity. 
 Why do we pursue these different studies with 
 these different feelings, without it is in the very 
 nature of the one to give us those elevated and 
 noble sentiments, and of the other, (the greater 
 part of which consists of pleasing fantasies of the 
 imagination,) to give mere passive pleasure, — a 
 pleasure as well satisfied, in very many cases, 
 by immoral recitals, as by higher themes ? Who
 
 112 SELECTIONS, 
 
 would think of sending the inquirer for instruc- 
 tion in noble sentiments and elevating ideas, to 
 Byron, rather than Abercrombie, who, in the lan- 
 guage of another, " has exhibited philosophy as 
 the handmaid of religion," that from which are 
 derived all elevating principles, " and has made it 
 manifest that all the rays of knowledge naturally 
 converge to that one point in which is situated 
 the throne of eternal and heavenly truth ? But 
 what, in fact, is the poet's province ? Has he 
 any real province ? " The highest state of man," 
 says the philosopher, "consists in his purity as a 
 moral being." (Abercrombie.) Is this the style 
 of the poet's teaching ? Is this his aim to show ? 
 Is this the conclusion one would come to in 
 studying poetry ? He allows the muse at one 
 time to sing of that which comes within the 
 bounds of morality, and at another, to wander 
 far from them. Now, her words flow smooth 
 with the tender language of love, and anon launch 
 out into the most bitter invectives of hate and 
 jealous rage. The muse scorns not to tamper 
 with the lowest passions, or treat lightly the 
 noblest powers of the soul. The poet has not, 
 like the philosopher, one grand point, one high 
 aim, towards which steadily to direct his ener- 
 gies, but his song varies with the passions of the 
 moment. And can it be doubted which is the
 
 SELECTIONS. 113 
 
 more elevating, that which adopts one steady 
 course, tlie knowledge of truth, the end of all 
 knowledge, or that which is capricious, wander- 
 ing here and there without object ? Poetry does 
 not contain all that is beautiful and sublime ; for, 
 have Homer and Milton given us magnificent 
 descriptions of the creations of their fancy ? — 
 Newton, from the simple circumstance of the 
 falling of an apple, brought to our knowledge 
 truths sublimer and nobler far than the highest 
 imaginations of the poet ! Call you the unnat- 
 ural creations of the poet's active brain sublime ? 
 — Where, in all the range of poetry, will you 
 find that which shall compete in grandeur and 
 sublimity, with Franklin's idea of drawing the 
 lightnings from the heavens, and making them 
 conducive to the happiness of mankind ? Have 
 Thomson and others given us beautiful descrip- 
 tions of the scenery of nature ? — It is but one 
 branch of the philosopher's province to study her 
 works, and, penetrating her mysteries, and giv- 
 ing us new and more extended conceptions of 
 Him who was her creator, lead the mind from 
 " nature up to nature's God." Has the poet 
 drawn vivid descriptions of humanity and its 
 frailties ? — Has ho depicted in lively colors its 
 dark passions? — It is for the philosopher to 
 study them, and give us such views of them as,
 
 114 SELECTIONS. 
 
 instead of rendering them attractive, shall drive 
 them from the bosom, and diffuse in their place 
 sentnnents of a higher cast, causing man to shun 
 that which is base and low, and delight only in 
 that which is pure, and indeed noble and ele- 
 vating. 
 
 Which has conferred the greater benefit on 
 the world, philosophy or poetry ? With which 
 wonld we be most willing to dispense ? We 
 would surely be unwilling to dispense with the 
 more elevating — we would not desert the nobler 
 for the baser ; and yet, who would banish phi- 
 losophy from our books, were we obliged to choose 
 between them, and substitute in its place poetry 
 alone ? Which has most contributed to advance 
 society to its present elevated state ? Those 
 studies are surely the more elevating which en- 
 large the capacities of the mind — " all that," in 
 the language of Dick, "tend to raise our minds 
 to the Supreme Ruler of all worlds ; to expand 
 our views of his infinite knowledge and wisdom ; 
 to excite our gratitude and our admiration of his 
 beneficent designs ; give us grander views of all 
 that is great and good ; of all that is beautiful 
 and noble, which appears in all his arrangements. 
 Were it not for natural philosophy, the various 
 phenomena of nature, which we now view with 
 delight and interest, and from the study of which
 
 SELECTIONS. . 115 
 
 such pleasure is derived, would become objects 
 of terror and gross superstition, while they are 
 now viewed in the light of evidences of wisdom ; 
 and when we study them, familiar with the re- 
 searches of the philosopher, we rise above the 
 lower and baser feelings, and the heart is filled 
 with high and pure aspirations. Were it not for 
 the researches in moral philosophy, who could 
 paint the scenes with which the earth would be 
 filled ? All the better feelings would be lost 
 amid the universal wreck of mind, and we, in- 
 stead of being the elevated beings we now are, 
 would be but fit companions of those savages, 
 into whose minds the light of science has never 
 penetrated. Where would be the sublimity of 
 poetry, what noble parts would it contain, were 
 it not for philosophy ? The few sublime rays it 
 does contain, are like the fragments of the dia- 
 mond, which, though pretty in themselves, yet 
 lack the beauty of the gem itself, unbroken and un- 
 soiled. The poet may aptly be compared to the 
 philosopher, as the shadow to the man. The 
 shadow gives a faint outline of man — so is it 
 with the poet ; in the meditations of his muse 
 he gives an inkling of philosophy, touches the 
 surface, but the vastness, the grandeur of the 
 original is wanting.
 
 116 • SELECTIONS. 
 
 The gentleman has labored hard, but, it ap- 
 pears to me, in a very unsatisfactory manner, to 
 show that the pursuits of the poet are more ele- 
 vated than those of the philosopher ; for the 
 reason, that poetry has diffused throughout the 
 world more happiness than philosophy. On this 
 he has rested his main argument, which, it will 
 readily be seen, is not a very strong one. On 
 what does our happiness here depend ? On our 
 relations to society, on the comforts we enjoy, 
 and the condition of the mind itself. " One of 
 the subordinate uses of natural philosophy," says 
 Dick, " is to enable us to construct all those 
 mechanical engines that facilitate human labor, 
 increase the comforts of mankind, and tend to 
 enlarge our views of the operations of nature." 
 There we see it the chief instrument of our hap- 
 piness. "A still higher use to which it is sub- 
 servient," he continues, " is to demonstrate the 
 wisdom and intelligence of the Great First Cause 
 of all things ; to enlarge our conceptions of the 
 admirable contrivance and design which appear 
 in the different departments of universal nature. 
 In this view, it may be considered as forming a 
 branch of natuj^al theology^ or, in other words, a 
 branch of the religion of angels, and of all other 
 holy intelligences J'' The science of natural phi- 
 losophy, of which mechanics is but a branch, has
 
 SELECTIONS. 117 
 
 enabled man to accomplish operations, far beyond 
 the limits of his own physical powers. Without 
 a knowledge of this science, the enjoyments' of 
 man, and consequently, his happiness as a social 
 being, would be extremely Hmited. " In the 
 savage state, ignorant of agriculture, manufac- 
 tures, and navigation, and the other arts that de- 
 pend upon this science, he is exposed, without 
 shelter from the inclemencies of the seasons ; he 
 is unable to transport himself beyond oceans, and 
 visit other climes and tribes of his fellow men." 
 He exists in the desert, comfortless and miim- 
 proved ; the fertile soil, over which he roams, is 
 covered with thorns, briars, and thickets, for the 
 haunts of beasts of prey. His enjoyments are 
 little superior to those of the beasts, while he is 
 much their inferior in point of agility and phy- 
 sical strength. But, when philosophy has de- 
 monstrated the principles of mechanics, and in- 
 troduced the practice of the useful arts, " the 
 wilderness and the solitary places are made glad, 
 and the desert rejoices and blossoms as the rose ;" 
 cities are built, and the comforts of life are ra- 
 pidly spread around; and "man advances with 
 pleasure and improvement, to the scene of his 
 high destination." The philosopher penetrates 
 deeper and farther than the poet ; and conse- 
 quently, has greater sources from which to derive
 
 118 SELECTIONS. 
 
 those sentiments that dignify and elevate the 
 man. The philosopher, or " the man who takes 
 an lenlightened view of all the works and dispen- 
 sations of God, and of all the circumstances and 
 relations of subordinate beings, necessarily ac- 
 quires a nobleness and liberality of mind, and an 
 accuracy in judging of things human and divine, 
 which no other person can possess." The very 
 nature of the philosopher's pursuit, being more 
 extended, and including the noblest of creations, 
 enables him to acquire grander views, and more 
 elevated ideas ; from the very fact, that his know- 
 ledge is more extensive. The poet does not 
 search deeply into natural history, into the nature 
 of man, or any other branch of knowledge ; his 
 purpose can be accomplished without so doing. 
 He, like the humming bird, skips from flower to 
 flower, culling the sweets that lie on the sur- 
 face ; but, the richer food, that lies hidden be- 
 neath, escapes untouched by him. But the phi- 
 losopher not only enjoys the external beauties ; 
 for him also is reserved the deeper treasures es- 
 caped unheeded by the poet. While the form of 
 man, and his animal powers, apparent to the eye, 
 and the visible efi!"ects of the mind, engross the at- 
 tention of the poet ; not only these, but the nature 
 of that mind, the breath of life, and his construc- 
 tion, so wonderful, are the philosopher's study.
 
 SELECTIONS. 119 
 
 That, undoubtedly, which is wonderful, grand, 
 noble, beautiful, has the tendency to excite in 
 the mind high thoughts and noble ideas. Then, 
 how elevating, how noble the study of man ! 
 The study of that being, who was made but a 
 little lower than the angels ! The study, not 
 only of his mental powers, but their adaptation to 
 the matter that constitutes his figure ! What 
 object calculated to induce higher strains of 
 thought, than that delicate piece of mechanism, 
 the eye ? Man cannot so much as form one of 
 the least of the particles of which it is construct- 
 ed; how much less impart to it the light that | 
 conveys the glance of love and friendship ! Or, ^ 
 Avhat higher contemplation, than the immense 
 systems of the universe, as revealed to us by the 
 philosopher ? It is such as these form his study, 
 where, at every step, are revealed evidences of 
 wisdom. While we may read the brighest ef- i 
 fusions of the poet with comparative indifference., > 
 and no emotion, we cannot contemplate the vast, 
 boundless field of the philosopher, understand- 5 
 ingly, without feelings of the utmost awe and 
 veneration. 
 
 He has laid great stress upon, and endeavored 
 to show, that poetry is equally as elevating as 
 philosophy, from the reason, as he gives it, that 
 poetry is so intermingled with philosophy, that
 
 120 SELECTIONS. 
 
 there is no separating them ; claiming that poetry 
 derives its charm from philosophy, thus grant- 
 ing at once the superior elevation of the pursuit 
 of philosophy. He seems to have regarded only 
 a few specimens of poetry, or he would have 
 found that those who derive a dignity and eleva- 
 tion from philosophy, form but a small speck 
 in comparison with the vast sea of nonsensical 
 rhyming that is floating throughout the world. 
 If the philosophy contained in Pope's Essay on 
 Man, gives to it such a charm ; if that small par- 
 ticle is so beautiful to the contemplative reader, 
 how would he be filled with admiration, could 
 he explore the vast field existing independent of 
 that ! What were society without philosophy ? 
 We can only picture to ourselves the miserable, 
 degraded state in which it would be, by looking 
 at those nations where it scarcely exists. 
 
 In the savage life there exists, comparatively, 
 no philosophy ; while it is well known that the 
 language of the Indians of our own country, and 
 of other countries, is highly poetic — and how 
 miserable are they ! Living for centuries in the 
 same ignorant and brutal condition, making no 
 progress towards civilization — how was it in the 
 dark ages, when nearly all philosophy was buried 
 beneath the mass of barbarism and ignorance ? 
 In what a degraded state was all Europe then !
 
 SELECTIONS. 121 
 
 Little advance was made in refinement. Men 
 were governed by the most barbarous laws and 
 absurd customs; tyranny reigned triumphant ; and 
 so degraded had the people become, from their 
 state, when Grecian and Roman science reigned 
 throughout the vast extent of Rome's empire, 
 that they were nearly all in a state of slavery and 
 feudal bondage. But when the genius of Bacon 
 lifted the veil that had hitherto enveloped philos- 
 ophy in its dark folds, when knowledge diffused 
 abroad its vivifying and ennobling rays, how rapid 
 the advance of man, from a state of almost bru- 
 tal ignorance, to dignity and nobleness! Science 
 advanced with rapid strides ; man knew and felt 
 his worth, and dared to break the chains that 
 made him slave, and assert his freedom, without 
 which, alas for his dignity ! 
 
 And now, since the prmciples of philosophy 
 have been demonstrated and carried out in all the 
 arts and sciences of life, how bright a contrast 
 does society present, to its state in those dark 
 ages ! Admitting that music and oratory are de- 
 rived from poetry, still I conceive that he is no 
 farther advanced in his argument than before ; 
 for music not only " has charms to soothe the 
 savage breast," but it is also a powerful instru- 
 ment of the excited passions ; and he will use it 
 to the best advantage, whose mind, tempered by 
 9
 
 122 SELECTIONS. 
 
 philosophy, can discern its nature, and employ- 
 it to bring about good and benevolent effects. 
 So also is it with the orator ; the words he utters 
 are but the result of passion, as it has been 
 directed or calmed by the influence of study ; 
 and he is liable, if his energies are not directed 
 aright by the gentle influence of reason, to pour 
 forth those strains that shall stir up the lower 
 feelings of the soul, and call its base passions into 
 action, as to give utterance to those sentiments 
 that shall elevate the mind. He has, throughout 
 his argument, considered the passions as the off- 
 spring of music and oratory, forgetting the while, 
 that such is not the case. They are but instru- 
 merits of the passions ; powerful instruments, 
 perhaps, for good or bad, as they are directed 
 by those whose minds are elevated or debased. 
 
 i
 
 SELECTIONS. 123 
 
 ANCIENT VERSUS MODERN LAWS. 
 
 Our modern laws and customs, conceived in 
 truth and wisdom, are much more conducive to 
 public happiness than ancient laws founded in 
 superstition, and based upon the worst passions 
 of humanity. The laws and customs of a people 
 form their government : and as their government 
 is good or bad, so will peace and happiness be 
 diffused throughout them. They are instituted 
 to preserve the peace and just rights of the citi- 
 zen ; therefore, where the laws are good and 
 properly administered, we may reasonably expect 
 to see happy results flow from them. But the 
 laws and customs of the ancients were such as 
 insured to them no peace ; on the contrary, they 
 continually involved them in war, in which it 
 was their whole object to make the people well 
 versed. To this point all their customs tended. 
 Such was the object of the laws of the oft-praised 
 Lycurgus. There is no calamity to be dreaded 
 by a nation so much as that of war. It not only 
 retards the progress of national prosperity, but it 
 causes throughout the length and breadth of a 
 country the sorrow of broken hearts, leaving deso-
 
 124 SELECTIONS. 
 
 late the homes, the firesides of the former happy 
 family, and destroying the peace of millions of 
 human beings. Yet, in ancient governments, 
 the daring ambition or caprice of a single indi- 
 vidual, would often bring that dreadful scourge 
 upon a whole country. Such was it that caused 
 the celebrated Trojan war, which was continued 
 to the great length of ten years. Let it not be 
 said that this is going too far back into the annals 
 of history ,• the laws at that period were scarcely 
 framed. Eight hundred years later, what was 
 there in their laws and customs to check the dar- 
 ing ambition of that scourge of the human race, 
 Alexander," who caused the death of millions of 
 his fellow beings, that he might be called great. 
 At the battle of Arbela, in which the forces of 
 Alexander engaged the Persians, the number of 
 Persians slain was estimated at three hundred 
 thousand. Are such sanguinary conflicts calcu- 
 lated to diffuse happiness throughout an empire, 
 even though the ambition of the destroyer be 
 satisfied ? But not to Alexander alone are they 
 to be limited. Of what does the history of an- 
 cient nations consist, but of the recitals of such 
 occurrences ? Power was the object of most of 
 the rulers, and to attain that, no crime was too 
 horrid for them to be guilty of; no deed too 
 black for them to commit ! Millions of lives
 
 SELECTIONS. 125 
 
 were offered at the shrine of their idolatry, and 
 nations were destroyed tliat they might be ren- 
 dered famous ! 
 
 To the enjoyment of happiness, liberty and a i 
 pure religion are indispensable. But do we find 
 these in the governments of the ancients ? Far 
 from it ! The government of Rome appeared to 
 have been founded on just principles ; but soon 
 it was found, that, although the citizens retained 
 the name of freemen, their laws were insufficient 
 to protect them from the tyranny of an absolute 
 monarchy, and their government fell into ihe 
 hands of those, who, regardless of their country's 
 happiness and prosperity, only used their power 
 to satisfy the demands of their own ambition. 
 The happiness of the people and tranquillity of 
 government are inseparably connected. But, on 
 looking over the pages of history, do we there 
 find tranquillity in the government of ancient 
 nations ? No ! far from it. 1'heir very nature for- 
 bids it. Their object was not to secure happi- 
 ness to the people, but to render them a terror to 
 surrounding nations. Their religion, instead of 
 being the harbinger of peace and happiness, often- 
 times involved them in conflicts with other peo- 
 ple, and thus, instead of proving to them a bless- 
 ing, proved a curse. The mind cannot be at rest 
 under dark, uncertain superstitions ; yet it Avas
 
 126 SELECTIONS. 
 
 these that composed their religion, and which 
 constituted a great part of their government. It 
 was these that often controlled the destinies of 
 whole nations, plunging them into war, or pre- 
 serving peace, as accident dictated. 
 
 Nations would resort to the oracle to listen to 
 the wild exclamations and incoherent language 
 of a crazy woman, — placing their reliance upon 
 the construction the designing priest gave to her 
 words. They had a god for almost every occu- 
 pation and business of life, without whose favor 
 it would be impossible to progress in prosperity, 
 — and to obtain which, immense sacrifice must 
 be offered up. The appetites of the officiating 
 priests, who in reality constituted the gods, often 
 brought ruin upon their devotees. Temples, 
 magnificent beyond description, were erected to 
 imaginary gods and goddesses, that their suppos- 
 ed favor might be obtained and their dreaded 
 anger averted. Not content with giving their 
 cattle and riches as sacrifices to the gods, often 
 their slaves, or those whom they had conquered 
 in war, were made the victims of their idolatrous 
 worship, and perished by the knife or in the 
 flames, as an offering to some tutelary deity. 
 
 Are such things consistent with human hap- 
 piness ? The mere recital of them is revolting 
 to our nature ; and can it be doubted that human
 
 SELECTIONS. 127 
 
 nature is or ever was the same ? How then can 
 we reconcile, with the idea of happiness, the dis- 
 gusting scenes of the arena, the gladiatorial com- 
 bats, the deadly strife between man and man, and 
 the spectacle of the miserable struggle to escape 
 the fangs of the wild beast, with which it was 
 customary for monarchs to debase the minds of 
 the people ; sometimes even joining in the strife 
 themselves, and, like the cowardly Commodus, 
 apparently taking a pride in tlieir degrading ex- 
 ploits ? These were the amusements of those 
 happy times, secured to them by kind, wise laivs ! 
 And what was their eflect on the people ? Did 
 they make them the refined and polished people 
 of the present day ? No ! Although their man- 
 ners were not as rude as those of the uncultivated 
 wanderers of the forest, still the nobler, the finer 
 feelings of the man, which bestow upon us our 
 happiness, were lost to them ; — their senses be- 
 came blunt, from the frequent repetition of the 
 scenes of war, and the ghastly spectacle of the 
 arena. They were, in fact, that which is the 
 pest of the earth, a military people, — the design 
 of their laws was accomplished. We search the 
 record of history in vain, to find those laws, 
 those forms of governments, that were calculated) 
 in their operations and their effects, to dilfuse 
 happiness throughout an empire.
 
 128 SELECTIONS. 
 
 We are accustomed to admire the valor of 
 the soldiers of Greece, Sparta and Rome, and 
 dwell with wonder on their heroic deeds, forget- 
 ting the while, that their victories are spreading 
 desolation through the hearts of millions of be- 
 ings, and adding to the distress of nations. We 
 forget that military force is supported by oppres- 
 sive and arbitrary laws. Man is in his disposi- 
 tion naturally peaceful, and will only resort to 
 war when compelled. What then must have 
 been the rigor of those laws that made the peo- 
 ple wholly military I Let us follow the history 
 of Rome, when she had arrived, at the price of 
 thousands of lives, at the proud distinction of 
 Mistress of the World ; and when, if at any time, 
 she should be most happy. We find, instead of 
 that happiness, a misery far from it. She had 
 been raised to her grandeur by military force ; 
 and her military power was a blind and irresist- 
 ible instrument of oppression, ready at all times 
 to obey the command of a favorite leader, whe- 
 ther to pillage, to destroy an enemy, or subvert 
 the liberties of their own empire. The throne 
 and purple robe were literally bathed in blood, 
 and the rulers of the empire were not chosen 
 even by the senate ; but were appointed, invested 
 with supreme power, and deposed, to make way 
 for other favorites, as the passion or caprice of
 
 SELECTIONS. 120 
 
 tJie military dictated. Tlie emperor, appointed 
 by them one day, might be made tlie victim of 
 tlieir anger or revenge, the next ; and ere the 
 blood that flowed from the veins of the late as- 
 sassinated ruler, be dry, another, perhaps a bar- 
 barian peasant, is elevated to the vacant throne. 
 Although, during the reign of Adrian and the 
 Antonines, the Romans enjoyed peace and hap- 
 piness, yet that enjoyment was transient, and de- 
 pended, not so much on the laws as on the pecu- 
 liar dispositions of the rulers ; for under the same 
 laws and the same government of " absolute 
 power," the dark, unrelenting Tiberius, the furi- 
 ous Caligula, the profligate and cruel Nero, the 
 beastly Yitellius, and the timid, inhuman Domi- 
 tian, committed atrocities such as condemn them 
 to everlasting infamy. During the reign of Gal- 
 lienus, such was the discontent and unhappy 
 state of the people, that there appeared nineteen 
 pretenders to the purple robe and the title of em- 
 peror. These are a few of the efiects of those 
 happy laws that tend to make a nation soldiers ! 
 Would this be the case if the government were 
 such as to difiiise, by its wise and beneficent 
 laws, happiness among the people ? The oppo- 
 nents of this view of the question may perhaps 
 say that it is an extreme point ; that this is the 
 period when Rome began to lose her glory, and
 
 130 SELECTIONS. 
 
 decline. Exactly ; but why should that ancient 
 government have declined at all ? Why, if the 
 people were happy under their laws, should it 
 not have continued in its glory until the present 
 time, — not only retaining its glory as it then 
 was, bat gaining new laurels, and acquiring new 
 fame ; not the glory of military achievements, 
 but that which avails a rapidly progressing, 
 happy and peaceful nation ? 
 
 Let us now turn from the contemplation of 
 these unhappy states, to that of modern laws. 
 In doing this, let us first view the spirit in which 
 they were conceived and formed. In referring 
 to modern laws and customs, I shall principally 
 take for my example those of the United States, 
 as being strictly modern in all their operations, 
 and only slightly touch those of the governments 
 of Europe ; for many of them do not contain in 
 their elements the true spirit of liberty. Yet 
 they will bear, at the present time, comparison 
 with their state when the people were mostly 
 serfs or bond-men to feudal lords, and governed 
 by a thousand petty tyrants. But to return. 
 Our modern laws are based upon these self-evident 
 truths, " that all men are created equal ; that 
 they are endowed by their Creator with certain 
 unalienable rights ; that among these are life, 
 liberty, and the pursuit of happiness ; and that to
 
 SELECTIONS. 131 
 
 secure these rights, governments are instituted 
 among men, deriving their just powers from the 
 consent of the governed." These were the im- 
 alienable rights, the framers of our constitution 
 mutually pledged to each other their lives, their 
 fortunes and their sacred honors, to sustain ; and 
 our laws are framed with this object. 
 
 This end has been accomplished ; that peace 
 and happiness are secured to the people, it requires 
 no searching of the records of the historic volume 
 to show ; but I refer you to your own experience ; 
 to the scenes that each day meet the eye ; to the 
 pages of every newspaper with which our coun- 
 try abounds. Among those laws which serve 
 most effectually to promote our happiness, are 
 those which secure to us the right of universal 
 suffrage, trial by jury, and religious freedom. 
 On the benefits of religious freedom it is unne- 
 cessary to dwell. This was one of the grand 
 objects, to obtain which our forefathers crossed 
 the ocean, and made the wilderness their home ; 
 preferring to worship God in a conscientious 
 manner, and be happy in the desert, to worshipping 
 him as others dictated. In ancient governments, 
 their religious and superstitious observances were 
 closely connected with the laws, and to the ruler 
 was often given religious supremacy. It was 
 even customary to deil'y them, thus making ob^
 
 132 SELECTIONS. 
 
 jects of worship of men of the worst description 
 and habits. 
 
 But our institutions are different ; we worship 
 in whatever form and manner we please, thus 
 securing to ourselves a means of obtaining happi- 
 ness. Our God is God, and our worship of him 
 is the voluntary tribute of a grateful heart. 
 
 One of our greatest privileges and most inesti- 
 mable rights, is that of universal suffrage, by 
 which we secure to ourselves liberty, that which 
 is of all things the most precious. Our people 
 are here truly represented, not by life representa- 
 tives, who after a time represent the people or 
 not, as they choose; but as often as the people 
 acquire new principles, so are they represented 
 by their delegates. Bat it is unnecessary to en- 
 large on this. There never was among the gov- 
 ernments of old, one where the people were so 
 perfectly represented as they are in our own ; 
 and therefore one great cause why our laws are 
 more conducive to public happiness than ancient 
 laws. 
 
 There is one other feature of our present time, 
 which it is especially needful to mention : it is 
 that law which secures to all the benefits of edu- 
 cation. A law more conducive to public happi- 
 ness than this can scarcely be imagined. 
 
 Since our country was first settled, this has
 
 SELECTIONS. 133 
 
 been an object of special attention in our legisla- 
 tive halls. And what is the result ? No other 
 nation ever so rapidly progressed in all that tends 
 to make a people happy and respected at home 
 and abroad. 
 
 Commerce and the fine arts have here pro- 
 gressed as in no other country. It is compara- 
 tively but few years since our vast extent of ter- 
 ritory was a trackless \vilderness, inhabited by 
 the roving Indian. It is but little more than 
 threescore years since we became free and inde- 
 pendent. Yet in this short time we have so rap- 
 idly advanced, that we hold no secondary rank 
 in the scale of nations ; and one of the best proofs 
 of the happiness secured to the people by our 
 laws, is seen in the thousands that flock here 
 to seek under our modern laws, that happiness 
 they cannot find under their own forms of gov- 
 ernment.
 
 134 SELECTIONS. 
 
 YOUTH VERSUS MANHOOD. 
 
 It has been asserted by some one, (Gibbon, I 
 believe,) that "the common opinion, that youth 
 experiences more happiness than manhood, is 
 wrong." I still hold to the old opinion, that 
 youth is the happiest period of life ; for the very 
 nature of the circumstances of Youth and Man- 
 hood, would seem to deny the truth of his posi- 
 tion. The young child seems to have no other 
 resource than enjoyment, as all care is taken off 
 its mind by the kindness of the parents ; or if its 
 fair brow is rendered gloomy by some petty oc- 
 currence, it is like a cloud for a moment inter- 
 cepting the rays of the smiling sun, which scarce 
 casts its shadow ere it is gone, and all is bright 
 and beautiful as before. The light heart of youth 
 never suffers sorrow long ; but, ever full of buoy- 
 ancy, the merry laugh soon dispels every trace 
 of uahappiness. In the youth, almost every 
 thing excites curiosity and wonder. To a man, 
 even, any new discovery is a matter of happi- 
 ness ; how great then must be the happiness of 
 the youth, to whom almost every object he sees 
 or meets is a new subject for his ever-busy
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 135 
 
 thoughts to dwell on and wonder over. One of 
 the strongest arguments I can use, perhaps, in 
 favor of the happiness of youth, is the very 
 construction of our frames ; the various stages 
 through which we pass, ere maturity is attained. 
 When unhappiness and sorrow are allowed to 
 prey even upon man, does it not injure his con- 
 stitution, aftect his health ? If such is a man's 
 every-day experience, how much more deleteri- 
 ous then would its eflect be upon youth — him 
 whose frame is as yet unprepared to buffet the 
 storms of the world ! But a kind providence has 
 so ordered it, that all his works harmonize with 
 each other. Is the constitution in youth fender, 
 — is it less able to bear the hard, sad trials of a 
 mature age ? — it is so ordained, that those trials 
 are light ; and as the young frame requires en- 
 joyment, and relaxation from sorrow, so is the 
 heart created light, buoyant and happy. Another 
 strong argument in favor of this opinion, is its 
 universality. 
 
 Every day we hear it said that such is the 
 case, by those whom experience has taught the 
 sad truth. Almost every writer dwells upon the 
 happier days of youth. As man gazes upon those 
 revelling in the charms of youth around him, he 
 sighs to think that he can no more be free and 
 gay as they — that their sports no more impart a
 
 136 SELECTIONS. 
 
 constant charm and happiness to his soul ; and 
 as he views them, memory carries him back to 
 those " halcyon days," when almost every breath 
 he drew, was a draught of pleasure and happiness 
 — when every thing was pleasing — when there 
 was novelty in every occurrence — when, with 
 gay, merry companions, he sported the hours 
 away, nor scarce knew aught than delight — 
 when the future itself was beautiful with bright 
 visions — when, if aught of trouble cast a gloom 
 over his soul, a kind parent was ever nigh to re- 
 lieve him of his sorrows, and guide him in those 
 paths where happiness was always found. How 
 many tender recollections of joy are awakened 
 in him by the sound of that name, parents ! A 
 mother, ever ready to grant his slightest wish, if 
 it bat tended to his happiness or benefit ; a 
 father, " whose favor, like clouds of spring, might 
 lower, 
 
 And utter now and then an awful voice, 
 But had a blessing in its darkest frown ; " 
 
 a smile from either of whom he would now wel- 
 come as one of the most precious of treasures. 
 But alas ! time has wrought many sad changes in 
 its rapid flight ; he has grown older, he has grown 
 wiser, perhaps, but not a happier being — for 
 those parents who were wont to cheer him in all 
 his troubles and difficulties, and whose only aim
 
 SELECTIONS. 137 
 
 seemed to be to make him happy — with time, 
 have also gone, and can no more aid him in his 
 onward path. Other friends, near and dear, have 
 also gone, who, in youth, were happy compan- 
 ions, and he is left almost alone of those with 
 whom he whiled away so many pleasant hours. 
 O! what would he not give, could he but recall 
 them, that they might again sit side by side, and 
 reflect each other's smiles ? But no, they are 
 gone, and therefore one cause of unhappiness. 
 Sad impressions remain longer on the mind of 
 man than of youth, and receive readier admit- 
 tance there ; for it is the natural feeling of youth 
 to shun aught that tends to dampen its gayety, 
 and it is thus always looking to the bright side 
 of the picture. 
 
 The cares of man are many. His business, 
 and the support and welfare of his family, occupy 
 most of his attention. Perhaps it will be said, 
 that in these consists his happiness ; that these 
 are they which give to him his enjoyment. I 
 answer : the experience of the' great majority 
 of mankind contradicts the assertion. I know 
 there is a pleasure, when one sits down for reflec- 
 tion, in knowing that he has been doing well, 
 and that, at times, in the bosom of his family, he 
 enjoys much pure happiness ; but, think you, 
 that his happiness at such times exceeds the hap- 
 10
 
 138 SELECTIONS. 
 
 piness of those by whom he is surrounded ? He 
 is happy, because they are happy, and care is 
 taken off their minds ; yet, amidst all his joy, 
 the thought will rise to his mind, that they must 
 soon experience the trials of the world ; that they 
 are fast attaining an age, when their lot shall be 
 among its troubled waters ; and a shade is cast 
 over his enjoyment, as he thinks of the many 
 disappointments they are destined to meet with 
 in their future progress ; and asks, shall these go 
 among the upright and pure in heart, or shall 
 their lot be among the degraded and miserable ? 
 Questions like these, which must each returning 
 day occur to the mind of the parent, are not such 
 as convey happiness to his soul ; for happiness, 
 in a great measure, depends on the fulfilment of 
 our good desires, or their certainty ; but here, all 
 is uncertainty ; all is doubt. Does the child have 
 within it such a source of thoughts, that convey 
 so little happiness to the soul ? No, far from it ; 
 heedless of the future, or heeding it only to re- 
 gard its bright' visions, (for experience has not 
 yet taught it that, like the will-o^-ihe-ioisp, these 
 visions recede on approaching them,) it laughs 
 still, though the heart of the parent be heavy, 
 yet, concealing its grief with a smile, to cheer 
 the child in its sports. Thus is it with the pa- 
 rent ; thus with the child ; the happiness of the
 
 SELECTIONS. 139 
 
 one is secured, while the other is indulging in 
 doubts and fears. But his business, independent 
 of his family, also has its cares and troubles, giv- 
 ing him even much less happiness than they ; 
 and let me add, this, his business, occupies the 
 greater portion of his time. I am not one of 
 those who believe that perfect happiness is to be 
 the lot of any man in this world ; but believe, 
 with Dr. Dewey, that man is formed rather to 
 perform a duty^ than enjoy perfect happiness — 
 which, though most persons seek it, yet who 
 finds? — that duty to be performed, whether it 
 imparts happiness in the performance or not ; 
 and it oft-times happens, that it does not. 
 
 From the cares of life, from the performance 
 of these duties, the child is, in a great measure, 
 exempt. — Why ? It has not reached an age 
 when they may be said to belong to it, and con- 
 sequently does not meet them ; and the parents 
 take its cares to themselves. To the man of an 
 enlarged mind, I will acknowledge, there is nuich 
 of pleasure to be derived from reflection, and the 
 contemplation of works of mighty genius ; but 
 there are sad reflections to be derived from the 
 historic page, or the books of the philosopher, as 
 well as pleasing thoughts. To the lover of free- 
 dom, to the ardent patriot, what source of greater 
 unhappincss than that page which records some
 
 140 SELECTIONS. 
 
 act destructive of his liberty, or the liberties of 
 those bound to him by the strongest ties of sym- 
 pathy ? To the philanthropist, what source of 
 greater unhappiness than that page which records 
 the destruction of thousands by the iron arm of 
 war, — the cruelty of some tyranny or despotism 
 — showing at once how man can be influenced 
 by the wild fury of his passions, to deeds of the 
 darkest dye ? These are sources of reflection far 
 from being happy ones ; for though the man of 
 these States may, as he reads of these, thank 
 " high heaven " that our government is not like 
 those ; still, though that may be a pleasing re- 
 flection for a moment, he will be led to review 
 her institutions, and the state of society on which 
 they depend, and there find many things over 
 which to lament ; he will then find that the pas- 
 sions which influenced men in former days, con- 
 tinue to influence them now, however much 
 the show of them may be modified by time or 
 fashion.
 
 SELECTIONS. 141 
 
 THE STREAM OF TENDENCIES. 
 
 Whither is the stream of tendencies ? To 
 what are we hastening ? As I review the course 
 of history, it seems to me the world is hastening 
 to some great event ; or rather, great events are 
 taking place, or rapidly hastening to their con- 
 summation. The light of a new era seems burst- 
 ing upon us, which is fast increasing to meridian 
 splendor. 
 
 He who reflects upon the pages of history, 
 will perceive that the world has ever been pro- 
 gressing ; though perhaps that progress may not 
 always have been as rapid as in the present age, 
 in that which, both politically and morally, tends 
 to give man his correct station : to make him know 
 and appreciate his high destiny, and inspire him 
 with a noble benevolence and disinterestedness. 
 Selfishness has long been the ruling spirit in the 
 affairs of men ; but each generation, as it passes 
 away, does and will perceive that it has less and 
 less influence ; and men Avill more and more, 
 each successive age, pay regard to that command 
 which contains within it the eerms of all civil iza- 
 lion, and is man's surest guide of conduct, " thou
 
 142 SELECTIONS. 
 
 shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." It is the 
 lack of the principle of universal benevolence 
 inculcated in this command, which has been the 
 cause of almost all the horrors recorded in the 
 pages of history. From the earliest periods, we 
 have seen the selfishness of governments, some- 
 times shown in the despotism of a single person, 
 sometimes in that of the many. Before the Chris- 
 tian era, the religion of the people, their habits 
 and dispositions, and their idolatry, directly en- 
 couraged it ; since that period, it has, to the pres- 
 ent time, been giving way, slowly indeed, to 
 nobler convictions — though at times it would 
 seem that better sentiments had no room in the 
 human heart ; yet each revolution, each dark age, 
 has more clearly developed their necessity. For- 
 merly, nations, as individuals — they appear to 
 have been but as individuals, since the will of 
 one person declared their action — were guided 
 only by the impulse of the moment, as they were 
 governed by feelings of revenge, ambition, ava- 
 rice, or fear. Did a nation deem itself insulted, 
 or did another seem to interpose between it and 
 its base desires, war or other injury was at once 
 determined upon by its rulers, without consulting 
 the interests of its neighbors, any further than 
 they might be made subservient to their own 
 purposes ; they scarce consulted their own sub-
 
 SELECTIONS. 143 
 
 jects further than to inquire if they were able 
 to carry out their views. Gradually this has 
 been, and is changing. The truth is becoming 
 more and more apparent, that men are " created 
 ecpial, and endowed by their Creator with certain 
 unalienable rights." Men feel more and more 
 forcibly that they have a common interest. No 
 great event takes place, but truth is developed, 
 brighter and brighter. The world is not now, as 
 centuries since, enveloped in darkness. People 
 are not now slaves to ignorance ; but they have 
 progressed in knowledge, and they demand that 
 principles of government should be made to con- 
 form to that progress. Enlightened governments 
 are no more to consult merely their own inte- 
 rest, but to learn that the interest of the people 
 is to be their guide of conduct ; that man has no 
 natural authority over his fellow man ; and that 
 their only proper power is such as is granted them 
 by the governed, to be exercised for their sole 
 benefit. As we look upon the various govern- 
 ments of the age, do we not see that they are ap- 
 proaching nearer and nearer this important state ? 
 Have not France and England particularly shown 
 it in their legislation during the past century ? 
 Have not the other governments of Europe been 
 drawing nearer the same liberal principle ? Or 
 if they have not, has not their legislation shown
 
 144 SELECTIONS. 
 
 that their people are comuig to the resokition 
 that such shall be the case ? If France have for- 
 tified Paris, it will prove but a weak struggle to 
 resist that which will, sooner or later, weaken its 
 improper power, and disrobe it of those habili- 
 ments which might better become a darker age ? 
 No ! the armaments of war have no longer their 
 former power ; public opinion has become a far 
 more potent instrument. 
 
 It is believed by men who have considered the 
 subject, (indeed, every newspaper bears on its 
 face the evidence,) that the present aristocratic 
 governments of Europe must, in a great degree, 
 if not entirely, before many centuries pass away, 
 yield to the wishes of their subjects, and give 
 place to forms, acknowledging the will of the ma- 
 jority, instead of holding all power in the hands 
 of the few. The rulers of other countries and 
 their subjects have long been directing their gaze 
 towards the government of the United States ; 
 they have watched with eagerness the workings 
 of that constitution formed upon the democratic 
 principle of "equal rights and equal justice." 
 More than threescore years have passed away 
 since our government was formed ; and, under 
 its operations, the people have from time to time 
 effected, in peace, such changes, such revolutions, 
 as, with other nations, would have called forth
 
 SELECTIONS. 145 
 
 faction after faction, and host on host, in deadly 
 strife for the supremacy. Why this difference ? 
 The one system of government places no reliance, 
 no confidence, in the great mass ; and, with the 
 other, it is only the confidence placed in the ma- 
 joriti/ that sustains it. Do the majority here wish 
 a change in their laws or the administration of 
 them, the peaceable deposite of the ballot effects 
 that change, which, under an aristocratic system, 
 could only be produced by appeal to arms. Sub- 
 jects of other governments have watched these 
 things with jealousy ; they, not unnaturally, deem 
 that they also are capable of governing them- 
 selves. But a few years may pass by, ere that 
 confidence will be obtained, either by force or 
 voluntary concession, and that aristocratic spirit 
 give place to a more democratic benevolence ; 
 for changes must take place in the political world, 
 corresponding to the progress of the mass in 
 knowledge, and their appreciation of their rights. 
 We may not, indeed, suppose these things will 
 always be effected in blood, for I believe we have 
 approached an age, the general spirit of which is 
 opposed to these strifes in such entire opposition 
 to all benevolent feelings ; yet, if war be neces- 
 sary to their accomplishment, war will come ; 
 — but truth will prevail ; its march is onward. 
 In the general progress of nations towards the
 
 146 SELECTIONS. 
 
 knowledge and dissemination of truth and liberal 
 principles, the United States have, since they 
 were formed into a government, been first and 
 foremost. Shall they, henceforth, retain that 
 advanced position ?
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 147 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 Tell me not that the grand object of man's 
 pursuit ill this world is happiness ! True, it 
 makes an excellent theory, but every day's expe- 
 rience proves its hollowness. Look abroad upon 
 the world ; cast your eyes upon the multitudes 
 that throng our busy streets ; each person, with 
 a jealous disposition, regarding only himself, and 
 jostling all others that in any manner impede his 
 way, and tell me, if you can, that happiness is 
 the grand search of mankind. The very nature 
 of happiness is inconsistent with the pursuits of 
 most men. Can his object be happiness who 
 toils incessantly, month after month, ransacking in 
 the most painful manner book after book, to 
 procure that wherewith to satisfy his ambitious 
 aspirations for fame .-' Can the merchant seek 
 happiness in his life of excitement, laboring all 
 the day long for years, alternately perplexed with 
 fears and hopes, lest his schemes should fail, 
 and whom the midnight lamp still finds poring 
 over his ledgers and day-books with compressed 
 lips and pale looks ? Can happiness be the ob- 
 ject of his pursuit, who regards not the charms
 
 148 SELECTIONS. 
 
 of life, heeds not the voice of friends, but, 
 clad in filth and wretchedness, wanders through 
 the streets, picking np whatever can be sold for 
 a penny, and hoards the produce of this miserable 
 toil in secret, that in secret the miser may gloat 
 over his ill-gotten wealth ? How little like hap- 
 piness do we see in these ! And is it not the 
 same with all other classes, excepting, perhaps, a 
 few solitary instances ? 
 
 Now, in what does happiness consist ; or what 
 is it that confers happiness, that almost all miss 
 it ? A benevolent, contented disposition. But 
 with whom do these rest ? Who, as he looks 
 around the world, views the habits of his friends 
 or looks into his own heart, can answer ? Who 
 strive to be contented, or benevolent truly ? The 
 politician cannot be contented until he has risen 
 from the lowest station to the highest office, 
 and then he is discontented because he can go 
 no farther. The merchant is discontented be- 
 cause he has not money, and cannot make it so 
 fast as he could wish. So with the miser ; and 
 so with almost all else, whatever the trade or 
 profession. Those in power are unhappy be- 
 cause their power is limited ; and those who 
 have none, complain for that reason. But dis- 
 content is not the only passion that renders men 
 unhappy, for invariably it also brings with it
 
 SELECTIONS. 149 
 
 envy, and thus each one looks with a jealous eye 
 on his neighbor, deeming him more happy than 
 himself; while, in fact, that neighbor regards 
 him with like feelings. Were happiness truly 
 man's pursuit, each one would strive to be con- 
 tent witii what he has, whether of money or 
 power. There are some, no doubt, who approach 
 nearer to the enjoyment of happiness than others, 
 and they are those, in my humble opinion, who 
 have the most vanity in their composition. 
 
 I know that, in so writing, I am not writing 
 exactly as very many good persons think ; still 
 I cannot help coinciding with the doctor in 
 Ward's Fielding, " that vanity, as it reigns in the 
 heart and controls the actions, is one of the 
 greatest of all contributors to the happiness of 
 men in general ;" prevailing, of course, to a 
 greater extent in some persons than in others. 
 We can scarcely analyze an action or a saying, 
 but we find vanity at the bottom to suggest it. 
 Where nought would seem able to give pleasure 
 to one, vanity will fill him with perfect, complete 
 happiness. In the all-absorbing contemplation 
 of himself, thoughts of the rest of the world are 
 shut out, and thus one of the greatest sources of 
 misery cut off: for if a vain person be not admir- 
 ed, he does not perceive it ; or, if he do, admires 
 himself so much the more, that it makes up for
 
 150 SELECTIONS. 
 
 all otherwise lost. It rarely happens that a vain 
 person is not in good humor with all the world, 
 and all the world likewise in good humor with 
 him. He is well pleased with the world, because, 
 though it should be so, he rarely perceives that 
 it is not in good humor with him ; and the 
 world is in good humor with his vanity, because 
 it makes amusement for it. 
 
 How shall we describe the pleasures of the 
 vain person ? He is independent, and little ha- 
 rassed by cares of other men of the world, whe- 
 ther for wealth or knowledge. Novels constitute 
 his literature, because they require no exertion to 
 peruse, and they are never apt to trouble one with 
 thought. With others, the more they learn, the 
 more they wish to learn ; the more they study, 
 the more discontented they become. Not so with 
 him. His book is left at any time without the 
 least inconvenience. How contented is he with 
 his figure too ! See him as he approaches. 
 What a bright smile sits on his face, — his 
 mouth expanded just sufficient to form a most 
 bewitching dimple in the cheek, or expose, when 
 he laughs, in the most captivating manner, just 
 enough of the pearly teeth to show their beauty ! 
 When he looks in a mirror, how satisfied is he to 
 think he is truly the " glass of fashion and the 
 mould of form !" There is not a particle of dress
 
 SELECTIONS. 151 
 
 about him that he does not admire. He feels far 
 happier when he has tied his rich cravat as it 
 should be tied, or when he has adjusted his locks in 
 the most becoming style, than the man of learning 
 does when he has solved some difFicult problem, 
 or answered some abstruse question in science. 
 
 Where can be found so agreeable a personage 
 as the vain one? Whose brow so lighted up 
 with smiles? Who so ready to join in the merry 
 laugh? Ah ! when I have entered a room filled 
 with ladies and gentlemen, where bashfulness or 
 fear has confined me to my seat and tied my 
 tongue ; yet, when I wanted to make myself 
 and others happy, how have I envied the vain 
 one of the party, who going from place, kept all 
 in a roar of laughter at his exquisite follies ! How 
 have I envied his confidence in himself! How 
 have I wished that I could make myself so 
 agreeable to all, that I might enjoy myself as 
 well ! Your vain person always has some little 
 egotistical joke on hand with which to amuse 
 you, or at least himself. See with what glisten- 
 ing eyes he gazes on that rose stuck in his but- 
 ton-hole. How they sparkle as he goes about 
 relating the charms of the young lady who pre- 
 sented it to him ! Was ever mortal happier than 
 he ? He is never at a loss for words or anec- 
 dotes ; for if all things else fail, he will regale
 
 152 SELECTIONS. 
 
 you by the half hour with eulogiums on the ex- 
 cellent fit of his coat, or pants, or some new knot 
 with which he has tied his cravat — showing 
 you excellencies that you never before dreamed 
 of. He has a thousand little nameless graces, 
 or artless tricks, to play off, which all serve to 
 amuse you and gratify him. What would you 
 not give to be as pleased with yourself? 
 
 I might continue to enumerate these sources 
 of his happiness, almost ad infinitu7n ; but ob- 
 serve, — watch all his manoeuvreB, all his mo- 
 tions, from his most magnificent strut through 
 the fashionable streets, to the most careless 
 glance he, from time to time, throws over his 
 well-setting clothes, and tell me if of all created 
 beings, there be one who enjoys more happiness 
 than the vain man. 
 
 Let it not be thought, though, that the vain 
 person is entirely free from care and unhappiness ; 
 for it will sometimes happen that the bright pol- 
 ish of his boot will be sullied, and the corn on 
 his toe a little hurt, by the unlucky tread of some 
 unlucky wight, who minds not how he walks. 
 He may sometimes run against some more un- 
 happy laborer, and thus have the lustre of his 
 coat dimmed by dust. These, I say, will some- 
 times provoke him a little, and disturb his equan-
 
 SELECTIONS. 153 
 
 imity for a time, but still his vanity soon enables 
 him to recover himself again. 
 
 O, happy vain one — comparatively free from 
 the sorrows of those who are only engaged in 
 the pursuit of wealth or fame ! 
 
 11
 
 154 SELECTIONS. 
 
 NOVEL READING. 
 
 Probably, far the greater portion of books read 
 at the present day consists of novels. Such be- 
 ing the case, who can tell the immense influence 
 these works have in forming the mind and char- 
 acter of a people ! No book is ever read and 
 understood by a person, without some impression 
 having been left upon his mind by it, after the 
 perusal ; and as the conduct of a person has its 
 source in the impressions existing on the mind, 
 so is it influenced by the works that give those 
 impressions. It is often wondered, why novels 
 and most works of fiction are so much read, espe- 
 cially by the young, whose attention should be 
 turned to works of a more substantial nature. 
 The secret, I believe, lies in the natural feelings 
 of sympathy implanted deep in every heart. 
 Sympathy is the prevailing emotion of our nature, 
 and in it nearly all the other emotions take their 
 rise. We cannot behold our fellow beings in dis- 
 tress, and withhold all sympathy from them, with- 
 out libelling our nature, and rendering us un- 
 worthy the great impress of a noble humanity ; 
 for, by so doing, we should abuse the most heav-
 
 SELECTIONS. 155 
 
 enly attribute of our being. We cannot behold 
 the successful struggles of our fellow men in 
 paths of honor, or their virtuous triumph over 
 evil, without a glow of satisfaction springing up 
 within us ; and it is this sympathy extending to 
 all, that the novelist works upon. His characters 
 are such as enter deeply into this feeling or emo- 
 tion. There is no passion deeper rooted in our 
 nature, or with which our sympathies are stronger, 
 than that of love; and it is this that forms the 
 main feature of nearly all our novels. We feel 
 an interest in the lovers, the hero and heroine, that 
 does not extend to any of the other characters ; 
 that is, if the love be depicted, as it should be, a 
 pure and heavenly passion, having its foundation 
 in sympathetic virtues ; if it be not thus depicted, 
 we become disgusted with the characters, and 
 our regard is turned to those who represent virtue 
 as the source of their actions ; and of such there 
 must be some to render any book palatable to a 
 mind at all refined. And this, let it be remarked 
 in passing, is a strong proof, that there is in man 
 an inherent love of whatever is good, since the 
 mind, not vitiated by bad habits, revolts at the 
 contemplation of characters entirely bad. But, 
 our sympathies are not only given to the lovers 
 of a novel, they also extend to other persons, as 
 their portraits touch " some chord in unison" with
 
 156 SELECTIONS. 
 
 what we read in our hearts; we laugh with those 
 who are gay, and weep with those who are sor- 
 rowful ; while our indignation is stirred against 
 those who are vicious and have bad designs. 
 
 This is illustrated in Dickens's beautiful story 
 of the " Curiosity Shop." How strongly are our 
 sympathies drawn towards little "Nell" and 
 " Kit ! " How has the writer made us enter into 
 all her joys and sorrows ! We weep when she 
 weeps, or at the many trials of her gentle virtues, 
 and we rejoice when she triumphs over danger, 
 as though she were som'e dear personal friend ; 
 and as we would with such an one, I had almost 
 said, do we finally take leave of her at the grave. 
 The " old man," too, and the " schoolmaster," 
 how do we pity the one, and enter into the vari- 
 ous feelings of the other ! We enjoy the eccen- 
 tricities of the " glorious Apollos," equally as 
 much as they enjoy themselves ; and we feel the 
 greatest detestation for the "dwarf," and the 
 " Brass" family, being gratified when they meet 
 their just deserts, and " Mrs. Q,uilp " is free from 
 her terrible bondage. The impressions obtained 
 from the perusal o.f the " Curiosity Shop" are 
 most beneficial. We derive from it better views 
 of humanity, and our love for whatever is good 
 and pure is confirmed, while we see pictured in 
 a strong light the evils of bad habits, and of bad,
 
 SELECTIONS. 157 
 
 unnatural vices. Throughout the whole work 
 we converse, as it were, with the author ; we see 
 the impress of his mind on every page ; we feel 
 that there is in every line an appeal to the softer 
 graces of our nature, to our love of virtue, to all 
 our better feelings. There is no endeavor to 
 create a luugli at an expense of the degradation 
 of the mind ; no endeavor to make vice appear 
 alluring. The author, himself, appears to stand 
 before us, and point out the paths* of pleasantness 
 and peace, persuading us by gentle reasoning, and 
 beautiful examples, that enlist our M^armest sym- 
 pathies, to walk therein. The whole object of 
 the work seems to be to make its readers better, 
 to give them better views of humanity. 
 
 But, how far from having this object, are most 
 of those novels that constitute so large a portion 
 of our literature ; and, on this score, forming as 
 they do, in so great a degree, the character of a 
 people, what have not novelists to answer for ! 
 The object of most writers of fiction is, to fill 
 their pockets, and obtain a little notoriety or 
 doubtful fame, by giving amusement ; hesitating 
 or caring little as to the kind of amusement, if it 
 so be that their object is accomplished. Thus, 
 books are given to the reading world, the char- 
 acters in which are endowed with a cunning, a 
 low wit, or a lax morality, deleterious to the
 
 158 SELECTIONS. 
 
 reader in a high degree ; destroying nearly all 
 the finer perceptions of the mind, the delicate 
 sensibility of purity and modesty, the apprecia- 
 tion of the beautiful, not only in the moral, but 
 also in the natural world, and enveloping the 
 mind in gross sensuality. 
 
 Among this class of writers, who pander to 
 vitiated tastes, I place Captain Marryatt, whose 
 works have greater influence as they are more 
 popular than those of his imitators. Possessing 
 a knowledge of what is pleasing to a depraved 
 relish, and captivating to a weak mind, he has 
 set before such, characters that enlist their sym- 
 pathies. In novels we are, as it were, the com- 
 panions of the characters, their intimate friends, 
 their personal attendants ; ever near them and 
 ever feeling the influence of their example. We 
 follow them through a long series of events and 
 years, share all their dangers and their triumphs, 
 and continually listen to their persuasions to 
 either what is good or wrong. They stand to us 
 in the light of actual companions, and our sym- 
 pathies are with them as such. If continual con- 
 tact with the vicious, in the ordinary walks 
 of life, will destroy the natural refinement jf 
 our nature, why may not the same consequences 
 follow their influence in the closet, where the 
 mind is wholly given up to them, with no exter-
 
 SELECTIONS. 159 
 
 nal objects to attract the attention ? The same 
 consequences to the mind do follow, though per- 
 haps not with the same outvv<ird appearance. 
 The parent may congratulate himself that his 
 son is surrounded by none but those whose influ- 
 ence is good, and who will encourage him in vir- 
 tuous paths ; but if he, at the same time, allow 
 him to store his mind with vicious novels, that 
 influence is almost wholly lost, and he has little 
 reason for congratulation. The brother may joy 
 that a younger brother's or a sister's companions 
 are refined in manners and gentle in character : 
 but to what purpose, if from the library he carry 
 to that sister or that brother, bad novels, whose 
 influence is greater than that of their companions, 
 as their companionship is longer and more fre- 
 quent ? Who would wish, through long years, 
 to have an actual Peter Simple or a Midshipman 
 Easy for his associate ? What really virtuous 
 mind v/ould endure their company ? Their fel- 
 lowship would be a very great evil ; they would 
 lead one far, very far, from the truly honest walks 
 of life. If, then, their company out of the closet 
 would be so injurious, how can they otherwise 
 than have a dangerous influence in it ? One can- 
 not, then, be too careful in the selection of the 
 novels he allows himself to read ; every page 
 read, leaves its impression on the mind, and no
 
 160 SELECTIONS. 
 
 such impression is ever forgotten. These, and 
 other considerations, and there are many others, 
 should lead ongi to indulge but little in this kind 
 of reading. The time now devoted to them by 
 the young, and those especially just entering the 
 period of manhood, such as generally compose 
 our literary societies, should rather be given to 
 the pursuit of useful knowledge — of wisdom. 
 
 The years of life have been compared to the 
 pages of the Sybil, and wisdom to their contents. 
 The price of knowledge, of wisdom, is patient 
 and persevering study. If we refuse to give the 
 price at first, and the Sybil again presents herself 
 before us, we find she comes with fewer pages, 
 but still the same price ; if we refuse still, when 
 she again comes, it is yet with fewer pages, but 
 nevertheless their contents can only be obtained 
 at the same cost ; if we this time accept the con- 
 ditions, how much do we find we have lost from 
 not complying with them at first, when the leaves, 
 or years of life, were many !
 
 SELECTIONS. 161 
 
 INFLUENCE OF CHARACTER. 
 
 How often in moments of despondency, has 
 the thought been sighed — who am I, that I 
 sliould Hve ? — why was I formed ? I have no 
 inlluence over the world's affairs — why was I 
 created ? I do not mean to say that one per- 
 son has as great an influence as another in this 
 world, for persons in different situations, or pur- 
 suing different objects, will exercise a different 
 amount of influence ; but that no one is without 
 his influence — that there are none who have no 
 control over this world's history, its secret, if not, 
 indeed, its written history. No one lives but to 
 some purpose, and to accomplish this purpose he 
 must have some influence. 
 
 The mind is ever alive to impressions, to the 
 action of mind ; and while we are animated with 
 passions, with the power of feeling and acting, 
 so long must we not only be alive to the influ- 
 ence of others, and surronnding objects and cir- 
 cumstances, but so long must we continue to 
 influence. AVhile love can breathe around its 
 endearing charms, lighting the eye with its smile 
 of pleasure, kindling our hearts with warm aflec-
 
 162 SELECTIONS. 
 
 tions, and implanting within us the desire, as we 
 have the power to please, while fierce, unholy 
 passions can dwell within our breast, inspiring 
 us with hate and fury, throwing around all their 
 own poisons, so long have we the power of influ- 
 encing. As long as we have the power of reason- 
 ing, and of persuading a single person to follow 
 our designs, or desist from pursuing some object 
 of his own, so long we exert an influence, nay, a 
 great, important influence in this world. Men 
 generally give to the world the color of their own 
 minds ; but that mind is often colored by the 
 lightest tints, the most trifling things ; and if by 
 means of a word acting upon it, which has cost 
 us neither trouble nor thought, we have per- 
 suaded its possessor from a course of action, or 
 led him to pursue one, we have exercised an 
 influence \vhich, though it may seem so slight 
 as to pass unnoted by us, even when sighing for 
 it, yet may control the destinies of a life ; and as 
 mind and soul are eternal, of an eternity. A few 
 words spoken by us, perhaps in jest, may contain 
 a principle which another may adopt as the ruling 
 motive of his life. Our careless remark of to-day, 
 may be another's watchword to-morrow. Have 
 we then no influence ? 
 
 We cannot mingle constantly in a certain soci- 
 ety without exercising some control over it, which
 
 SELECTIONS'. 163 
 
 may be seen, in some degree, in the respect given 
 to our ideas and suggestions, or in the passions 
 stirred against us. Our greatest influence is, per- 
 haps, over our intimate personal friends. One 
 cannot be intimate with another, without either 
 strengthening or changing in some degree his 
 habits of thinking and acting ; for the defer- 
 ence paid to opinions and persuasions is, in many 
 cases, a test of friendship. One is continually 
 suggesting to a friend new ideas, and guiding his 
 thoughts in a new direction ; and as, often, 
 impressions \vhich are once made on the mind 
 are never afterwards obliterated therefrom, so 
 there they ever remain, to influence it and the 
 conduct. The character of a person can often be 
 told (as a certain proverb indicates) by that of 
 his companions ; for he will either lead them, or 
 they will carry him with them. Who does 
 not feel the influence of his intimate friend ? 
 How often do we yield to the persuasions of that 
 friend ! How does the eye receive an additional 
 gleam, emit a brighter glance, the heart beat with 
 a quicker pulse, and a smile illumine the counte- 
 nance, as he is seen approaching, telling in the 
 strongest language his power and influence over 
 us ! We are ready to yield to him in almost all 
 things ; we scarce form an opinion, or determine 
 upon any act without consulting him. As his
 
 164 SELECTIONS. 
 
 influence over ns, so ours over him, or those to 
 whom we stand in a position similar with his to 
 us. Nor is this a transitory influence, passing 
 away with the view of the person, but it extends 
 through all after life ; and as the character formed 
 from these influences is good or bad, so will be 
 the result of its action on others. If we change 
 the course of a single life, or confirm one in fol- 
 lowing the path he has marked out for himself, 
 we have exercised an influence greater than can 
 be estimated ; we may have brought to light, or 
 crushed, a spirit whose name ages may, or might 
 have pronounced with gratitude and love, or the 
 bitter accents of hate and disgust. How then 
 can we have no influence ? 
 
 Shakspeare, lolling in some cool grot on the 
 banks of Avon, idling away in silent revery the 
 sunny hours, may have sighed, "I have no influ- 
 ence," and wondered while he just breathed the 
 sigh, for what he was created, or why he lingered 
 on earth uselessly. But how many minds have, 
 notwithstanding, been moulded by him, who 
 was, perchance, first led to write by some inti- 
 mate friend, or the chance remark of some random 
 acquaintance, whose name no page of history 
 records, though so great a benefactor of the 
 human race. Such may have been the sad, silent 
 thought of some young man, as he contemplated
 
 SELECTIONS. 165 
 
 his Ihen position, who in after years became one 
 of that band of pilgrims whose remembrance the 
 generations of men, through all time, shall cherish 
 with respect and veneration. Such may have 
 been tlie murmur of Franklin, as, dissatisfied with 
 himself, he bent over his brother's form ; but of 
 whom Lord Brougham said, at a later period, 
 "one of the most remarkable men, certainly, of 
 our times, as a politician, or of any age, as a 
 philosopher, was Franklin ; who also stands alone 
 in combining together these two characters, the 
 greatest that man can sustain ; and in this, that 
 having borne the first part in enlarging science 
 by one of the greatest discoveries ever made, he 
 bore the second part in founding one of the great- 
 est empires." 
 
 Though I do not anticipate that any of us will 
 ever be Shakspeares. Pilgrims, or Franklins, yet 
 the lesson may teach us never to despond, and 
 certainly never to be careless concerning the kind 
 of influence we throw around us ; for our influ- 
 ence for good or evil, may exceed our expecta- 
 tions as much as theirs exceeded their expecta- 
 tions. We may have no visible ascendency over 
 the mass, or the multitudes continually passing 
 by us ; but we know that we have, in some 
 degree, a controlling or guiding power over the 
 personal friends and acquaintances who surround
 
 166 SELECTIONS. 
 
 US ; and to exert that power aright, may well 
 call into action our highest, noblest energies. To 
 have led one mind to pursue a good path, to have 
 roused one mind to ennobling thought and honor- 
 able action, that would otherwise have followed 
 a sluggishly inactive course in regard to moral, 
 mental or physical abilities, is cause for lasting 
 joy. To have caused, either through design or 
 carelessness, one person to follow a wrong course ; 
 to have prevented one, either by the silent, though 
 not unfelt influence of our actions, or by persua- 
 sion, from employing profitably those faculties 
 wherewith the Creator has endowed him, is cause 
 for lasting sorrow.
 
 SELECTIONS. 167 
 
 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 
 
 Another year has gone by, and been added 
 to the chronicles of time. Who can contemplate 
 the events of the past twelve months without 
 benefit — without feeling that his time, in very 
 many instances, might have been spent to much 
 greater profit to himself and the world ? As we 
 look back to its commencement, so short seems 
 the time that has elapsed, that all its events ap- 
 pear but as a vision. The seasons themselves 
 have glided away almost imperceptibly. Spring, 
 with its first opening buds and the lively carol of 
 birds, — the beautiful new green verdure, that 
 was wont to greet our eyes as we wandered forth 
 to inhale the sweetness of the fresh air, — is 
 gone ; and yet it seems but as a moment since it 
 was here in all its beauty. Summer too, with 
 all its loveliness, has departed. No more the 
 sweet scent of its bright flowers, the gorgeous 
 scenery of its landscapes, glowing in the light 
 of a brilliant sun, the refreshing coolness of its 
 "breezy eves," with their softened lights and 
 shades, and the merry parties of pleasure gayly 
 gliding upon some gently flowing stream, to the
 
 168 SELECTIONS. 
 
 sound of sweet music, charm our senses ; but all 
 are gone, — " the last rose of summer " has faded. 
 Yet we know not but ample compensation for 
 these lost treasures was found in the delights of 
 autumn, when the earth yielded up its fruits to 
 increase the store of the happy, provident hus- 
 bandman, for many scenes of joy and pleasure 
 did it bring to pass ; and the gayeties of harvest 
 time may well compare with those of any other 
 season. It has also its natural beauties. What 
 more beautiful than the countless dyes of autumn 
 foliage ? If nature throws off her bright green, 
 it is that she may assume a richer, and a mellow- 
 er color. Then, too, the Indiaan summer, — what 
 can exceed its delights ? What more beautiful 
 than its clear blue sky, or the gorgeousness of its 
 sunset — splendid accompaniments of the splendid 
 drapery of earth ? The close of the year leads 
 the contemplative mind into those musings which 
 visit it at no other period ; melancholy, perhaps, 
 yet pleasing, and inspiring the mind with those 
 sentiments that had scarcely been entertained by 
 it during the preceding year. Musings of the 
 past ! — what a boundless field is the past for 
 reflection ! The more the mind dwells upon it, 
 the farther is it led. From the contemplation of 
 events relating to ourselves, we are led from the 
 past year to preceding years, and other persons.
 
 SELECTIONS. 169 
 
 Then it is we look upon the scenes of onr 
 younger days. The laugh and merry cry of 
 those with whom we sat side by side at school, 
 and with whom we oft chased the gay butterfly 
 from flower to flower, roamed to pluck the first 
 tender blossoms of sweet May, or the first fruits 
 of summer, again dwell on our ears ; but, alas ! 
 the heart echoes not to it, for the graver scenes 
 of intervening years make us sad. We turn 
 to trace the paths of those with whom we thus 
 sported. Where are those once dear friends 
 now ? is the involuntary question. Who can 
 tell ? How few of those once familiar faces do 
 we now see ! New forms greet our eyes, and 
 take the hand with apparent friendship, but few 
 with whom we can sympathize, as we did with 
 those friends of our earliest days. How difl!er- 
 ently do the diff'erent periods of life, youth, 
 manhood, and old age, view the close of the 
 year ! To the youth just beginning to pour 
 forth the treasures of his mind, another year past 
 and gone seems but another barrier overcome 
 that separated him from the glorious struggles of 
 manhood, but which still reminds him that there 
 are others yet remaining, and warns him to pre- 
 pare to meet them ; bright visions float across 
 his mind, which, when manhood approaches, 
 are found to be but delusive phantoms. 
 12
 
 170 SELECTIONS. 
 
 It is then in manhood, we begin to reflect 
 over the follies of the past, perceive the errors, 
 passion or "mad ambition" led us into, and strive 
 to correct them, and lay out better plans for the 
 future. 
 
 But to the old, the aged, the close of the year 
 sends thoughts of the period, when their breath 
 shall pass away like the sighing winds, true em- 
 blem of departing- life. The "sere and yellow 
 leaf" of autumn reminds them, that their "me- 
 lancholy days are come," and winter's fleecy 
 mantle reminds them of the hoary whiteness of 
 their own heads. Memory dwells on the recol- 
 lections of the past, and plans for the future are 
 no more laid out, to be pursued with the eager- 
 ness of youth, or the determination of manhood ; 
 but thoughts retire within themselves, to medi- 
 tations of the end of life.
 
 SELECTIONS. 171 
 
 ISABELLA THE FAIR. 
 
 It was a sweet and beautiful morn ; nature 
 was dressed in her holyday attire, and decked 
 with opening flowers of all hues. The sun had 
 never apparently shone so mild and bright ; the 
 sky never so blue before ; the birds were pouring 
 forth their continual strain of praise and rejoicing ; 
 all things seemed to have caught a spirit of joy 
 and hilarity, and it would seem as if nought but 
 joy and gratitude to the munificent bestower of 
 the bounties, could reign in the heart of man. 
 Yet far different were the feelings predominant in 
 the minds of at least two persons on that beau- 
 tiful morn. 
 
 The first of May was the day on which the 
 most splendid tournament that had been witnessed 
 for a long period, was to take place under the 
 eye of King John. The two persons before men- 
 tioned, were Reginald de Montmorency and 
 Philip de Barbarossa, who were this day to do 
 battle against each other for the hand of Isabella 
 of Anjou, otherwise Isabella the Fair. And well 
 did she merit the appellation of " the fair ;" for 
 of the many beauties that fluttered about the
 
 172 SELECTIONS. 
 
 f 
 
 court of John, none could compare with Isabella. 
 At an early age, she had been left an orphan ; 
 and when her father died, he left it as his will, 
 that when his daughter became of proper age, 
 her hand should be given to him who would 
 wield the best lance in her behalf. In the mean 
 time, she had grown up under the eye of an 
 aunt, at a distance from the court, and had there 
 been taught all the graces and acquirements 
 peculiar to her sex and the age. She was by 
 nature of a retired disposition, and mild and gen- 
 tle in her manners ; yet she held in esteem the 
 martial exploits of the age, and it would have 
 been very unnatural indeed, if she did not ; but 
 she also disliked this manner of disposing of her 
 hand and heart ; and of those who would pro- 
 bably appear at the tournament to contest for her 
 person, she feared none so much, or dreaded 
 their victory, as Montmorency and Barbarossa. 
 " Should either be victorious," sighed she, " I 
 will appeal to them as knights of honor, that I 
 may be released from the fate that awaits me ; 
 surely, if they be men and gentlemen, they will 
 hear me." But little did she know of either, if 
 she thought such prayers would have effect on 
 their hearts, hard as the mail that covered them. 
 Montmorency and Barbarossa were reputed 
 Europe's bravest knights, and as wielding her
 
 SELECTIONS. 173 
 
 best lances. They had always been rivals since 
 either had gained for himself a reputation with 
 his lance ; each wished to conquer the other, as 
 neither could brook a rival in arms, and their 
 hatred of each other was intense. They had met 
 before at a tournament, but had come away even, 
 neither having his high reputation diminished in 
 the least. As they were brave, so were they also 
 proud and haughty ; and holding in contempt 
 those of less renown than themselves, thought 
 only of meeting each other, anticipating the con- 
 quest of the rest, as a matter of course. It was 
 on the beautiful morn I have attempted before to 
 describe, this tournament was to take place, and 
 the space devoted to the spectators was filled 
 long before the hour of tilting arrived. It was 
 on the side of a large plain, at the foot of a row of 
 hills, on which those who could not procure seats 
 might stand and view the conflict. On a large 
 covered platform, surrounded by his courtiers, 
 stood King John, most gorgeously apparelled, 
 smiling graciously on his friends, or joining their 
 mirth at, perchance, some trick played on one 
 he liked not ; for John, though jealous of his 
 power, and resentful of any breach of etiquette 
 to him at most times, yet could not always con- 
 ceal his natural feelings and passions ; but his 
 laugh was not long, for he almost instantly
 
 174 SELECTIONS. 
 
 thought himself of his position, and resumed his 
 stateliness of manner. Near him were those who 
 well knew, by their flattery and obsequiousness, 
 how to gain a monarch's favor ; while at a dis- 
 tance stood those whose boast was, that by the 
 sword and lance alone would they win favors, — 
 all clad in bright dresses of shining steel and 
 cloth of bright hues. On the opposite side of 
 the lists was placed the fair Isabella, simply, yet 
 richly dressed. She was the " bright particular 
 star " that attracted all eyes, the consciousness of 
 which made her heart beat high, and gave her a 
 color that rivalled in beauty the rich tents of the 
 new rose. In her actions, nevertheless, she was 
 easy and dignified ; and when she moved, moved 
 with a grace that charmed the eyes of all that 
 saw her. It was but for a moment she gave way 
 to the excitement of the scene, for soon a pale- 
 ness came over her brow as she thought why she 
 was there, and into whose hands she was likely 
 soon to fall ; but recovering herself, she assumed 
 a calm resignation to her fate. On her either 
 hand were all the beauties of John's court, in the 
 most costly attires that money could command, 
 presenting altogether such a brilliant assemblage 
 of beauty and wealth as is rarely to be seen. ' On 
 each side of the royal pavilions were arranged 
 seats for the more common people, who, in their
 
 SELECTIONS. 175 
 
 different attires, presented a singular-looking 
 mass, and who were kept in order by numerous 
 guards, who scrupled not to prick with their 
 lances any who were riotously disposed. Alto- 
 gether a glorious spectacle was presented to the 
 eye of the beholder. Old and young mingled 
 together promiscuously. Here might be seen an 
 old knight, who had wielded lance in his youth 
 bravely and stoutly, his eye glistening with de- 
 light, as he beheld the warlike preparations, and 
 regretting that he could no longer take his wont- 
 ed place in the lists ; and by his side a fair boy, 
 wishing he were old enough to be there also. 
 There Avere also merry maids, laughing, smiling 
 and chatting with their swains, all free from care, 
 and wishing for the tilting to be commenced. 
 The signal was given for silence, and the knights 
 began to prepare for the lists. At the sound of 
 the trumpet, a herald stepped forward, and during 
 the silence that followed, proclaimed the rules of 
 the lists, which were not to be broken under the 
 penalty of the offender being depriv^ed of his 
 spurs, and incurring the severe displeasure of his 
 majesty. These having been declared, and the 
 accustomed largess bestowed on the herald and 
 other attendants, the herald again stepped for- 
 ward, and proclaimed that Don Philip de Bar- 
 barossa. Knight of the Cross and Member of the
 
 176 SELECTIONS. 
 
 Legion of Honor, bid defiance to all, and chal- 
 lenged any who might be so bold as to dispute 
 his superiority in arms, and consequent title to 
 the hand of the fair Isabella ; and at the same 
 time threw down his glove to any who dared 
 take it up. Instantly a number of knights start- 
 ed to accept the challenge, but first and foremost 
 was Montmorency, Knight Templar, in whose 
 behalf the gage was accepted, and whose eyes 
 glistened with fierce and indignant glances as 
 Barbarossa gave his insulting challenge. Each 
 knight then selected his lance, and with a single 
 leap threw himself on his steed, without aid of 
 stirrup, and rode round the lists to show his 
 skill in horsemanship to the spectators, who fre- 
 quently testified their admiration by loud bursts 
 of applause at some skilful manceuvre. Don 
 Barbarossa having ridden round the lists and 
 made his obeisance to the King, then went in 
 front of Lady Isabella, to receive her smile of 
 encouragement, which she, according to the cus- 
 tom of the times, was obliged to give ; — but it was 
 a cold smile, it came not from the heart. Mont- 
 morency having followed in the same manner, 
 each took his station at opposite ends of the space, 
 looking like statues of shining steel. They were 
 both tall and well made, and mounted on powerful 
 chargers. " En avance,'''' cried the marshal, and
 
 SELECTIONS. 177 
 
 ^tting spurs to their chargers, they dashed for- 
 ward at a furious rate, and met in the centre 
 with a force that made the hills ring again with 
 noise. Each had aimed at the breast-plate of the 
 other, and so faithfully were their lances directed, 
 that they liit where they aimed, and splintering, 
 made their horses recoil with the shook. With 
 suppressed exclamations of hate and defiance, 
 tliey returned to their positions at the head of 
 the lists. 
 
 New lances were supplied them, and again, at 
 the trumpet's sound, they rushed forward. This 
 time, Montmorency directed the point of his lance 
 to Barbarossa's helmet, who nevertheless did not 
 alter the direction of his own lance, which struck 
 the centre of Montmorency's shield, and again 
 splintered it, but without unhorsing him ; while 
 Montmorency, having hit his helmet fairly, Bar- 
 barossa could not withstand the almost super- 
 human force, and fell to the ground. • A shout 
 arose from the crowd at Montmorency's success, 
 as they ever liked to see a well-won fight. Mont- 
 morency having been declared victor, received 
 the approbation of his majesty, and in turn thre-w 
 down his gage, in a manner similar to the first, 
 to any who might dare accept it ; and an ironical 
 smile illuminated his features as he gave his 
 challenge. It was accepted by one of the afore-
 
 178 SELECTIONS. 
 
 mentioned knights, whose courage did not abate as 
 he saw the renowned Barbarossafall; he thought 
 only of the prize to be gained. But they were 
 unequal to the task : for, one after another, they 
 were unhorsed, and led away by their squires, 
 till but one remained yet to try his fortunes. 
 This was a young knight, whose appearance and 
 demeanor, as he sat upon his high-spirited charger, 
 attracted for him the good wishes and sympa- 
 thies of the spectators, who rejoiced not at the 
 success of the haughty and overbearing Montmo- 
 rency, though they applauded his skill ; and most 
 sincerely did Isabella smile upon him and wish 
 him success, as he gracefully lowered the point 
 of his lance and made obeisance. As he approach- 
 ed that part of the field where King John was 
 stationed, the king bade him reflect with whom 
 he was to engage, and withdraw while he could ; 
 but such was not the young knight's purpose ; 
 for, not vouchsafing any reply, he returned to the 
 head of the lists, and took his station. 
 
 Montmorency had noticed the confident man- 
 ner of the daring young stranger, who passed by 
 the name of the fugitive knight, — the device on 
 his shield being a knight on horseback, flying 
 from his paternal castle ; and, not being willing 
 to yield any advantages, he changed his tired 
 horse for a fresh one, and also his lance.
 
 SELECTIONS. 179 
 
 The signal was given by the herald, and they 
 rushed forward. Each, this time, had striven to 
 strike the other on the helmet, which they did, 
 but without unhorsing either, though the stranger 
 knight, while he splintered his lance, reeled in 
 his seat. 
 
 Montmorency noticed this, and doubted not, 
 but at the next onset, he should serve him as he 
 had served the rest ; and the other took good 
 heed to select a tough lance for the next charge ; 
 and Montmorency, also, was obliged to choose 
 another ; for, on shaking his to try its strength, 
 it snapped in his hand. 
 
 The interest of the spectators was now intense, 
 for they had not doubted but that the stranger 
 knight would have fallen as the others ; and all 
 felt interested in his high bearing and noble man- 
 ner — the maidens especially; but they were 
 obliged to keep silence. 
 
 Onward again they start, swifter than the flight 
 of the hawk when chasing its prey ; as the very 
 horses seemed to have partaken of the spirits and 
 energies of their riders. This time, the result of 
 the rencontre was different, as both fell to the 
 ground, while their horses were thrown back by 
 the shock. 
 
 " Aha ! " muttered Montmorency, " is this 
 upstart thus to serve the far-famed IMontmoren-
 
 180 SELECTIONS. 
 
 cy? S'death, no!" — as they both quickly 
 sprung to their feet, and seized their battle-axes. 
 
 " Look to thyself, young sir," exclaimed he, 
 as he seized it. 
 
 " E'en take care of thine own head," returned 
 the other, as he received the furious attack of 
 Montmorency with a coolness, and returned his 
 blows with a force, that warned him he had to 
 deal with no stranger to battle scenes. The 
 blows flew swift, and with strength ; twice did 
 Montmorency press the young stranger on his 
 knees, and twice did he regain his feet, still ward- 
 ing blows, and dealing others. At last Montmo- 
 rency's blows began to grow more and more 
 feeble, which the other perceiving, he redoubled 
 his own exertions, and finally dealt him a blow, 
 that felled him to the ground, breaking through 
 his helmet of steel, and laying him as dead. The 
 combat here ceased, and the stranger, wearied and 
 fatigued, advanced, le.aning on his squire, to the 
 throne of John, who declared him victor, with evi- 
 dent reluctance, for Montmorency was his favorite 
 knisht, since he could both fight and flatter. 
 
 " Thou hast fought well, and deservest a fair 
 lady's hand ; but before we bestow on' thee the 
 prize, to whom give we it? Methinks thou 
 should'st own a name." 
 
 "I am" — and the knight drew himself up
 
 SELECTIONS. 181 
 
 proudly, as he spoke — " I am Henri, called the 
 brave, and friend and companion to the noble 
 Richard, your brother, at whose side I have sal- 
 lied against the Saracen." 
 
 John trembled, as he ever did when his noble 
 brother's name was mentioned, for it brought 
 with it the remembrance of his wrongs. 
 
 " 'Tis well," said he, "but I would see thy 
 face before I bestow on thee the fair Isabella. 
 Remove thy visor ; " for as yet, it had not been 
 removed. 
 
 The knight essayed to do so, but in vain ; and 
 now, for the first time, blood was noticed flowing 
 from under his helmet. His squire was the first 
 to perceive it ; and quickly taking off his steel 
 covering, no longer smooth and bright, but bat- 
 tered and dented with blows, revealed his fea- 
 tures, and at the same time it discovered a deep 
 wound on the side of his head. At sight of those 
 features John started, and those around laid hands 
 on their swords, The knight stood motionless, 
 regarding them only with a look of scorn and 
 lofty pride. His looks showed him to be but 
 young, yet there was in his dark eye and ex- 
 panded brow, and the expression of his counte- 
 nance, that which denoted a high and noble spirit 
 of daring resolution. 
 
 "Henri of Ravenswood," involuntarily ex-
 
 182 SELECTIONS. 
 
 claimed John ; but recovering his self-possession, 
 he bade him go dress his wound, and prepare to 
 receive the fair Isabella. 
 
 Meanwhile Montmorency's squire had removed 
 him to his tent, where every exertion was made 
 to recover him, and, at last, with success ; but 
 his brow became clouded and dark, and he spoke 
 fiercely as he demanded his victor's name. 
 
 " Henri of Ravenswood," answered his squire. 
 
 "S'death ! " cried he, and he grew furiously 
 angry, as he gave order to prepare for a march. 
 
 " But thy wounds," replied the squire. 
 
 " Dastard, do as I bid thee ! " and Montmo- 
 rency, in his fury, seized a baton, but his squire 
 had vanished. Soon his charger was at the door 
 of his tent ; and, regardless of his wounds, after 
 having counted out his ransom for his horse and 
 arms, Montmorency, followed by his squire, was 
 swiftly pursuing his way to France ; and, it is 
 said, never saw England more. John's surprise 
 and astonishment, when he sent to inquire con- 
 cerning his wounds, to find him gone, may well 
 be imagined. 
 
 During this time, the fair cause of these things 
 preserved her accustomed presence of mind ; and 
 her agitation could only be seen in the quick 
 changing color, as either of the combatants gained 
 an advantage, or dealt a heavier blow than com-
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 183 
 
 mon. When the combat was decided, a sickness 
 came upon her, as she thought she was now 
 another's, whose she knew not, though glad it 
 was not Montmorency conquered ; and she re- 
 tired, as soon as the herald had given notice of 
 the contest of yeomen, wrestlers, &c., on the 
 morrow, to take place in the presence of his 
 majesty King John, with a sad heart, amid the 
 gay and joyous assemblage around her, who 
 seemed to envy her the daring young knight. 
 
 " King John, forsooth ! " exclaimed a hardy 
 yeoman, as the herald finished ; " not while the 
 noble Richard lives ; " and a cheer from those 
 that heard it, greeted the speaker 
 
 That eve was Isabella to be bestowed upon 
 the young Henri ; and as darkness began to over- 
 shadow the place, the long hall, fitted for the 
 occasion, began to be filled with those invited to 
 witness the ceremony, ki the appointed time, 
 John, followed by a few favorites, and the victo- 
 rious knight, armed as from the field, except that 
 his armor was now bright and polished, entered at 
 one end of the hall ; while the fair Isabella, sur- 
 rounded by the court beauties, entered at the 
 other. John seated himself on a rich seat or 
 throne, acknowledging by a haughty bow, the 
 cheers that greeted his entrance, with Isabella on 
 one side of him, pale with emotion, and Henri
 
 1S4 SELECTIONS. 
 
 on the other. A priest in rich robes was about 
 to commence the ceremony, when Henri ex- 
 claimed, "Hold! sir priest. Fair lady, thou art 
 free ; the hand that I receive, must be the heart's 
 willing tribute, not the forced one of circum- 
 stances. I only ask the beauteous flower that 
 decks thy brow ; when I have won the heart, 
 then shall it be mine." As he spoke, he took the 
 flower with a noble grace, and placed it on his 
 crest, and his voice was rich and full of melody. 
 Turning from her grateful face to John's aston- 
 ished eyes, his tones grew deeper and stronger, 
 and his lofty brow grew dark, as he said, " Prince 
 John, beware ; for Richard lives, and yet is 
 king ; " and he drew his sword as he spoke ; and 
 ere John could recover from his astonishment at 
 the boldness of the knight, he had vanished 
 through a side door, warding, as he went, some 
 of the score of blows directed to him, and receiv- 
 ing others on his coat of mail ; and a moment 
 after, the tramp of his steed's swift feet was 
 heard on the pavement, as he left the hall behind 
 him. 
 
 " To horse, and bring me the traitor," cried 
 John, as soon as he could speak ; but to no pur- 
 pose, the knight was too far away 
 
 Let us leave these now, even the feelings of 
 the fair Isabella, and turn to the occupants of yon
 
 SELECTIONS. 185 
 
 noble castle. It is now years since the tourna- 
 ment, so feebly described, took place. In that 
 noble and commanding personage, do we not 
 recognize the former fugitive knight, bending 
 over the counterpart of himself, a child, lying on 
 the lap of its fond mother ? and in that mother, 
 do we not see the gentle, beauteous Isabella ? 
 Yes, even so. I cannot tell how, but it happened 
 that they met while Richard again occupied 
 England's throne ; and as Henri made proposals 
 for her hand, she found it not so hard a task to 
 bestow, as, on a former occasion, she thought she 
 should. In the presence of their approving king, 
 they were united ; and often did they rally each 
 other about the scenes of the tournament, before 
 John. 
 
 13
 
 186 SELECTIONS. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 I WAS seated in my study, surrounded by books 
 of science. In my hand was a history of the 
 progress of knowledge and liberty from the earli- 
 est ages, and of the rise and fall of nations, and 
 I thought its date was in the year 1900. I had 
 been perusing its wonderful pages, and contem- 
 plating the truths therein contained ; my mind 
 wandered over the scenes of the past, and was 
 now dwelling upon the grand strife between Lib- 
 erty and Ambition, heroic Greece had witnessed. 
 I turned to contemplate the history of fair Italy, 
 and view its progress in liberty. I dwelt upon 
 Rome, that wonderful city, which had witnessed 
 so great changes. By turns, each city of Europe 
 was present to my mind, its progress dwelt upon 
 with pleasure, not unmixed with pain. I sighed 
 to think of the strife they had witnessed ; but as 
 I thought of the change they had experienced 
 from following the bright example of my own 
 glorious country, my heart beat with rapture, 
 and overflowed with gratitude to those who had 
 founded its government. But I longed to see 
 more closely the progress of liberty and dissem-
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 187 
 
 ination of knowledge, and the wish invohuitarily 
 escaped from my lips, that I could talk with one 
 who had witnessed these changes ; though I, at 
 the same time, thought my wish was vain, for 
 the dead could not rise again, and the living saw 
 only what I saw. But scarcely had the wish 
 escaped my lips, before a rustling, as of garments, 
 attracted my attention. I looked, and what was 
 ray astonishment at beholding a figure as of a 
 female of exceeding beauty, standing before me. 
 I gazed upon her with wonder, and as I gazed, 
 bowed myself with reverence, for there was that 
 in her countenance not to be mistaken ; — before 
 me stood the Goddess of Knowledge. She spoke : 
 " Young man, thy wish is heard, and loving 
 those who follow learning's paths, it shall be 
 granted. Follow me." She stretched forth her 
 hand, the which, speechless with surprise, I took. 
 Together we mounted the skies. My country 
 was soon far below me, and, supported by a 
 chariot of clouds, we crossed the vasty deep 
 of ocean. Europe lay before us. France was 
 passed, and fair Italy and Greece, the land of 
 song, lay beneath our gaze. " Here will we 
 pause," said my beautiful guide ; " now is thy 
 wish accomplished — before thee lie the lands 
 thou desirest so much to see. Yonder in the 
 distance lies Greece ; and there is Italy, with its
 
 188 SELECTIONS. 
 
 mighty city, Rome. Look, and say what thou 
 seest." I looked, and beheld, not poor and meagre 
 kingdoms, but a country teeming with the richest 
 of earth's products. The people, millions in 
 number, seemed doing but one thing — singing 
 praises, or listening to the eloquence that flowed 
 from the lips of countless orators. I marvelled at 
 this, and asked the cause. " They are singing 
 songs of gratitude that they are free. This is the 
 anniversary of their liberation from the thraldom 
 of kings and petty tyrants, when darkness and 
 ignorance flew from the land, and were fol- 
 lowed by knowledge and light. On the yearly 
 return of the days on which those things took 
 place, they rejoice that kings are no more. Lib- 
 erty dwells with them, and the people, in their 
 majesty, govern themselves. 
 
 " Cast thine eyes now upon Greece. There 
 also is liberty. See, the true lords of the soil 
 have returned to govern their land. The haughty 
 Turk no more grinds them in the dust, for here 
 too has Liberty triumphed ; they are again free. 
 Now," continued she, " let us turn again and 
 view sunny France. There also you see the peo- 
 ple rejoicing in their freedom from the tyranny 
 of those kings and emperors that so long racked 
 her noble people. Hark to the song of that com- 
 pany of peasants in yonder vineyard : its burden
 
 SELECTIONS. 189 
 
 is the praise of those who obtained for them their 
 liberty. Now view England, Ireland and Scot- 
 land : — the seat of so many hard strnggles be- 
 tween kings and subjects, is now free as Colum- 
 bia. Let us shape our flight," she still contin- 
 ued, " o'er the rest of Europe. As with Britain, 
 France^ Italy, Greece, so with the other states. 
 The same great struggle that liberated one, libe- 
 rated them also. Would'st know the history of 
 that struggle ? When freedom found no resting 
 place in this land of kings and emperors, with a 
 small band of hardy pilgrims, Columbia's land 
 she sought. Tiiere she found her long desired 
 place of repose ; and there she planted that mighty 
 republic, whose glory is the theme of the world, 
 and whose people are the most enlightened of 
 earth. The struggle was long and hard, ere she 
 attained that eminence, but success at last crown- 
 ed her efforts. As other nations watched her 
 growth, they longed to be free ; they longed to 
 partake of the happiness freedom imparted, and 
 they resolved to obtain it. But not at once was 
 this obtained ; no, many years passed by ere the 
 prize was won. When the struggle began, it 
 soon became general, for one nation might not 
 obtain it without the other, and thus all Europe 
 was revolutionized. The struggle was success- 
 ful — Europe was free. The slave no longer
 
 190 SELECTIONS. 
 
 bowed to his master in Russia, and the Turk no 
 longer held the Greek in bondage ; but all were 
 
 FREE." 
 
 Here the goddess paused ; and as I gazed upon 
 her face, there shone from it such a majestic glow 
 as my highest thoughts never dreamed of before. 
 I could not interrupt her glorious contemplations. 
 I could only gaze with awe. She again addressed 
 me : 
 
 " Now, as you cast your eyes over Europe's 
 broad expanse, see you not the numberless tem- 
 ples pointing to the skies in every city, town and 
 village ? Liberty can only dwell with light ; — 
 with ignorance it cannot stay. Conscious of this 
 truth, the liberated have erected those temples, 
 where the youth of Europe are seen congregating 
 for the acquisition of truth and knowledge ; and 
 richly shall their exertions be paid ; for whoever 
 seeks knowledge shall find it ; and till time's 
 remotest age, shall liberty be the blessing of 
 Europe. Even now, as we gaze, see the count- 
 less millions of youth assembling around those 
 temples, each one a future patriot and friend of 
 his country." She paused, and again com- 
 menced : 
 
 " Let us retrace our flight, and view fair Colum- 
 bia, mine own peculiar province, and Liberty's 
 brightest gem, dear to her as her first resting
 
 SELECTIONS. 191 
 
 place, and from which she disseminated these 
 principles, the result of which is now seen through- 
 out the civilized world." 
 
 Towards Columbia we shaped our course, and, 
 as it beamed upon our view, nought on earth had 
 appeared so beautiful to my sight before. Below 
 us it lay a rich and varied scene. O, beautiful in- 
 deed seemed its green fields and lands, teeming 
 with the rich produce of agriculture ; its gigantic 
 rivers and lofty mountains, and its wide-spread 
 prairies, all harmonizing with the view ! Al- 
 though these formed a scene beautiful and unsur- 
 passed, that which was most pleasing to my glad 
 sight, was the many millions of happy people, 
 enjoying in security and peace the blessings of 
 freedom. As the goddess gazed upon it, a 
 brighter fire lit up her eyes, and new energies 
 marked her speech. '' Hail, blest America ! " 
 cried she ; "never can I gaze upon thee without 
 feelings of glory, pride and love ; for that, here 
 first dawned Liberty, companion of Knowledge. 
 There the power of Knowledge herself was first 
 respected. Happy thou in being her son. Mayest 
 thou prove thyself worthy of the proud name of 
 American ! Look over the beautiful scene before 
 us, and see the millions of youth gathering around 
 the institutions of learning, receiving those seeds, 
 the plants of which shall be nourished to the
 
 192 SELECTIONS. 
 
 country's future glory ; for, founded on the ever- 
 lasting rock of truth, Columbia's glory shall be 
 such as palmiest days of kingdoms never knew. 
 Not like the gorgeous splendor that follows the 
 setting sun to the western skies, but the brilliant 
 purity of morning's dawn ; for the sun of America 
 is on the ascent, nor shall it set till ' time shall 
 close his records, and the heavens shall pass away 
 as a scroll.' " 
 
 The vision passed away, and I was alone in 
 my study.
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 193 
 
 FRAGMENTS 
 
 AN OLD MAN'S REFLECTIONS. 
 
 I HAVE awakened, as it were, from a dream of 
 almost a life's duration. Alas! alas! that I 
 should sleep the most valued portion of life, only 
 to waken as I am about entering upon the " pale 
 realms of shade ;" to prepare for which, would 
 well occupy ages of active wakefulness. In the 
 hope thit the recital of my experience may prove 
 of some benefit to those who are but entering 
 upon lift's duties, it is, that I indite these lines. 
 I entered upon life with perhaps as fair prospects 
 as ever learned upon youth at the commence- 
 ment of his course. Friends, warm and ardent, 
 greeted meat every turn ; and, above all, wealth 
 was in my possession ; that which, with proper 
 care, might have made me happy and rejoicing 
 in the blessings of those whose misfortunes I had 
 relieved, but which, in the end, had well nigh, 
 proved my deitruction, as it has robbed me, and
 
 194 
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 those who might have been benefited by it, of 
 the best portion of my years. Though I had 
 many true friends, who would have stood by me 
 through good or evil report, my wealth caused 
 me to be mainly surrounded by those butterfly 
 characters, without either stability of mind or 
 habits, whose only object seems to have been to 
 live upon the credulity of the world, weak them- 
 selves, and make it subservient to their desires 
 and wishes. Surrounded by these, I but too 
 readily surrendered myself to their desires, went 
 with the stream on which they floated, and yield- 
 ed myself to the giddy whirlpool of fashion and 
 pleasure, — or excitement, as would perhaps be 
 more correct to say, for it was not all pleasure, 
 though it might appear so to others. Naturally 
 endowed with a mind fond of thought, there 
 were moments when excitement had died away, 
 and left only an indistinct recollection cf scenes, 
 when fancy would lead me to perceive that my 
 course was not such as became one endowed with 
 capabilities that might be a benefit to the world ; 
 and in those moments, when felt alaie, and re- 
 flection was, as it were, forced upon me, I was 
 far from happy. But short time had I then for 
 reflection, and few were the minutes I was alone 
 when I could help it ; for if my meditations were 
 not interrupted by the entrance of my gay com-
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 19/ 
 
 panions, as was most generally the case, I drove 
 thought from me, by seeking them, till, at last, I 
 learned to avoid thought, now become almost 
 insupportable. Thus, in the gay round of plea- 
 sure, youth and manhood passed away. Those 
 who would have been true friends, seeing that T 
 neglected their counsels and chose to follow a 
 useless mode of life, at last, were either forced to 
 drop me, or I became weary of, and left them ; 
 and thus was left without other guidance than a 
 passionate, love of exciting pleasure. Thus pass- 
 ed my days, until, as I before said, youth and the 
 best portion of manhood were passed, and left 
 me, approaching age, with a diminished fortune, 
 an almost ruined constitution, and scarce a sin- 
 gle one of my former companions, who so gayly 
 fluttered about me in my prosperity ; — no, their 
 object was to live upon others' wealth, and prey 
 upon them ; and when they found they could do 
 so but little longer, they fell away, to prey upon 
 new victims. 
 
 Pleasure had now lost its great charm of ex- 
 citement, and I was forced, at last, once more to 
 think. And what were the pangs I thus en- 
 dured ! I found, when thought did return to my 
 almost exhausted frame, I was not entirely bereft 
 of sensibility. Life passed in review before me. I 
 had entered the world with bright prospects ; I was
 
 196 SELECTIONS. 
 
 now fast approaching the grave, with scarce a 
 single friend. I was endowed with talents of a 
 high order, that might have been made beneficial 
 to the cause of humanity, either in the halls of 
 legislation, or in the more domestic social circle. 
 I might have drawn around me friends, who 
 would have loved and respected me, and held 
 me in grateful remembrance and esteem. Those 
 talents had been wasted, and I had lived a life of 
 folly and uselessness, — ay, worse, — for as I 
 had been led away from usefulness, had not my 
 influence, also, been given to induce others so to 
 go astray ? How many shall the grave hold at 
 one dread day, led by my example, from the 
 paths of virtue ! I know not how many there 
 may be ! I shudder to bring the thought to 
 mind. 
 
 Who shall lament me, when the sod lies over 
 my mortal remains ? What tear of the many 
 that might have dropped, will now be shed in 
 memory of me ? I am fast hastening to the 
 grave, yet I would not go without making some 
 effort to redeem a few of the errors of an ill-spent 
 life. I would warn those who are now entering 
 upon its many scenes, to take heed to their ways, 
 lest when they have passed its meridian, they 
 too lament a worse than useless part. — Though 
 thoughtless pleasure may, for a while, be tempt-
 
 SELECTIONS. 197 
 
 ing, though its excitements be dear for the pre- 
 sent, could it be known what pain must succeed 
 them, how soon would they be thrown aside for 
 ways of peaceful virtue ! The grave is now 
 before me. I must soon sink to my final resting 
 place, and oh ! with what pleasure would I do 
 so, could I reflect that my passage to it had been 
 one of usefulness ! could I reflect, that I had done 
 my full meed of duty to friends and mankind ! I 
 would have those who are now entering life's 
 domain, take heed that they follow not my ex- 
 ample, but that rather, when they leave this 
 world, it may be with a reflection I cannot enjoy 
 — that their lives have been usefully and pro- 
 fitably spent. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 There is nothing, perhaps, the thought of 
 which is so much shunned, as the thought of 
 death and a future life. Men hear the sound, 
 shudder, and wonder that such a change as death 
 must come over them. As to a future life, they 
 fear there is no such thing, though reflection 
 would soon clear them of their doubt. The late 
 lamented Mr. Leggett, a few days before his death, 
 composed a few lines on this subject, commenc-
 
 198 SELECTIONS. 
 
 ing somewhat in this manner : " There's no such 
 thing as death ; the end of life is but the beginning 
 of a new existence ;" and as such, do all reflecting 
 men regard it. What a cold and gloomy religion 
 must that be, (if religion it can be called,) that 
 teaches, that when his breath leaves man, that is 
 his end ! He who has been the life and delight 
 of the family circle here • he whose words have 
 awakened an enthusiastic glow in the hearts of 
 thousands of his fellow-men ; he, whose voice has 
 been the sound to which tens of thousands have 
 rallied ; the maiden who has been the pride of 
 friends and joy of parents ; the young man of 
 promising talents ; all, when brought to death's 
 door, cease to exist, except as a mass of earth ! 
 May I be preserved from believing in such a doc- 
 trine ! But, •' there is no such thing as death." 
 Nothing else dies ; why should man die ? The 
 flowers that fade in autumn, spring again, with 
 new beauties, when the season returns. The 
 grass, that moulders in Winter, with Spring 
 arises anew; and trees that have cast off their 
 garments, adopt new ones, and though cut down 
 and burned, exist yet, though in a different 
 shape. As the seasons, after they have passed 
 away, return again ; as day succeeds the fading 
 night ; so will it be with the spirit of man ; a 
 repose in the grave, and he will again spring into
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 199 
 
 existence, a new and beautiful being ; the trann- 
 mels of earth will be cast off, and the spirit will 
 rejoice in its freedom. We all know, that as our 
 frames grow old and worn, the spirit or light of 
 life within us becomes dim, and glows with a 
 feeble spark ; it follows then, that if our frames 
 were never thrown off, the spirit would become 
 incapable of action, in fact, dead. Death is but 
 the exchange of an earthly, worn frame, for a 
 better one : one that never becomes enfeebled. 
 With such a change in view, death is disarmed of 
 one of its greatest terrors, and man passes through 
 the dark valley without fear. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 How mysterious is our being ! How myste- 
 rious the manner of our lives ! Why do we 
 live ? For what purpose do we toil, day after 
 day, and year after year, in one ceaseless round ? 
 Is it that we may acquire money ? If so, how 
 foolish does it appear thus to labor for what we 
 must soon leave ! Is it for happiness ? Yet it 
 does seem vain to seek it amid that which is 
 continually loading us with care and trouble. 
 We go, we come, and to what does it amount ?
 
 200 SELECTIONS. 
 
 What is it that gives to life its sacred charm ? 
 What is it that enables us to go through the 
 same busy scenes with ceaseless repetition, with 
 new and ever- varying emotions ? Although, 
 from day to day, we return to the same walks of 
 life ; although, year after year, we toil incessantly 
 at the same occupation, yet do we not become 
 weary of it. There is a something that, as each 
 day passes over our heads, enables us to hail its 
 approach with feelings, not of languor or wea- 
 riness, but of joy, that our vigor is renewed, 
 and we are still enabled to follow our pursuits. 
 There is a something within us that, as the light 
 which greets the eye of the mariner who has 
 long watched for it, gives to him new strength 
 and revives his drooping spirits, also inspires us 
 with new life, and imparts to us new vigor, 
 when our minds are depressed with thoughts of 
 the many sorrows and hardships of our lot, and 
 enables us in life's darkest hour to wear a face 
 of happiness, and calmly await the future. This 
 something is Hope. It is that which lightens 
 the burden of man, giving his countenance a 
 joyful cast, even in times of sorrow. It is hope 
 that enables him to triumph over and laugh to 
 scorn his worst foe, despair. Is his brow shroud- 
 ed in darkness, hope dispels the dark shade, 
 and covers it, in its stead, with sunny smiles.
 
 SELECTIONS. 201 
 
 Were it not for this hope, life would indeed be a 
 " dull reality ; " sorrows would reign where joy 
 now sits light, and the approach of the future be 
 regarded as that of the jailer to the condemned 
 felon. Well and truly has Addison written, that 
 " that life is the happiest which is the fullest of 
 hope." 
 
 TEA RS. 
 
 There is in tears something, which, while it 
 conveys a sad impression to the heart, is yet 
 pleasing at times, and more gratifying than many 
 so-called pleasures ; for tears universally draw 
 our sympathy towards tlic weeper, and not only 
 that, but they speak of sympathy also. They 
 show a tender heart, and one in which the gent- 
 lest passions have fullest sway ; for one in whom 
 the bad passions are found strong, rarely weeps, 
 as with our tears seems to flow away also all that 
 is bad, leaving us filled with better feelings than 
 before dwelt within us. There is scarce any 
 thing that opens so readily the fountain of tears, 
 as that which calls us to separate from some loved 
 friend who has enjoyed our sympathies for a long 
 time, whether that separation be in spirit, or of 
 the body. Above all, death touches us the most — 
 then it is, when some loved one is called to de- 
 14
 
 202 SELECTIONS. 
 
 part, that our grief grows more strong : and I 
 would not have it otherwise. Although I would 
 not see too much grief at death, yet 1 would not 
 leave this world without a single tear glistening in 
 the eyes of those I leave behind me ; for it would 
 bespeak a coldness of heart. I would have those 
 who love me, though but little, evince that little, 
 or else it would say, plainer than words, that I 
 was not such an one as, by a kind disposition 
 and gentle manners, drew the sympathies and 
 love of my friends, and endeared them to me. 
 It would seem to say, plainer than words, " thou 
 wert not a being formed for love, and earth is as 
 well without thee." O how would my heart be 
 pained, did I know that such would be said of 
 me when I die ! When I am called to depart, 
 I would be lamented — I would have the tears, 
 in the still, silent hour of reflection, come unbid- 
 den to the eyes, as a lament for one, loved for 
 his good qualities and kindness of heart. 
 
 GUARDIA N SP IRITS. 
 
 What a beautiful, consoling doctrine is that 
 of guardian spirits, hinted at by some heavenly 
 minds ! O, it is a glorious thought, that while 
 we are busied with the cares and troubles of this
 
 SELECTIONS. 203 
 
 nether world, there are spirits on high, watching 
 over us with solicitude, and directing oiir ener- 
 gies ill right paths ! that as some evil imagina- 
 tion comes into our minds, the dread thought is 
 banished by a guardian spirit. And may not 
 those guardian spirits be, in some measure, the 
 spirits of our departed friends, who, seeing the 
 danger through which they had passed, are anx- 
 ious to preserve us from the same, and therefore 
 hover around us, to guard us in all our actions ? 
 Happy is he who follows as they direct ! Wretch- 
 ed is he who neglects their soft whisperings ! 
 Man's life is a mixture of good and bad. The 
 good, we may imagine, is the path through which 
 they, bearing the will of the All-Supreme one, 
 lead us gently on ; the bad, that path in which 
 we stray when we neglect their counsels. It is 
 a doctrine especially soothing and beautifnl to 
 those wounded by the loss of near and dear rela- 
 tions. While they are still lingering here, they 
 feel the gentle influence acting from above, and 
 grief is in part assuaged. They direct the ener- 
 gies of the poor earthly mortal ; and when, in 
 silent contemplation, his imagination dwells on 
 things heavenly, they commune with him, and 
 an holy serenity and calmness reigns within his 
 breast ; and as he mingles with the contaminating 
 things of earth, he remains by their guidance 
 pure and uncontaminated.
 
 204 SELECTIONS. 
 
 PROPER USE OF TIME. 
 
 Time, or the proper use of it, is a subject that 
 most persons dislike very much to contemplate. 
 Why, they can scarcely tell, but so it is. They 
 are willing to dwell on scenes that have passed 
 away, but seldom to bestow much thought on 
 the future, or whether the past might not have 
 been used to greater advantage, in a different 
 manner. This, evidently, ought not so to be ; 
 for what does not depend on time, or the use we 
 make of it ? All our hopes, both here and in a 
 brighter sphere, depend on it. The passage of 
 time, then, ought to be carefully watched, and 
 no moment suffered to pass without being em- 
 ployed to advantage, either in improving our own 
 condition, or the condition of others. Indeed, 
 if we strive continually to improve the condition 
 of others, our own improvement will follow as a 
 matter of course ; for, happiness being the great 
 object of our search, those will rarely miss find- 
 ing it, who seek it in the improvement of their 
 fellow beings ; as a glow of delight and pleasure 
 comes over the heart, at the thought of a good 
 action, such as those, whose only thoughts con- 
 ceive the best and most rapid means of acquiring 
 riches, can never feel. The mind and the heart
 
 SELECTIONS. 205 
 
 are more the same thing, than many, I suppose, 
 imagine ; for the one depends ahnost entirely on 
 the other. If the heart be pure and holy, the 
 mind will dwell on things that are pure and inno- 
 cent also. Out of the abundance of the heart the 
 mouth speaketh'; and if the mind be impure, the 
 mouth will soon betray it. If, therefore, we 
 seek to improve the condition of the heart, that 
 of the mind will soon follow. 
 
 TIME'S CHANGES, 
 
 How great are Time's changes ! Nothing 
 escapes his unsparing hand ; all things, by him, 
 are changed. In boyhood, we laugh and sport, 
 yet, amid our mirthfulness, long for manhood ; 
 and when we have reached " man's estate," we 
 sigh because our boyhood has passed away, and 
 envy the young and merry as they join in their 
 plays around us. When old age has arrived, we 
 regret that the meridian of life is past, and wish 
 again to be young. Why is this so ? Some rea- 
 son there must be for it. In youth we wish to 
 arrive at manhood, that our sphere of action may 
 be extended, and that we may give way to our 
 ambitious hopes and high aspirations. At man- 
 hood, we wish to be young again, that we may
 
 206 
 
 SELECTIONS. 
 
 be rid of its peculiar cares and troubles, and that 
 we may again enjoy our past youthful sports and 
 plays. We remember the many hours we whiled 
 away, and we long for such circumstances again. 
 In old age, we wish to re-live our lives, that we 
 may live them better. It is then, when our 
 business is, mostly, to contemplate the past, that 
 we see faults that passed unnoticed in the busy 
 whirl of life ; and things that before we thought 
 worthy of us, then become contemptible in our 
 eyes, and fill us with dejection and sorrow. If, 
 then, such is the experience of man's life, how 
 ought those who are now young to take warn- 
 ing, and live blamelessly ! 
 
 FAME. 
 
 Who is there that does not desire fame of some 
 kind ? There is, probably, not one ; and it is 
 proper it should be so. I would not advocate 
 fame as the prime object of all our actions, as the 
 end to which all our thoughts should tend, but 
 rather that we may live so that our deeds shall 
 be such as shall make us worthy of being remem- 
 bered by our friends after we shall have been 
 separated from them. 
 
 The object of man should be the greatest good
 
 SELECTIONS. 207 
 
 to the greatest number, and lie who shall aid 
 largely in procuring that great good, is worthy 
 of being remembered when the bonds that bound 
 him to this lower world shall have been broken, 
 and his spirit have soared to brighter regions. 
 Yet, how many are there, who live and die — 
 and that is their whole history. Even those who 
 were most intimate with them in life, soon forget 
 them. 
 
 I would not hax^e this to be so entirely. I 
 would that the history of each individual might 
 be continued to a greater length, and that it 
 might be said of him, " he lived, while he lived, 
 eminent for his good actions, and was an honor 
 to his country : when he died, he was univer- 
 sally lamented ; for, at his death, his country 
 lost a faithful servant, and a just and honorable 
 citizen." Such is the fame I would have awarded 
 to us when we shall be no more. I would 
 be honorably remembered. This fame is con- 
 fined to no particular situation or condition of 
 life. All are capable of acquiring it, if we but i 
 press forward with honesty of purpose and sin- I 
 cerity of heart.
 
 20S SELECTIONS. 
 
 FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 I AM asked to add my name to the list of those 
 I find recorded here. Yet, why ? To what pur- 
 pose ? It will be but a few short years, ere the 
 thoughts that are here noted down will be lost 
 in the vast abyss that receives all things. A few 
 short years, before their authors will be num- 
 bered among the living no more, and all memory 
 of them cease. The book that contains their 
 fancjnngs may survive them awhile, but it shall 
 pass into the hands of those who will be stran- 
 gers to them, perhaps of another generation. I 
 look upon the names here written, names un- 
 known to me, and read the lines above them, 
 some serious, some gay, and as I look and read, 
 ask, who and what are they ? I know them not ; 
 yet these words tell of beings like myself, wan- 
 dering on through life's chequered scenes, ani- 
 mated by passions similar to those which animate 
 me. I see them not ; yet here I converse with 
 them, breathe their thoughts, and join in their 
 kindred sentiments. Yet, how long? Their 
 lives speak of friendships warm, of buoyant, 
 ardent hopes, prayers for a happy course in life, 
 and confidence in the future. Yet, how soon 
 will they, who thus breathe their wishes, and she
 
 SELECTIONS. 209 
 
 for whom they are uttered, standing on the 
 threshold of those 
 
 " pale realms of shade," 
 
 realize, with fearful force, that their' lives are, 
 indeed, like " tales that are told." Their mem- 
 ory, perhaps lengthened by their mementoes in 
 this book, will linger with a few, like the mem- 
 ory of a pleasing recital ; yet, short the time, 
 ere even this, also, shall die away, and none sigh 
 over their tombs, except, perchance, some stray 
 passer, who will sigh to think, as he looks on 
 the slab that marks the spot where they lie, that 
 the grave must, before many years have rolled 
 around, be also his home. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 Oh ! dear to me are memory's dreams, 
 Reviving pleasure's soothing lays ; 
 
 How bright they make hope's joyous beams. 
 Telling of happier, sweeter days ! 
 
 They banish from my darkened soul 
 The pressing woes of fleeting time ; 
 
 They bid griefs billows cease to roll. 
 And bear^me to a brighter clime, 
 15
 
 210 SELECTIONS. 
 
 Where lovelier faces round me gleam, 
 And joy, ecstatic, reigns again ; 
 
 And every early sunlit scene, 
 Renews association's chain. 
 
 My languid, tired soul, once more 
 Awakes to long-past joys and bliss ; 
 
 And passion, burning as before, 
 Revives my faded happiness. 
 
 Aye, in those fond and lovely dreams. 
 Misanthropy's dark reign decays ; 
 
 And youthful exultation seems 
 To sweetly fill its vacant place. 
 
 O, could I thus for ever live ! 
 
 My joy, my bliss, my all, a dream ! 
 And O, that gentle sleep could give 
 
 Visions so full of love's bright gleam ! 
 
 Then would I bid the world Farewell ! 
 
 And quick resign my soul to sleep ; 
 And nought but nature's funeral knell 
 
 Should wake me from my slumber deep. 
 
 THE END.
 
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